Caught Red-Handed!

Or red-pawed . . .

About a half hour ago, Gwenith crept up to the study and slipped under the drafting table and behind the file cabinet. On your way to see if you can finish removing that register grille and go exploring in the ductwork, sweetie girl?

Deterred by the camera flash, she slunk away.

OK, think of something to keep that grille close to the wall . . . all right, this is it for the time being: A box of Biblical Hebrew flashcards wedged in with a log-splitting maul. I can't even budge that!

Scant minutes later, here she is again. O, we wants it, does we, my precious? No, my precious, no indeed! You getses that, you goes falling into the nassty hot Duct of Doom, my precious, yess yess you does! We preventses that, yess we wills!

Fear and Trembling

As readers of my houseblog will know, I've been having issues with my furnace.

I hope I will not have issues to report concerning my ductwork. Kitteh issues.

This is the grille to my study heat supply. It is not supposed to be halfway off like this. It was not like this last time I was up here, Saturday evening or so.


I recognize the work: Huw, or more likely Gwenith. She's the one who goes after loose pieces of plaster on the walls. She's the one who sits under my drafting table and fiddles with the computer leads. She's the one who, as a feral kitten, sloped down under the floorboards of my friend Hannah's* torn-up house and had to be lured out with tuna. Gwenith is secretive and curious and, under all that hair, small and wiry enough to squirm right down this vent, given half the chance.

I don't want to give her a chance. I fetched a screwdriver to make the loose screw secure.

But I can't. There's no hole at the wall to receive it. It's only providing a bit of tension to keep the grille against the duct mouth. No challenge at all to a strong and determined young cat.

Think of something else. I need to think of something else. No, duct-taping the grille to the wall won't do. Never mind what it'd do to the paint or the heat supply-- that floofy kitteh of mine would rip it right off.

The Just Deserts of Greed

This is-- or was-- a coupon for dog treats. I pulled it out of Llewellyn's food cannister a couple nights ago and put in on the table till I could see what it was for.

Next morning, I came downstairs and found it in shreds, scattered across the dining room floor!

I tried to put back together, but too many pieces were missing. Llewellyn, old boy, wii haedid uz a ttreetz koopon, butt U eatid it!

So it went in the trash for tomorrow's pickup. O doggie, my goggie, now we'll never know if these were treats of bloomiferous scrumptuosity. It's back to finishing the same old nuggets from the Three Dog Bakery. Foiled by your own precipitous greed!

(And my naivete.)

(Though being such a nice momma, I did save you a wee piece of turkey from Thanksgiving at my friends' . . . )

Itt Snoezez!!

Kanz it B eetid?

Sumbuddy tored up teh skiiy.

Ai kan jummp doan dere. Wach mii!

Stoopy goggie in teh whey agin. Ai goes bugz mai siszterz.

Well, They Showed ME!

Last night, to conserve the heat, I got the cats in the bedroom and shut the door.

And so we spent the night, till dawn approached and Huw was scratching from the inside to get out and Llewellyn the dog was scratching from the outside to get in.

Sorry, kids, I'll get up and open the door when the clock radio comes on and not a minute sooner.

So in the fullness of time I did. I made my morning ablutions and dressed, and, it being a bit chilly, I started to put on a cardigan I had lying there in the bedroom.

The cardie was cold. Not surprising.

The cardie was wet. What?

The cardie was so wet, it was getting the clothes I had on wet.

It was wet and stinky.

Cat pee!

Somebody can't hold his water overnight! Either that, or somebody's getting revenge for being made to stay in the bedroom all night.

(Huw, I'm looking at you.)

Well, so much for wearing that cardie today. Or the turtleneck I'd put on under it. Got them both out of there, but the bedroom still stunk. And I could not recall where the sweater had been lying when I picked it up.

Awkward.

Stripped the bed. No evidence of cat pee anywhere on it.

Remade the bed. Room still smelled of cat pee.

Decided I was imagining things, till later this afternoon when I checked the throw cushion on a wooden chair that sits in the corner of the bedroom. Yep, there's the stain. And the smell. Cover and cushion, there's more for the laundry! There was a cardboard calendar on top of it. More stink. That's for the outside trash.

I believe-- I hope-- the bedroom has been exorcised. But when it comes to my little spooks (Huw, I'm still looking at you), tonight I guess I'd better leave them a way out.

They obviously showed me.

A Tale of Horror

It's getting close to Halloween. And while I like a good tale of horror as much as the next person, that doesn't mean I appreciate featuring in one in real life.

But for a few minutes this evening, I did.

It was a little after 7:00, and I was cleaning up after a very busy Sunday afternoon. I happened to look into the living room here at the House of the Flying Furballs, and noticed that Rhadwen, my ten-year-old calico, was perched up on the sill of one of the little windows next to the fireplace. The window was open, the screen was up, and she was more outside than in.

"Rhadwen!" I called. "Wennie! Turn around!!"

No reaction.

I walked over and saw that she was hanging head and shoulders over the edge of the outer sill. Trying to make up her mind whether to jump down and explore. That's what I figured it was. It's a fur piece, so to speak, to the ground at that point; she probably was considering whether it would be worth it at her age.

Well, I wasn't going to give her the opportunity to try. I grabbed her by her furry middle and hauled her inside.

Yeeoouwwwwoauwwww!!!!! she didn't appreciate that! She howled at the indignity. Worse for her, the dog was on the scene, playing officious big brother and making sure justice was done.

She didn't claw me: I had hold of her so she couldn't. I gave her a little more food in her dish to soothe her ruffled feelings and to give thanks for not having to go out in the rain to chase her. Then I started back to my sweeping.

But wait a minute. When I'd pulled Rhadwen in through the window, she hadn't turned around and yowled at me. There was something about it that hinted she was irate at something outside.

