Consistency in Dog Training . . . Not

Let's just say my goggeh is really fond of frozen veg . . .

"Curses, Foiled Again!"

When I go to the PetsMart, I always visit the kittehs up for adoption.

Pure self-indulgence on my part, since I have enough to take care of with my three and couldn't seriously entertain the idea of acquiring another cat.

Still, I look. And today I saw the strangest thing. In one kennel was a floofy black cat with streaks of brown in his fur. The tag on the clipboard on the outside was turned around and on it in big letters was written:

DO

NOT

ADOPT

OUT!

Hmm . . . Black kitteh called "Soot" . . . Dire warning on the cage label . . . could PetsMart have apprehended a minion of . . .

Basement Cat????

Found

I didn't sleep well the night of the 11th.

It didn't help that some neighbor in the next block up seemed to have left his car lights on and they were shining through the window right in my eyes till maybe 4:00 in the morning, when someone either switched them off or the car battery went dead. It bothered me that I couldn't go alert them to it, but I was dressed for bed and was I supposed to go over there at two in the morning in the freezing cold in my bathrobe and knock on the door?

But more disturbing were my broken dreams and fears. I kept starting awake, staring out the window (into those blasted headlights), hoping to see my Rhadwen silhouetted there, but seeing nothing.

Llewellyn did his best. He climbed onto the sofabed and snuggled in, taking advantage of an unusual opportunity since he never has been admitted onto my bed upstairs. I think Huw made a passing appearance . . . but in the anxious hours until dawn, it was the dog who kept vigil with me.

At 5:45 AM the alarm rang and I got up to get ready for work. I opened the front door and looked out on the cold, dark morning. The treats left on step and sill were untouched. Nothing had changed-- Rhadwen was still gone. I padded into the kitchen and looked out the back door. No calico kitteh there, either.

Oh, god, where could she be? She'd never been gone this long! Never overnight, never with this many meals missed. Oh, heavens, had I really lost her? Is that what I'd have to get used to?

I wanted to go out into the dawn and search, but it wasn't possible. I had substitute teaching to do that day, and never mind my personal sorrows.

About forty minutes later, I was washed and dressed and ready to take Llewellyn out for his morning business. I opened the back door and there, her white fur glimmering palely on the back porch, was my lost calico cat.

Immediately I swooped her into my arms. "Wennie! Wennie! Where were you? Where did you go? Where did you spend the night? Why can't you talk? Oh, Wennie, where?"

Poor Llewellyn. He had to hold his water until his feline sister was indoors and fed. Her fur was cold and damp, as with melted frost; frost that even then covered all the ground and vegetation outdoors. So she'd slept out and not under shelter; but she was clean, she was whole, she was found!

I still have no clue where she might have gone. My neighbor to the west admits it was probably her kid who left the gate open, and though she intended to speak to him, what can you do when it comes to the attention span of a five-year-old? They don't think, so we adults have to do their thinking for them. Which in this case means bolting the gate so the kids have to ask before coming in the yard to retrieve their toys.

For several days after her adventure, Rhadwen had no interest in going outside. But yesterday evening, I saw that things were getting back to normal.



For her. But not for me.

Lost

On the 10th of this month, the man from the exterminators came to do their quarterly service to keep down the ants, inside and out. It was a different rep than usual, so it was the first time he'd met any of my four-legged dependents.

He came into the backyard just as I finished clearing the leaves from the woodpile, and of course Llewellyn was all over him. New hooman! Joy, joy!

"What a great dog! Boy, I could just take this dog home with me, couldn't I, boy?"

Then Rhadwen sidled up, wanting a piece of the action.

"Gosh, what a big cat! How much does she weigh?"

"A little less than eleven pounds," I said apologetically. "Actually, she's not that big. A lot of it's fur . . . "

"How old is she?"

"She's eleven years old. Actually, I got her eleven years ago tomorrow, on Veterans' Day 1998."

"Gosh!" said the bug man. "I've had cats for a long time, but they never get much over five or six pounds! And they never seem to live more than five years or so! Gosh. Eleven years old. That's really amazing!"

Me, I didn't think it was amazing at all. The strange thing to me is why anybody's pet kitteh would peg out after only five years. Rhadwen, I am determined, will live to be eighteen. At least. And phooey on the bug man's attitude that there is something odd in that.