And a few minutes before, when I'd gone out front to light my jack-o'-lantern for the first time, I'd heard something in my front bushes. I'd dismissed it then as me myself having brushed against them, but now . . .

Aw-oh! Where one cat can sit and perch and stare, two other cats can be through and away. The kittens. Where were the kittens?

"Gwenith! Huw!" I searched all over the house, from middle to top to bottom. No sign of the floofy pale pink tabby or the sleek brown and gray. Not in the box spring in the Kitten Room, not under my bed in the bedroom, not under the table in the study, not under the stairs in the basement. There were no kittens to be found, in litter box or in empty packing box, in dropcloth or ironing basket: my little cats had disappeared.

They're good at disappearing, of course. They'd disappeared all afternoon when I had company over. But now there was a strong possibility they'd apparated themselves right off the premises, through that gaping screenless window.

So out I went, tramping miles and miles through the freezing, merciless rain in the blazing cold night, searching relentlessly for my lost kittehs.

Well, no, actually, it was around 60 degrees outside this evening and I only went round to the side of the house under the living room window. But it was dark and staring to rain.

No sign of my little cats. "Huw! Gwenith!" Huw I hoped would come stalking up to me. Gwenith is more skittish: what would she do if she were spooked? But Rhadwen's behaviour told me they might be-- please, God!-- were out there. "Gwenith! Huw!"

But I found nothing.

I looked in the front border. Nothing.

Maybe it would help if I located a flashlight? Yes, perhaps.

Thus equipped, I tried again. The rain was starting to come down harder. I had to find my kittehs. "Huw!! Gwenith!!" I called. "Gwenith! Huw!"

All of a sudden, under the weeping cherry, a moving gray-striped shadow, a flash of white breast.

"Huw! Baby, come here!"

He wouldn't come. He moved deeper into the vegetation.

I moved closer, made a grab. Missed! "Huw! Please! Come here! Where's your sister?"

He turned tail and ran into the front border. I followed, stepped over the sheet-covered dahlias, and tried to secure him again. His wet body slipped through my grasp and behind the Alberta spruce.

"Huw, please!!"

I came around again, just as he made a break for it to head for the neighbors' spirea. Aaaghh!! Got him! He was slick and wet and squirmy, but I gathered him into my arms and carried him into the house, placing him in the custody of Llewellyn who doubtless gave him what-for for his illicit escapade.

But his littermate was still out there. I had to assume that. Back out into the rain.

"Gwenith! Gwen!" Had she squeezed into the neighbors' yard? She's supple enough. Had she heard the call of the wild and taken off to parts unknown? I combed and recombed the wet bushes on both sides of the little side yard, while in the neighborhood all around me the heedless households were huddled around their televisions, watching whatever it was the Steelers and the Giants were doing to one another. Dismayed, I steeled myself for the possibility that I'd have to go petitioning up and down the street for the neighbors to keep an eye out for my missing cat.

It was time to bring out the big guns: Some fragrant gushiefood in a little dish. Oh, please, please, let a bribe work! It does indoors, when she hides in the attic storage space! Please don't let her be so confused and disoriented she won't come!

One last look in the yard under the guilty window, one last admittance of futility. I set the dish down on the front step near the lighted jack-o'-lantern and hoped she'd be willing to come.

But then, I don't know what it was, something moved me to look in the bushes on that side of the house. I shone my flashlight behind each, and there, behind the boxwood shrub closest to the gate to the back yard, was an tawny oval furry shape, a dry tawny oval furry shape, huddled next to the house, the head invisible, hiding in the foliage.

"Gwenith!"

She didn't budge.

I went and got the food. "Gwenith!"

She still didn't budge.

Here was a reversal, but a happy one. I had just one chance to secure her, and I took it. She squirmed, just a little, but seemed just as glad as not to be rescued and brought inside.

She and her brother got a serving of fragrant gushiefood to reward them for-- well, for being alive and found, and their big sister Rhadwen got some, too, for staring out that open window and clueing me into what was going on.

As to why the living room window was open at all, that's another tale in another blog. But diolch a Dduw! my scary story ended happily.

Very happily, when I think how it's supposed to get below freezing and maybe snow tonight. Thinking of that is a real horror story.

Sh!t Eating Grin

As if to prove there is no such thing as a dog without a mind of his own, yesterday morning I learned that Llewellyn is clever and well-trained when he wants to be; other times he's just clever.

I'd noticed this weekend a couple times that my Kitten Room security system of a bungee cord hooked round the doorknob with the other end hooked to a screweye, with a doorstop (aka a flat rock) between the door and the jamb to make a gap big enough to let in cats and only cats was not doing its job. It's always worked before. Had I just forgotten to fasten the cord hook to the screweye? Had the kittens been playing with the rock and pushed it out of the way so the bungee cord lost tension and let the door swing free?

Or has the cord gotten just loose enough that Llewellyn can widen the opening and push through?

I've never caught any of us in the act. But hearing the scrape of claws on the hardwood floor of the hallway around dawn yesterday morning, immediately followed by a thump, thump from the door of the Kitten Room, and given that the door was open when I finally hauled myself out of bed to face the worst, I suspect teh goggie.

It's not the cat food I'm worried about him getting. No. It's what I know he's treating himself to when I see piles of organic corn cat litter pawed out onto the mat by the litter box. It's what I can smell on his breath when he presents himself to me with the selfsame corn cat litter festooning his muzzle.

You've heard of a sh!t-eating grin? Mai goggie, hee haz itt.

Whut shal wie du, whut shal wee doo!

No place else to move the litter box and still have one on the second floor. Get a new bungee cord? Attach a chain lock on the outside of the door?

For the time being, I've looped the existing bungee cord around back of the doorknob. Gives it more tension. It's working, so far, but give him time, Llewellyn will find a way to outsmart it. He's too clever for his own good.

A Well-Trained Dog

My dog Llewellyn amazes me by how smart he is.

I don't say that because he's my dog. I say it because he sometimes behaves better and more cleverly than even I've trained him to.

There's his practice lately of not letting me lie down and sleep on the carpet. I only do it when I'm in my study late at night waiting for things to download . . . well, usually . . . and once when I was dizzy. Anyway, I try to lie down and he forces his body under me and makes me get up.

But there's something else. Often Llewellyn will be lying or standing or moseying right in my path, right where I want to go. I command, "Llewellyn, move!" expecting him to proceed ahead of me out of the room or down the stairs, wherever I'm going. But instead he just moves to the side, more and more he's just moving to the side.

This was annoying. Didn't he know what I wanted? "Llewellyn, get going! Move!!"

And he moves. Not ahead, aside. Then falls in behind me to follow me as I pass through the door or set foot on the steps.

After that, he'll run on ahead, but not until.

And a day or two ago, it dawned on me: He's acknowledging my authority. He's taking his proper doggy place in my wake. I read something in a book by veterinarian Dr. Nicholas Dodson, Dogs Behaving Badly, where he says that "Access along corridors and across thresholds is so important to would-be leaders that these zones are typical testing grounds for dominance." And somewhere along the line, my dog has got me placed as his leader, and he's not going to let me forget it.

Now if he'd only mind and shut up when he starts up barking out the window first thing in the morning!

Ai Wantses Itt!

I wish I'd turned on my camera sooner. I wish I'd had more lights on. But for your viewing pleasure, may I present Huw and the Wadded-Up Shopping List.



He heard it land in the wastebasket, ran over, fished and fished and fished, and at last, success!!

Hhahahahahahahahahhaaaa!!!

Renovation Superintendents

Though Gwenith has an important appointment Elsewhere.

Opportunists

It's gotten chilly in southwestern Pennsylvania the past few nights, and suddenly my year-old kittens are showing me how much they love me.

All summer and spring, had immediate evacuation been called for during the night, I wouldn't have had the least idea where to find Gwenith or Huw. Once I'd retire to bed and shut off the light, they'd simply Disappear. Maybe into the fifth dimension-- I'm sure any self-respecting cat can manage a tesseract.

But now the nights are longer and frankly cold. And if Gwenith is not on the bed when I come to it, she joins me soon afterwards. Always right in the middle, usually lying right over or next to my legs. Huw joins her-- and me-- soon thereafter, snuggling in on the other side, and sometime later Rhadwen takes up her usual place by my shoulder.

And I am so bossed about and ruled by these young felines that I daren't-- dassn't!-- do anything to displease them or make them uncomfortable. If Gwenith is in the middle of the bed when I climb in, I simply have to settle for the slender slip of the bed's side, my back exposed to the breezes as the blankets, weighed down by floofy cat, refuse to extend enough to cover me properly. If Gwen and His High Velvetness her brother Huw arrive to hem me in after I have ensconced myself for the night, you can be sure that I will wake up in exactly the same position in the morning, the brown tabby and the pale ginger clamping my legs together like a vise.

Rhadwen at the age of ten is Miss Free and Easy. I could throw her across the room (I wouldn't, of course) and she'd nonchalantly march back to snuggle up to me, or to rummage through my jewelry case, or to swat things off the nightstand. We have an Understanding. ("Rhadwen, stoppit!!!")

But the young ones, I dare not cross or disappoint. After all, on a cold autumn night who could thwart such a precious show of looooooovvve??? The fact that the only central heating that's on right now is me has nothing to do with it.

Yeah, right. Opportunists!

Thrills and Chills

A section of my backyard fence is down since the windstorms Sunday evening. This opens up whole new opportunities for my dog Llewellyn and for the four-year-old next door.

Caitlin East* is fascinated with my dog. She has two kittehs of her own (older by far than she is), but a Real Live Dog is something altogether different.

Always before, I've brought him out on his leash to the front yard so she and other neighborhood children can pet him and practice telling him to sit, sit!

But now the backyard fence is down. And when Caitlin* is in her backyard with her daddy, Llewellyn, off-leash, just has to run through and explore and be in-your-face sociable on the other side of the line. And Caitlin* just has to come through (past the fallen branches) and visit my dog on his own turf.

This makes him very, very happeeee! And like the collie mix he is, he runs round and round joyously, rambunctiously, heedlessly!! And last night he nearly barrelled into little Caitlin, who is about half his size.

Suddenly, being friends with The Puppy didn't seem like such a good idea any more. No, she didn't want to run back into her own yard. She wanted to squeal and tremble and cling to me, holding my hand and saying, "I'm scared of the puppy! I'm scared!"

"Why are you scared? He didn't mean to run into you. He's just being careless, and we have to teach him not to."

"I'm scared!"

"How come?"

"Because his mouth is open!!!"

Oh, yeah. When you've just turned four, all those goggie toofs can be pretty scary, even when the goggie is grinning like a silly idjit.

So we practiced throwing him the tennis ball, which intices him to run away from her-- not so intimidating. And getting her to laugh at his long red tongue as he sits there panting.

This evening, then, Caitlin* was in her backyard with her daddy. Away through the gap Llewellyn went, dragging his leash, hello, hello, helloooo!!!

"Eeee!! Eeee!!" went Caitlin*, and hid behind her daddy. I called my doggie, and the child squealed and ran away. Off goes my mutt after, but luckily for us all, not to chase her, rather to nose here, there, and everywhere around their yard. And off she went after him, picking up his leash, commanding him to sit. And had no problem at all when Llewellyn poked in when her dad was trying to tie her shoes.

She's still not so sure about those grinning doggie teeth. But she can't keep away, rambunctious mutt or not. So I have to wonder: How much of this is my dog scaring the kid next door, and how much is this her scaring herself?

(I shall keep a close eye on the situation.)

My Mystery Cat

Sometime when I'm feeling more creative I'll think of a caption for this photo of Gwenith. For now, it can speak for itself.