That night, Rhadwen snuggled next to me in bed. I settled into her furry warmth, deliberately appreciating it, thinking of the conversation in the back yard that morning. Unbidden, a memory came into my head of my late terrier-mix dog Maddie, and how she'd only lived with me five years after we rescued her from the park in Kansas City, and how I'd expected to have her so much longer . . . Maddie's buried in the back yard, under the Mary Magdalene rose bush . . . when Rhadwen goes, will I put her near there, too . . . ? But what was I thinking? Rhadwen will be with me a long, long time. Snuggle closer and go to sleep . . .

The next day, Rhadwen begged to go outside, as usual. Eventually I gave into the nagging and let her out. Then I went upstairs and started working on the computer.

After about four hours, around 7:30 PM, Llewellyn prevailed upon me to take him outside for his evening constitutional. I figured my calico kitteh would be out on the back porch, waiting to come in for supper.

But she wasn't.

After Llewellyn did his business in the alley, we came back into the yard and I looked around for my No. 1 Cat. No sign of her-- Not in the bushes, not on the porch, nowhere, nothing.

Nothing-- but the front gate to the back yard gaping open.

I knew it was shut when I let her out earlier. Sure as sunrise, one of the neighborhood five-year-olds must've lost a ball over the fence and let himself in without asking, to retrieve it. And neglected to latch the gate after he left.

That would have been at least two, two-and-a-half hours before, when it was still light. When had Rhadwen found the gap? How long had she been gone?

I had to find her. I love Gwenith and Huw, but Rhadwen's my best friend kitteh. She's been with me through three dwellings and two moves and several jobs. She couldn't be gone. She just couldn't.

I rang neighbors' doorbells and asked them to keep an eye out. I took a flashlight and combed all the bushes in my yard and everyone else's. I looked in the front of the houses and back in the alley. I looked under the back porch to see if she'd ducked under there. Repeatedly, I came out and searched and called and searched again.

"Rhadwen! Rhadwen!! Wennie!!! Please, come, please! Rhadwen!"

Nothing.

The night was getting colder. The forecast was 31°. A lot of the cover where she'd taken refuge on previous forays afield is gone with the summer. Where could she possibly be?

But I kept looking. Late at night, heart leaden with thoughts of the worst, I turned my steps to the busy street a long block away, in case-- God forbid-- she'd wandered over there and gotten--

There was no sign of her there. Thank God, but where was she?

Still later, after 1:00 in the morning, I hitched Llewellyn to the leash and took him through the alley in the next block down. Maybe he could sniff out his old friend. Maybe she'd come to him, if she wouldn't to me?

Nothing. No sign.

Is this what I got for being so proud of my big healthy senior cat? To lose her, now, on the very anniversary of my adopting her? Is that what I was going to have to get used to?

No way I could just go to bed and sleep. The temperature was dropping and Rhadwen couldn't get back in if I didn't open the door for her. I had to work in the morning, so I couldn't stay up all night holding vigil.

So I did what I had to, and slept on the sofa bed in the front room. With kitty treats strewn on the front steps and on the windowsill by the front door, so that if she came back and nommed them (she'd missed two meals by now), I might see and hear and let her in.

And just in case, I left the front gate to the yard open, too. It might let in rabbits and raccoons and skunks, but it might also restore to me my lost calico kitteh.

Though by now, I feared I might never see her again.

Adorablol Goggie

How can you not love a face like this?

Treeing Squirrels

I notice I haven't posted in awhile. Life happens, and my critters are so continually adorable (oh, yeah), how can I pick anything to write about in particular?

But to keep some blood pumping through this blog's system, here for your viewing pleasure are some shots of Llewellyn treeing a squirrel.

At least, he thinks he has it treed. Mr. Squirrel can hop from the maple to next door's garage roof and be gone in no time. Instead, he prefers to sit in the tree and swear at my dog. What does a goggie have to do to get any respect!?

Note to Myself

Next time I'm in the market for bedroom furniture, remind me not to buy anything with ring pulls.

Until then, remind me not to hide kitty treats and catnip in the drawer of my bedside table. Yeah, the drawer with the ring pull. Not unless I really like having my stripey kitteh Huw pulling it open and rifling it. As he has done the past two nights.