We Have Company

About two or three weeks ago, I returned home to find a neighbor from the other side of the street in my side yard, peering into my bushes. When I got out of my car, she approached and said, "Sorry about traipsing all over your yard. But our little gray kitten has gotten out and I saw her run through here."

Oh! no problem at all! She was on the search, her teenage son was on the search, and now I joined the search. In people's front borders we looked and along the back alley. The man on the corner, scraping his porch, agreed to keep an eye out. The lady on the other side of me, just pulling into her garage with her two small children, promised to keep watch. I came out with a little dish of kitten food, to see if the creature could be lured.

I saw nothing of the illusive little feline. Her owner spotted it a time or two, but it always ran away. Maybe, she figured, it hadn't bonded with the family yet-- it was only about five weeks old and they'd only had it a week.

We moved the hunt further down the alley, where we encountered another neighbor. She said, "Yes, I've seen a gray kitten like that around the neighborhood, but it can't be yours. It's been hanging around for a month."

"Really? It looks just like our new kitten!"

"I'm sure the one you saw out here is a stray. Have you checked everywhere in your house for yours?"

So the kitten-owning neighbor and her son went home to make sure. An hour or so later, she appeared at my door. "I was wrong. That wasn't my kitten I saw. My own gray kitten was curled up on the rug in the spare bedroom."

That's a relief, but what about this other tiny catkin? In the following days, I began to see it myself. Standing in the street when I got into my car in the morning. Stalking through the bushes across the alley. And carrying itself always with a massive self-assurance all out of proportion to its infinitesimal frame.

Other neighbors saw it, too. "Have you seen the little gray kitten?" they'd ask. "I set out some cat treats for it the other day."

This evening from next door other side it was, "That kitten was on my porch today. It touched noses through the storm door with one of my cats."

Two evenings ago, it favored me with a visitation, taking up position under the weeping cherry in my front border. I lay down in the grass about five feet away, and tried to get it to come to me. Wasn't interested, but wasn't afraid, either. Just crouched there, staring at me.

It is still so little! So . . .

So I fed it. Correction, I've been feeding it. With some canned kitten food my own year old kittens are too old for. Always in the same place, under the arbor vitae in the side yard. I think it's figured out that's a good place to look for food in the morning.

Me, I'm trying to figure out what's best for it, considering there's No Way I can afford to bring another kitten into the House of the Flying Furballs, let alone another feral one.

The three-year-old next door announced this evening that The Little Black (he thinks it's black) Cat had been in their yard again and his dad is allergic to cats and if they see it again they're going to catch it and take it Far Away Where It Really Lives or something of the sort-- what exactly, I couldn't tell, since yelling over the fence, I can't always hear or understand what the kid is saying.

Does this mean I need to do something right away, whether I really can or not?

Or maybe should I tell myself there are thousands, millions, of abandoned and stray kittehs out there, and if I can't keep this one healthy and happy, that's just how it goes?

Meanwhile, we have company.

News Flash!

Gwenith has climbed onto my lap three times running just now!

And even let me pet her (a little!)

I think I'm gonna faint.

Llewellyn Has Missed His Calling?

Late this morning, I was out back with Llewellyn. Well, I was on the back porch and he was bounding around the yard, nosing here, sniffing there. Suddenly something on the ground took his fancy. Oh, hey, guess he was eating spent rose of Sharon blooms again.

But as he picked up whatever it was and ran off, I noticed it was too big to be one of those. Whatever this was was large enough to dangle from his jaws.

"Llewellyn, come!" And he came, bringing his new toy-- a recently-dead chipmunk.

Which I immediately told him to drop.

And he did.

He wanted to come back and get it, but I told him No, get in the house.

And he did.

Which is what I call good retriever dog behavior. But since I don't plan to take up small game hunting any time soon, it looks like his efforts are wasted.

Glad I got him to drop it, though. I don't think he'd killed it; there was no blood. The poor chipmunk was probably diseased: not what I call a good snack for a dog's elevenses. A few years back my late dog Maddie once ate a dead bird or something in my sister's back yard, and I had to take her to the emergency vet's from the ensuing infection.

(She had to get sick on Memorial Day, of course.)

We dodged that bullet today, and Llewellyn got lots of doggie treats for being so obedient. Good dog! Very good dog!

Helping-- Or Not

I'm doing some renovation work around my house. Llewellyn likes to help. He helps tape down contractor paper to protect the floor.



Huw likes to help, too. He helps unroll the paper.


Rhadwen, too, is a big help. She tested out the picnic bench I dumpster-dove for a couple days ago, thinking it'd make a good low scaffold. She wants to make sure it's study enough for me to stand on.


Gwenith helps by keeping out of the way. Unless I'm on the computer, of course.

On the other hand . . . Llewellyn, the floor paper did not need irrigating! And he did it on purpose! I'd thought I'd leave the paper down to give me an incentive to hurry up and hammer the trim back up and get it refinished, but not now! A stinky floor I do not need.

Momcat?

My Rhadwen may have had her kitty hysterectomy nine and a half years ago, but she knows good maternal behavior when she gets a chance to do it.

Witness her licking Huw the year old kitten into shape:

Yes, I'd say she was getting some long-delayed mothering in . . . except that Huw himself grooms the dog Llewellyn and the dog looks after Gwenith the pink floofy cat and she reciprocates with strops and purrs and Huw liklikliks Rhadwen back. A very harmonious family we've turned out to be! Hurrah, let cheezburgrz rain down on us all!

Nip Head

Last night I was out for a few hours, never imagining I'd come home to--

THIS!!
Oh, Huw! The shame! The agony!

My little stripey cat had overdosed on--

NIP!!!

He'd obviously been rolling in it, luxuriating in it, till he could roll and luxuriate no more!

Oh! Oh! What a sad and dreadful sight! Huw, how could you?!

While I-- I brought it into the house! I never dreamed--!