And then there's the fun he and Rhadwen have with the jewelry chest in the wee hours of the morning.

Yep, ring pulls again.

Oh, they are soooo clebber! Opposable thumbs, who needs 'em?

Swim or Sink, Barking Division

Day before yesterday, the new people moved into the house on the corner, two doors down from the House of the Flying Furballs.

They have a large Doberman named Vader, who does not wear a helmet or have breathing issues.

What he does have is good off-leash discipline, and his people, the past couple of days, have allowed him to lie out on their front lawn while they're with him.

This drives my Llewellyn nuts. Not only is there a new interloping canine in the neighborhood, said interloper doesn't have the grace to run away (i.e., keep going by on leash) when he barks at it. No, this new mutt just lies there and ignores him.

Must need to bark all the louder and longer:

BARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARK!!!!!

Hey, that didn't work! Other dog is still there! And now he's walking around with people petting him! Try again:

BARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARK!!!!!

Oh good grief, you could hear my mutt up and down the block. Ferociously. Constantly. Not something any of us can tolerate, especially not me with my nerves.

So I'm trying something. It's the basic carrot and stick approach. If Llewellyn can look at the screen door at Vader and keep his yap shut, he gets a treat and high praise for being a "Good, quiet dog!"

If I catch him barking or even growling at the Dobie, he gets a water squirt from the spray bottle and a "Naughty noise!"

We'll see how this works. The advent of this new dog may be an inadvertent blessing-- or the beginning of tumult and misery for one and all.

Stoopy Piggeh Goggeh!!

I had a nice, big, full, developing head of broccoli in my garden.

Until this evening, when this is what Llewellyn did while a friend and I chatted nesciently on the back porch:

Grrrrr, ggrrrrrrr! Naughty dog! Naughty! Naughty! Nawty!!!

_________________________________________________________

Greedy Beastliness, Omnivorous Division

I love my dog Llewellyn. Yes, I love him very, very MUCH.

But I kinda sorta like my garden, too. And I really would like it if my dog would approach it with an attitude of live and let grow . . .

And it would be nice if I could let him out by himself in the back yard without having to watch him every minute.

But I can't. I really can't.

The end of May, I planted broccoli and Brussels sprouts in one of my garden plots. They were a little leggy at first, but they took root and prospered. About ten days later, I noticed a leaf or two off one of the Brussels sprout plants. Bird? Maybe. Rabbit? Doubt it; my fence keeps them out. Squirrel? Do squirrels eat plants? I didn't know.

But the next day, I was out back and from a distance noticed Llewellyn slinking along the garden path with something green in his mouth. I thought it was a piece of lettuce, and there's plenty of that to go around. But then I looked more closely, and ack! he was in the crucifer bed, experimentally ripping the leaves off both broccoli and sprouts!

Idiot dog. Apparently the leaves smelled like food, so he'd rip off one, chomp down on it, find it bitter, and spit it out on the path. Maybe the next one would taste good! Rip it off, chomp down on it-- no, that one's bitter, too! Try again!

Until this is what I had:

Damn.

Week or so later, I put in some more Brussel sprouts plants to replace the crucifers Llewellyn killed. Then I let down my guard. The plants were getting to a size where, I told myself, the leaves would smell as well as taste bad, and my dog would leave them alone.

And the plants grew. By late this afternoon, I had heads on two of the three remaining broccoli plants, about the size of a grade-school child's hand. Coming along, coming along . . .

Early this evening, after turning my back on my dog for a couple minutes, I had this:

Bloody 'ell!!

Oh, it could be worse. He could be the sort of dog that eats slippers, suede brushes, and windowsills. I mean, broccoli is good for him. But his stealing vegetables out of the garden is not good for me feeling very happy with him.

Greedy beast! (As he lies sleeping beside my chair, looking ever so innocent . . . )

Sometimes I Scares Meself

Over the course of a misspent animal-owning life, I've come to under- stand that you get better coöpera- tion with quiet determination than with shouting and yelling and leaping about.

I do not say Llewellyn is qualified for a Canine Good Citizen Award. He still barks when a squirrel crosses a lawn halfway down the block and his antipathy towards other dogs is still ferocious and unabated. Nor do I claim to have a troupe of kittehs ready to tour with the circus. I mean, cats is cats.

But sometimes lately it seems I'm communicating with the critters in ways that are too subtle even for me. It works but it doesn't seem canny that it works.

Llewellyn can be in the front room, barking his fool head off, and I can come to the head of the stairs and just fix my eyes on him, thinking, "Llewellyn, no-noise. Quiet dog. Hush." And presently he looks up at me, gives one more yelp, and shuts down the cacophony.

Then there's our new ritual at the back door. He likes to lord it over the cats, nipping them in and herding them whenever he thinks they're out of line. Especially annoying has been his habit of worrying at Rhadwen when she comes in the house. It isn't fair on her and it's tedious for me, since often that means she runs back outside when I need her in.

Now, Llewellyn and I have been working on the Sit! Wait! at the back door when we come in together. But I've lately been taking it to a new level. I'll get the dog into the Wait position, then call Rhadwen from her favourite corner in the back porch. "Wennie, it's time to come in the house!" She continues to lie there for a moment, while Llewellyn holds his Sit. "Wennie, come in the house," I say again, calmly. Then just stand there silently, looking at her, waiting, willing her to come towards me. She gets up and begins to move towards the door. "Good girl!" I say. "Come on!" And wonder of wonders, the dog continues to sit and does not mistake what I'm saying to her for the go-ahead for him to go in. Rhadwen approaches at a dignified pace, passes between me and her brother the dog--and he lets her alone. She goes in the house, I cross the threshold myself, and then tell Llewellyn, "OK!" and in he trots.

This should not work. Especially not with a dog and a cat together. There's just too much pure force of mind to it, and I am not a strongminded individual.

Probably just coincidence. It might get scary otherwise.

Mercenaries

My cats only love me for my body heat.

Really.

When the weather's cold out, they're all over me at night. I wake up in the morning in exactly the same position I was when I went to sleep, I'm so weighted down with kittehs at ankle, shin, and side.

But now that the balmy breezes blow and the temperature's heading upwards, Rhadwen, Gwenith, and Huw are nowhere to be found when dusk spreads its humid covers over the land. Or if they are anywhere near, it's in the windowsill, blocking the ventilation.

Damn o sob!

Well, at least my goggie Llewellyn still loves me. He's faithfully on the bedroom floor every night now.

Come to think about it, though--why didn't he sleep there in the cold of winter, when his body heat would have come in handy?

So whom was I calling mercenary . . . ?

She Seems All Right

Here is Rhadwen on the floor of my study this evening.

Usually, this pose means she's feeling fine and is at peace with the world.

Hope it's the same now. She seems all right. She's been taking her ulcer medicine on schedule. Not willingly, but resignedly. No more blood thrown up, that I've been able to see.

Watch and wait is all I can do.

But-- touch wood!-- things look promising just now.

And the Kittens Follow After

Gwenith and Huw had their own turn at the vet's today. Happily, for them, it was only for routine shots.

I knew Gwen would be a struggle to corral for the trip over. She's shy and elusive and very wiry and determined to break any hold on her. She would go in the one and only cat carrier. Huw was for the banker's box. He was fine with it last time we went to the vet's a few months ago; he should be okay with it again.

An early lunch served in the Kitten Room about a half hour before the appointment got them both within reaching distance. Once Gwenith had her head in her bowl, I grabbed her, took her struggling to the carrier, and popped her in. Done! And the uneaten food went in after.

I put the carrier on the floor of the car.

Huw's turn, now. I'd put the open box, lined with a towel, in the dry bathtub. I picked him up and put him in, and He. Refused. To. Stay. I grabbed the lid; he jumped out. I shoved him back in and put on the lid; he pushed it up.

It was with mighty effort that I got my boxed tabby down the stairs. He wasn't settling down happily; what if he got loose in the car?

Leash. I need to find a leash. Put the box down by the front door and weighed down the lid with some bricks I happened to have sitting there. Lightweight leash is in the basement. Go get it, remove bricks, don't need to remove lid: Huw's done that for me. Off he goes!

"Oh, no, you don't! Come back here!"

I catch him and loop the leash onto him, hoping I won't have to use it. Cat back into the box. Cat still trying to push out of the box.

Meanwhile, Llewellyn is very, very excited. He knows something is going on. He's not sure what, but it looks like fun and he wants to be part of it.