(Well, I guess it was a good time to change the bed quilt anyway . . . )

Happy Family

When I get up in the morning there's generally a pet convention in the upstairs hall. Llewellyn and Rhadwen leave the bedroom with me and Gwenith and Huw descend or ascend from wherever they've taken up their sleeping quarters.

But I rarely have all four of them there at once.

Yesterday morning, I did. And get out the Victorian greeting cards with the cherubs and the posies, put "Home, Sweet Home" on the Victrolia, and spout whatever sentimental nonsense you might like about Happy Families.

Bekuz it wuz da kyooot!!

Nine-year-old Rhadwen was likliklikking Huw's stripey little head. Fuzzy Gwenith was stropping herself against Llewellyn the goggie and trying to groom his ears.

Are these kids socialized or what?

No, no pictures of this tender domestic scene. I don't sleep with the digital camera, nor yet take it to the loo with me.

But here's what I have from an earlier date . . .

What's Out There

Night before last, meaning Thursday morning about 1:00 AM, I was sitting in the dining room eating a snack before bed (blueberries in cream, if you must know).

A minute or two earlier I'd reprimanded Gwenith for using an armchair back as a scratching post. So when I heard Llewellyn's claws precipitously scraping over the fake Pergo, I thought, she's at it again: he's upset because she's being naughty.

I turned around, and Gwenith was nowhere in sight. But the dog was still dashing frantically here and there, jumping at the windows, running into one room, then another, whining, manic, unwilling to listen when I told him to sit, desperately urgent about something.

I looked out the front door, nothing stirred. And Llewellyn wasn't barking, as he would if a person or another dog were walking by. Still, he was sure there was something out there. He wanted to go see; of course I didn’t let him.

But it was time for his nightcap walk to the alley, so I leashed him up and took him out the back. Immediately, he pulled towards the side of the porch, towards the screened openings and the walkway below.

There definitely was something there: I could hear it rustling in the hostas.

Back in--with dog-- for the flashlight. Turned it on; I could still hear the rustling, but saw nothing.

Got Llewellyn out to the alley all right, and happily he didn’t yank and pull me to get at whatever was at the side of the house. A stray cat? Skunks . . . ?

Oh, I hoped not! I've never had skunks in the yard, but I've seen them in my neighbors'. Their gates don't fit as well as mine. Though something's been digging a hole under my front gate lately . . .

That was last night. Tonight, at dusk, I was taking out the trash. I came out the back gate, and there, across the alley, was a group of six or seven black and white-- I wish I could say cats, but no, it was Pepe LePew and all his clan. What would you call it-- an odor of skunks?

They sped up and moved away down the alley when they heard me. But when I came out again with the next bag, there was one still lingering . . . on my side of the alley . . . just at the end of my property. I spoke to him nicely and asked him to move away, please . . . And instead, he came closer.

Nope! Back inside the gate!

Eventually, by dint of whistling, chattering, and working away at the squeaky gate latch, I frightened off any black and white children that were hanging about and got all my trash in the barrels without mishap.

But. Tonight, that is, Thursday night, Friday morning, at about 12:40 AM, I was again at the dining room table, eating a very late supper, when again the sound of Llewellyn's claws against the plastic wood floor ripped through the house; again, he began frantically to leap at windows and hunt from one room to another; again, he whined and was in a world of his own as he searched for whatever it was that was out there.

Nothing out the front door, again.

Nothing rustling in the hostas in the side yard tonight, thank God.

Nothing even in the alley, when I took him out to do his business.

But unless my dog is bewitched, there's something lurking around our house, something he's determined to catch or drive away.

Something that makes its presence felt in the witching hour between midnight and 1:00 AM.

And if it's furry, black with a white band down its back, and possesses distinctive and projectile scent glands, I'm just as determined that my dog shall leave it the hell alone. There isn't that much tomato juice in the world.

In Case Anyone Was Wondering . . .

. . . The scent of the pet shampoo has worn off sufficiently, and Rhadwen is back to grooming herself. To prove it, may I present this in evidence:

(Oh, if my calico kitteh were human, I'd be in so much trouble! Lolcat captions welcome!!)

Scare

Early this afternoon I looked out one of the front windows to see how the flower border at the front of the house was doing. I glanced down and "That's strange. There's a window screen lying on one of my delphiniums!"

Sometimes I can be really slow.

Window screen . . . window screen . . . Oh my gosh, there's no screen on the window! The window is wide open! There's no screen on the window, one of the cats must've been lying against it, and pushed it out!

The cats. Where are the cats?

My kittehs are all indoor cats. Safer that way. My former cat, the late, great Didon, lost her life or was stolen when the people I gave her to when I went to England to study theology let her become an indoor-outdoor cat. My previous owners here told me there was a guy on a neighboring block who habitually shot roaming cats with a BB gun. I've seen too many pathetic and bloody kitty carcasses on the roads. No, apart from allowing Rhadwen some occasional R & R in the fenced backyard, my kittehs stay indoors.

But the front window was wide open, with the screen outside.

Ok, don't panic. Maybe they haven't gotten far.

I came outside, and thank God, there was Rhadwen lying casually on the walk that runs by the side of the house, sunning herself. She wasn't going anywhere, so I went to retrieve the screen.

It'd smashed and decapitated the poor delphinium. From the damage, I'd say it wasn't just the screen, but the weight of a calico cat landing on it, too. And the damaged parts looked pretty wilted. How long would that take . . . ? How long would Gwenith and Huw have had to escape, if escape they had?

Happily, Rhadwen was ready to come in, and followed me through the door needing no persuasion.

I tried to put the screen back in the slot. Couldn't make it go. Looked at another window to see if I had it right. Still couldn't figure out how to put it in. Thought about how I hate those windows anyway and wish I could afford to get new ones.

Realized I was thinking slowly again. Idiot! Just shut the darn window and go look for the kittens!