He refused to sit-stay inside and ran out the front door when I carried Huw out to the car. I couldn't put down the box until the car was secured, or I'd be advertising for a lost gray tabby. Llewellyn frisked by the side of the car; would it make sense to let him ride along, even if I'd have to leave him in the car at the vet's?

I grabbed the back door handle and let the dog jump in (O fanku, fanku!!). Got Huw's box into the front seat of the car and belted in, my purse on top for a weight.

Then changed my mind. Dog's staying home.

Charged with him back to the house, sent him inside ("Aw, Mom!!"), locked the front door, and ran back to the car.

By the time I had the car started, it was about four minutes to our appointment time. By the time I'd driven two blocks, Huw had pushed out of the box and was heading for freedom.

"Huw! No!" I pushed him back in with my right hand while steering with my left. The rest of the trip was like that, with me hoping he wouldn't choose a time when I had to shift gears to pop out again.

He protested all the way over. Gwenith was quiet at first, but presently joined her maows to the duet.

Happily, they both calmed down in the waiting room. They were no wise so noisy as another cat that was brought in afterwards. Though the loud efforts of that kitteh's mistress to hush it were more obnoxious than her cat's cries were.

And though Gwenith the Pink Princess had to be unceremoniously dumped from her portable palace and Huw the Bold made a strategic retreat behind the same chair Rhadwen favored the other day, neither of them put up the screaming-meemie, ai will kil u awl struggle their adopted mommycat/big sister did the other day. But they didn't have to suffer the indignity of having a thermometer shoved up their rears at the outset.

They are both strong and healthy. Gwenith now weighs 8.5 pounds. Huw her littermate tips the scales at 12.7. Why am I not surprised?

I got them home safely, and they have not shunned me since then. So I guess all is forgiven.

But before vaccination time comes round again, I assuredly must acquire another cat carrier. The present system is not working.

Rhadwen Visits the Vet

I don't know what the tone of this post should be. Maybe let's stick with straight reporting, and let the spin develop with events.

Late yesterday morning, I was upstairs with all of my four-footed kids when Rhadwen, my ten-and-a-half-year-old calico started to hawk up a hair ball.

Not on the wooden hall floor, if you please, Wennie, even if it's not yet refinished. I picked her up and deposited her on the bathroom floor.

She continued to kakk, and brought up-- not a hairball-- but what looked like clear stomach juices tinged with blood.

Then she squeezed back behind the toilet and did it again.

Not a lot, either time, but against the white vinyl it was appalling.

We do not mess around with animals bringing up blood in this house. My late lamented shaggy terrier Maddie died four years ago of some mysterious blood disease, and it began-- or rather, my awareness of it began-- with blood on the bathroom floor.

I called the vet and got her slotted in as an emergency case early yesterday afternoon.

She didn't mind going into her carrier at all. She didn't mind the ride in the car, or the wait in the waiting room.

The examination? She minded that very, very much.

Cold plastik fing nawt gud bed! Ai getz doan rite noaw kthxbye!!

Ten-point-eight pounds. Good grief. I thought she was up to fifteen at least, she's so big. Is it really all fur?

Poky-tempachure thingee goez where??? DO NAWT WANT!!!

Between us, the vet tech and I were able to hold my yowling, spitting cat still just long enough to verify that her temperature was normal.

Then the vet came to do the examination, armed with a heavy towel. Oh, no, Rhadwen was not happy with that, no, she was not. The fighting and clawing started even before the palpations did. I have no idea how the vet could tell there were no areas of unusual tenderness on her tummy, but that's what she said.

Questions. Was she eating her food? Yes. Was she sluggish or lethargic? Obviously not. Could she have eaten anything she shouldn't have? Hm, Thursday afternoon I was sanding some woodwork; maybe she stepped in some of the dust when I wasn't looking and licked it off her toes . . . Could she have gotten into any chemicals? I gave them the name of the wood stripper I've been using, but doubted it could be that, since it evaporates very quickly and she'd never shown an interest in it before. Does she go outside, and could she have eaten something out there? Yes, she does, in the backyard only, and maybe she could have, but nothing I'd noticed.

"Her eyes are bright and she's well-hydrated. We'll take x-rays to see if she's ingested anything, and call about that stripper."

They left us in the room together. Rhadwen took her stand under a chair and stared at me balefully.

Reenter the vet and the vet tech, this time with a muzzle.

O. MAI. GAWD.

Ai weel kil u!! Ai will kiel u wid debastadieng dedness!! Awl ov Uuzz!!

They took her away, her yowls reechoing down the corridor.

Soon she was back, the muzzle askew.

"Any possibility of it?" I asked.

"I don't know yet," the tech replied. "We'll try setting up the x-ray machine first. Then we'll come back for her."

"Should I come back and hold her?"

"We think we can do it. Maybe."

Eventually, the vet and the vet tech returned, got a better grip on my fighting struggling scratching clawing spitting howling yowling sweet calico baby, and bore her back to the x-ray machine. Through the closed door her cries reecho'd and I wondered if there might be more blood on the floor today-- from the vet.

Before long the tech brought her back, and the vet soon joined us. "We got one. The x-ray shows no foreign bodies in her digestive system, and no sign of tumors or any other abnormality. It doesn't look like the chemical stripper could be involved-- she'd have caustic burns around her mouth, and she doesn't. If she'd got into rat poison--"

"Oh, no! That's what they thought might have happened to my terrier that died, though I have no idea where she could have gotten any!"

"Well, if it were rat poison, she wouldn't be throwing up blood, it'd be coming out elsewhere."

"Yes. I know. That's what happened to Maddie."

"So that's really not a possibility. And since she's eating and drinking and she's strong enough to have nearly killed us back there--"

"I'm sorry!"

"That's all right. We'll treat the symptoms and give her some ulcer medicine. Keep an eye on her and if there's any negative change, bring her in right away."

They told me what to look for, and sent us home with the medicine in a little bottle and a syringe to give it to her with, every eight hours. Cherry flavored liquid, which is ridiculous for a cat-- why can't it taste like tuna?

Rhadwen's been taking her dose the past day and a half by now. Not happily, not willingly, but getting it down. (We'd have an easier time with it if the dog wouldn't interfere.) She seems very much herself, and if she's kakked up any more blood she's done it someplace I haven't yet found it.

God willing, she hasn't at all.

So I am keeping my eye on her. I hope it was only something like sanding dust that she licked off her toes and it irritated her tummy. I don't like mysterious illnesses but this one can just go away quietly and never poke its nose into our lives again. I do not want my big furry girl to be sick; no, I want her around and healthy a long long long time.

My Dog's Other Name Is "Mr. Hyde"

Llewellyn is the sweetest doggie you'd ever want to meet-- if you're a person or a cat.

But if you're another dog, make your will. And if you're a person with another dog, know that he doesn't believe in innocent bystanders.

I'm not happy about this. It severely limits where I can take him. But until I can afford the proper training, that's how it is.

That's how it was yesterday. I was up on a ladder, upstairs stripping wallpaper, when Llewellyn began to bark. And bark and bark and bark and bark and bark!!

"Llewellyn, hush! Naughty noise!!"

Bark-bark-bark-bark-bark!!

"Quiet!"

Bark-bark-bark-bark-bark!!!!!

The volley went on unabated. I supposed it wasn't just somebody passing by with their dog. Somebody must've been at the door, and couldn't get the bell to work.

I climbed off the ladder and went downstairs. Llewellyn was still in a barking fury, aimed at the front door. I gave a glance out the window of the wooden front door; I saw no one and concluded it was the little girl from down the street, who doesn't come up high enough to be seen.

But I looked more closely, and saw a woman I didn't know.

Then everything seemed to happen at once.

I open the wooden door--
I hear the visitor say, "Does Kate Carp--?"
Llewellyn rushes past me, snarling with a hatred volcanic--
I look down and notice, oh, no, she's got a chocolate Lab mix dog with her!--
I look up and notice, oh, no, the screen door is off the latch!--
I yell, "My dog hates other dogs!!"--
I reach for the screen door knob to pull it closed to keep my dog in--
The visitor similtaneously reaches for it and pulls the door wide open--
Llewellyn surges out and hurls himself tooth and claw on the chocolate Lab--

And next thing I knew, the visitor and her dog were knocked all the way down my five front steps into the bushes, struggling and tangled in their leash, with my dog doing his best to send the Lab into canine oblivion. I tried to grab his collar but he kept it out of my reach. Somehow I ended up straddling him from behind and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him off the other dog. Then I could collar him, and drag him back into the house.