Right. Assume best case-- still in the house.

No kittens on the first floor.

No kittens on the second floor. Looked under both beds, in the closet, everywhere.

No kittens up in the third floor study. That leaves the basement.

Came down from the third floor, and saw Huw walking into my bedroom. Where'd he come from?

I don't care. He's accounted for.

Downstairs, heading for the cellar to look for Gwen. But whew! there she was, stropping herself on the chairs in the dining room.

All cats present! And one dog, who'd been helping me look!

Gelobt sei Gott!

The window is still shut, the screen leaning against the wall below it. Nice to know that the first impulse of all my critters was not to bolt for it. Now I remember it, that screen has come loose before, and I'm taking no chances with it again.

Asking for It, Part 2

If Huw asked to be launched into the drink in one way, Rhadwen did this evening in another.

I try to be considerate of the kittehs. If my big calico decides the bathroom sink's the most comfortable spot in the house when the temperature's in the 90s, who am I to dispute her choice?

But sometimes I have to use the wash basin. And if she won't get out when I ask politely, a trickle of cold water can be an incentive for her to let me have the use of my property.

That happened enough times today that by early evening Rhadwen was already a pretty damp cat.

And I've noticed a brown dirty spot on her white fur that she's not been attending to.

That does it! She's getting a bath!

And she did.

I have to wonder if there's something wrong with her. She didn't scratch me at all. In fact, when I lifted her up to wash her tummy, she put her little paws up like small child that wants its mommy to pick it up.

She's clean now, but it bothers me that she hasn't done all that much towards licking herself smooth. She's let herself dry all spiky and punk, and was very happy to let me go over her with the grooming brush.

I'm hoping it's because she doesn't like the smell of the new cat shampoo. She seems okay otherwise . . . I mean, she's eating and drinking and all . . . and jumping on and off the bed and the sofa and the dining room table and everywhere as usual . . . But if she won't groom herself, that's gotta mean something's wrong.

Right?

Meaning the next thing Rhadwen might be asking for is a trip to the vet.

Asking for It, Part 1

Huw is nothing if not adventurous. He's first in every clean litter box, he's tried out the piano--repeatedly--, and he stands on his hind legs at the back door, gazing longingly into the garden he's not allowed to go into.

Couple nights ago, I had drawn my bath after a hot day working outside. I was still at the sink, brushing my teeth or something, when Huw stalked in, eager to see what was going on. He stood up and leaned over the edge of the tub. And stared.

Watter. Tihs iz teh fass-- fassin-- neet!

A paw went in. Splash! Again. Splash.

I kept doing what I was doing. Behind my back, my brown tabby was apparently thinking:

Ai haz a thurstee. Awl tish watter-- want!

Splash!!!

I turned--to see his front paws in the water in the tub and his haunches just barely, precariously, gripping the rim!

O noes! Do nawt want!

I reached in for the rescue, but too late! Huw was in the drink and going for a brief and unwanted swim.

Ai mint tuh doo taht, he says as he licked himself dry thereafter. Mah poyz, let me show u it.

Sumer Is Icumen In

You want signs of summer? Here are the signs of summer around my house:

First we have calico cat on the half shell:

What was that? Water? What does Rhadwen need with water?

Me? No, of course I wash my hands in the bathtub!

Always being careful, of course, not to slop one brown tabby. Huw enjoys basking in a tub bottom as cool as he is.

Open windows are a summer attraction as Gwenith displays her blonde sophistication to an admiring world.

And for Llewellyn? For him, summer means birds, and squirrels, and all manner of wildlife to point at and chase. Lhude squawk cuccu!

I Haz a Sad

Last night at 3:00 AM found me in the Kitten Room, desperately darting, feinting, reaching, clutching, missing, pleading, and nearly crying.

What brought me to so strange a pass at so strange a time?

A wee tube of flea and tick protection-- and a pink and white floofy catkin who simply wouldn't allow me to put it on her.

I'd taken care of the rest of her four-legged siblings hours before. And I was determined that I was going to dose Gwenith, too, before I went to my well-earned sleep.

But she wouldn't let me! It wasn't just that she sensed it was monthly flea dosing day, she'll never come to me, not unless I'm immobilized at my computer or snug in my bed!

Llewellyn the dog is my shadow. Rhadwen is always keen for a petting or skritches. Huw butts up against my legs until I nearly trip over him. None of them gave me any trouble with their flea and tick medicine. Why won't Gwenith do the same?

O Gwenith, Gwenith, doan u luvs ur momma? Ur moma lurvs u! Shje duzzen wun u eated up bye teh fleez an teh tix!

But no, she has to lead me a frantic chase. Under the rocking chair. Under the bed. Nearly into the box spring. Into this corner of the room. Into the other. Under the rocking chair again. And me on my knees pleading with her to come out, wondering, What Did I Do Wrong to end up with such a shy kitteh?

I finally catch her, and get the medicine applied between her squirmy shoulder blades. Which operation probably convinced her she was right to avoid me.

But what could I do?

O Gwenith, u givezes mee teh unhappee!! Ai haz a sad!!1!

Scenes from a Convalescence

FBI Update

Llewellyn and I are home from the regular vet's, and yes, the Foreign Body he Ingested on Friday was a trimming from the wool fabric I'm making a suit out of. Pieces of it were in the stool sample he produced this morning, that I brought in for analysis.

He's been eating his bland diet mini-meals hungrily and keeping them down, and was free from pain when the vet palpated his abdomen.

He's definitely acting like his old self-- including barking lustily at the other dogs in the vet's waiting room! Llewellyn, hush!

So is there a moral here?

Maybe that I should have been more diligent and finished this sewing a couple weeks ago. Or that I should be a better housekeeper and vacuum my rugs more often. Or that I should be more preemptive, and have fed him peroxide in water (the vet recommends milk, to get him to drink it voluntarily) to make him throw up the mystery object right after he gulped it down.

But I guess the true moral is, be ready for anything. Dogs is dogs, and if they take a mind to make a meal out of something, they will.

Scary, Not Cute

After midnight last night I had to take my dog Llewellyn to the emergency vet's.

Yesterday evening, as I was about to drive into town to go to the symphony, I took him out to the alley to do his business. His business, if you'll pardon the specificity, was yellow, runny, and strained.

Less than five minutes later, he threw up his breakfast (which he'd eaten nearly eleven hours before) in the front room. All of it. Recognizable. Undigested.

I debated with myself. Should I stay, or go? But I was dressed up, I had my ticket, and dogs throw up all the time. He'd probably eaten something that'd disagreed with him. Now it was out of his system and he'd be fine.

I filled his supper bowl, threw a bath towel over the mess, and left.

It was a good concert. Great music, well-played. Though I was distracted at times, wondering how my doggie was doing.

I didn't hang around after, but drove straight home, hoping I'd find Llewellyn to be his old cheerful self and his food bowl empty.

Neither were the case. He was mopey and lethargic. He lay down in the front room and wouldn't even look at the nice homemade chicken broth I now put down for him. He wasn't interested in the bit of nice, fragrant gooshy kitten food I tried to tempt him with. He just lay there with his dry nose, breathing heavily.

Oh, BabyDog, what's wrong?

When I called him and he acted like he couldn't get up and come to me even if he wanted to, that was it. It was time to call the 24-hour vet.

Frustrating, but there still are no 24-hour veterinarians in my county. Nearest one was nearly an hour away--I'd been there before with my late dog Maddie. The receptionist there said it sounded as if I'd better bring him, and I agreed.

Llewellyn seemed much better by the time we got to the clinic. Smiling, sociable, with tail wagging and no longer between his legs. Vet said the adrenalin rush of a car ride and a visit to a new place can do that.

She took my history of the case, along with something else I'd remembered. Friday, up in my study, Llewellyn snatched something off the floor and began to gobble it up. By the time I'd rotated my chair around, he had his mouth closed around it and wouldn't drop it and wouldn't let me pry his teeth open so I could make him let it go.

The strange thing is that he didn't just swallow whatever it was down and stare at me grinning at what he'd just gotten away with. No, he'd had to gulp, gulp, gulp to get it down his gullet.

I told the vet last night at it might have been a live stinkbug. Or a stray jellybean egg or foil-wrapped chocolate egg from when one of the kittens knocked the Easter basket over a few days ago. I couldn't think of anything else.

But after the x-rays came back, I saw that there well may have been something else. The lateral film shows something that just possibly could be a piece of fabric, about five inches long, in his small intestine.

Yes, I have been sewing up in my study. Yes, I have been trimming seam allowances. But why on earth would my dog gobble up a scrap? He's never been one to devour nonedibles-- unless they have something edible on them. But there it was on the x-ray.

Or maybe not. Vet said, "The line is very faint. It might also just be the way his intestines are lying. We'll need to take another x-ray tomorrow or the next day to make sure."

They gave him some antibiotics and anti-gas medication to reduce the slight bloat in his poor empty tummy. They injected a quantity of water, like a camel's hump, under his skin to alleviate his dehydration. Then they sent him home with me with a long list of instructions and warnings and caveats for the next few days. And it's a good thing they were listed, since by then (3:00 AM) my brain was refusing to take anything in.

So today I'm observing his condition. Fasting first, the remainder of last night and through this morning. Then a little bit of water and bland food-- actually just some tinned water-pack chicken breast around the pills he has to take. He's held that down so far, thank God, so now I have permission to feed him a teeny, tiny serving of chicken and white rice. And if he doesn't throw that up, another teeny, tiny serving of the same four hours later. And so on, for the next three or four days.

And watch his stool to see if anything comes through, and schedule the followup x-ray with my vet if he continues to eat and do well into tomorrow. Or bundle him into the car and get him down to the emergency vet's again if things go wrong.

If it is a piece of cloth, it could bind his intestines. They could even rupture and spill sepsis into his gut. Before that could happen, he'd have to have surgery.

Thus far, he seems more interested and lively . . . wants to eat, even though I mustn't let him till the scheduled time. Bossing the cats around and barking and jumping when someone came to the door. So I'll go cook him his bit of supper, and hope-- hope--all goes well.

Apparating Kitties

This morning my friend Hannah* dropped off her four-going-on-five-year-old daughter Leticia* to stay with me while she went to a Bible study.

Hannah and her family originally found Gwenith and Huw in their barn as four or five week old feral kittens, and you'd expect the little furballs to be eager to see them, one and all.

Not so. Whenever the doorbell rings, the kittens don't discrimate. They run and hide.

But I knew Letty would want to see how big Gwen and Huw have grown. Oh, thought I, I'll shut them in the Kitten Room when I'm giving them their breakfast! Then they can't run down and hide in the basement.

I carried out my plan. The kittens were fed and watered, retrieved when they tried to escape, and the door was shut.

A few minutes later, Letitia and her mother arrived, bearing a gift of fastfood breakfast. Mom departed; the young lady and I sat down and ate.

"Can I see how big the kittens are?" inquired Letty over her food.

"Yes, after we finish eating. I've shut them in the guest bedroom. They can't go anywhere."

But when we went upstairs and slipped into the room, the kittens were nowhere to be found!

Not under the chair, not in the closet, certainly not out in the open waiting for us, not even under the bed!

But under there I keep a storage box with wrapping paper and ribbons in it. Maybe Gwenith and Huw were behind it. Pulled it out. I looked again--even now, no kittens!

I knew I'd got them both inside and closed the door! Where could they be?

"Can you see them?" asked Letty.

"No, I can't," I replied. "Maybe they're Magic Kitties and they can make themselves disappear!" And there's something about cats and about these cats in particular that made that statement at least ten per cent serious. "Maybe they can get out of the room without even opening the door!"

"Oh! Oh!"

But let's not be silly. They had to be here. I kept peering into the gloom under the bed . . . wait a minute. Isn't there a strange sagging lump in the scrim fabric on the bottom of the box spring? I stuck my arm in and pushed it upwards.

"Letty! I think I've found the kittens!"

"Where are they? Where are they?"

"They're in the box spring! . . . But wait a minute, how can they be in there? . . . O my gosh!" And looking down towards the foot of the bed, I saw that the scrim was loose and open almost all the way across. Those resourceful little rascals had clawed it free and made themselves a snug little hidey-hole amongst the box springs!

I nearly coaxed Huw out. Later, when Hannah returned, he'd come out on his own and suffered himself to be carried downstairs to show what a Big Boy he's grown. Then was off like a shot, probably down the basement this time.

Gwenith we never saw at all. Was she really in the box spring with her brother? I only saw one lump in the scrim! Or was she elsewhere, and did she--apparate?

I Maeded U a Lolcat Pikshur. Oar 2

An Ai hoeps teh sis-Tim haz nawt eated it.


moar funny pictures

O. it jus eatid sum uv mah pikshur. O wear o were did it goe??


Heer iz an udder.



moar funny pictures

It got eated sumwhut 2. O wels!!

Sloppy

There’s been snow on the ground the past week or so, hard, crusty snow that gets added to at irregular intervals.

Today’s addition was three inches of wet whipped cream, slushy and mixed with rain, falling in a temperature that hovered around 33 degrees . Your boots (tall ones, not the ankle kind) squelch through the gelid, pitted mixture, sploosh, sploosh, sploosh, even on the sidewalk you’ve attempted to shovel and then sprinkled with rock salt. It’s sloppier than Sandy Berger at the National Archives.

Well, I just took Llewellyn out for his night time constitutional. And between the old ice and the new semi-frozen puddles, I couldn’t get the back gate open more than 2"!

I pulled him up on the rock (and snow) covered mound next to the gate where my Norway maple is planted and convinced him it’s ok to pee there.

But he would not do his No. 2. Since October, he knows that’s done Outside. In the alley. He even went and sat down in the slush and looked expectantly out the gap.

So I tried taking him out and around to the alley via the side gate. And it’s frozen shut as well!

Okay, not totally. I could push it open enough for him to get out. And for me to get out, probably, too.

But I didn’t dare. I could see me not being able to squeeze back in. I could visualize impaling myself on the latch bolt. And the only unlocked door and the spare key are both at the back of the house, through that gate.

Gave up, pulled Llewellyn back in, and now I couldn’t shut the side gate, even to latch it!

Came back inside. But Llewellyn really needed to go. All right, I’d take him out and around the block by way of the basement door.

Oh, no, no! My dog wouldn’t let me do that! He knows he’s not allowed down the basement stairs! Not even I would be permitted to tempt him down them!

Oh, yeah. Right. Sorry, puppy.

So we went out the front door (the one that won’t latch), which meant using the key. Llewellyn was so thrilled with getting to go out front that he nearly forgot what the purpose of the trip was. As he hauled me splooshing along the futilely cleared sidewalks, I could just see him pulling me over and me falling down in a great frigid splash!

But we got past next door's house, and next door's to them, and along the side street, and around back with no more than wet paws and cold boots. Once he saw his usual strip of real estate between my fence and the alley, he did his business in short order.

And then waited to be let in through the back gate, as usual.

Not tonight, doggie. And if it freezes tonight as the forecasters say, not tomorrow morning, either.

Oh, joy.

Popular Culture

My friend Ruth* in Kansas City has sent me a Valentine's card, one of those computer-chipped musical ones.

It's a very big hit around the House of the Flying Furballs. As you may see:

Obviously, my kittehs and goggie really Love Lucy!

Shhhh!

The camera is never at hand when wanted.

Shhhh!

Right now, on my study floor, nine-year-old Rhadwen and seven-month-old Gwenith are sleeping peacefully, curled up together on the same bunched-up throw, about five inches apart.

(And darned if Gwenith doesn't appear bigger than Rhadwen!

(Yes, I know: It's all fur.)

Beside the Point

My Llewellyn is, as far as I can determine, a muttly mix of collie, beagle, and pointer. When he's indoors, the shepherd side of him rules his doggie behaviour: He's continually trying to herd the cats. I can see a kitten up on the wrong surface in another room and chide, "Huw! Get down!" and Llewellyn is immediately off after that feline, to nip him into line.

Outside, however, his hunting dog heritage comes into play. Especially the pointer part. I'll have him out the back gate in the alley at 2:00 in the morning in the freezing cold to do his business. And suddenly, he'll pick up the scent of something. What is it? Rabbit? Raccoon? Skunk?

No matter. His body goes stiff and straight, his tail takes a rigid right-angle curve, his ears prick up, his eyes shoot laser-like straight ahead, and up comes his forepaw in a steady, determined point.

It's a beautiful point, a focussed, concentrated point. Trouble is, when he points, he doesn't poop. He can be hunkering down into his squat, ready to do what we came out in the alley for, when suddenly the message of the nose overrides all else. Poooiiiiinnnnttt!!!!

And there I am, out in the back alley in the middle of a brass-monkeys frigid night, and my dog is homed in on some hidden rabbit, raccoon, or skunk. "Business, Llewellyn, business!" I stage whisper (so not to disturb the neighbors). But he hears me not: he's Pointing. I try gently pulling him over to an old pooping place, to give him the idea. No: Soon as I let up the tension, he's reassumed the stance and is resolutely pointing again. The only way to get him out of it is forceably to jerk his leash.

But by then, all hope of his producing anything is dried up and gone. I can only take him in and pray he holds his biscuits till we go out again in the light of day.

Nice to have such a talented dog. Too bad it's a talent I have no use for.