But I had to get back out and help the lady and her dog and see how they were. Oh, gosh, where could I put him? How could I keep him secured? I've got the stops off all the doors upstairs and they don't close properly!

Leash-- leash-- keep hold of him with one hand; reach up on the refrigerator and grab his leash.

I got it on him as he desperately tried to get back out and finish off the offending Lab. Hooking the loop under a leg of the kitchen stool, I made a mad dash to the front door.

Crash! He had the stool over and was nearly outside before I could seize his leash again.

I dragged him away and this time, wrapped the end several times around a stair baluster, and ran.

Whew! Got outside and the door slammed shut just as he got loose again.

Bark-bark-bark-bark-bark!!!!! came through the window next to the door. Bark-bark-bark-bark-bark!!!!!

The visitor and her dog had regained their feet by now. I'll pass over my apologies; they were many and profuse, especially once I'd noticed that the woman had a bruise over her left eye socket-- she must've hit it on the concrete steps tumbling down.

She insisted she and her dog were just fine. She hadn't even felt the bruise, and surprisingly, her dog was intact. No blood, no injuries. She said if this had to happen, she was the best person for it to happen to, since she loves dogs and trains them. She told me she'd dropped by because she got this particular dog from the previous owner of my house, who used to socialize puppies to be helper dogs-- this particular chocolate Lab turned out to have knee trouble and got drummed out of the corps. She'd happened to be walking her by my house and thought she'd drop in to show Kate C. how her dog was doing. She discussed what I might do to train Llewellyn to get over his fear agression against other canines.

The visitor told me a lot of things, but one thing she did not tell me was, "I'm sorry I pulled the door open and let your dog out. I saw the state your dog was in, and it was a dumb thing to do."

No. She didn't say that at all.

Maybe in all the tsimmes she forgot that's what she did.

I hope she and her dog really are all right. I hope it for their sakes, and I hope it for my dog's.

Because if it came to a claim being made against my homeowner's insurance, I know what can happen in these cases. And I'd be devastated if anything happened to Llewellyn, simply because he contracted a phobia against other dogs in his previous life-- and now a visitor with a dog had taken it upon herself to open my door and let him-- or his raging alter-ego-- out.

Nighty-Night!

My bed is a full house of a night. And a lively one as well.

(Hmm, that sounds dodgy. Oh, well. Let it pass.)

Last night, Rhadwen was on the bedspread, up by the pillows. That's her usual spot. I push her over a little, get in, and she hunkers down next to my shoulder.

A few minutes go by. I'm not asleep yet. Anon, I am not asleep at all. In streaks Gwenith! In flies Huw after her! They land plank! plunk! on the foot of the bed! They engage! In all the fury of sibling rivalry they wrestle, they battle, they fight!

MeeyowyowyowowowowMeeeeeeiiiiiiOOWWWW!!!! The din of feline howls rends the air!

"Shut up, kids!!"

The noise subsides, and Gwen settles down, effectively immobilizing my feet and ankles.

Huw, however, isn't ready for sleep. He stalks up towards the head of the bed and plops himself down right in the face of Big Kitteh Rhadwen.

She can't resist. She starts out by whapping him across the nose a time or two, then works herself into a looonnnnggg campaign of grooming him. Liklikliklikliklik!! Liklikliklikliklik!!

Then, just for variety, she commences to groom herself. Liklikliklikliklik!! With her plastered to my side the vibration shakes me and shakes the bed.

I am still not asleep. Or anywhere near it.

I contemplate how it would be with three or four more kittehs, all sleeping on the bed. All sleeping on me.

Oh, gosh, no. I'd never drop off, and once I did, with the weight of them I could never get out of bed in the morning.

Well, the bed could be even more full. Llewellyn the dog could sleep up there, too. But he's never been invited and he's never tried.

He's a huggy dog, but I'd say that's just as well.

Why Feed Birds?

The current issue of Birds & Blooms magazine features an article called "Why Feed Birds?" wherein various contributors "share why they feed feathered friends."

They came up with all sorts of lovely reasons . . . but none of them mentioned one of the big reasons I feed birds.

And why?

To provide entertainment to my goggie and kittehs, of course!



And it's not just the birdies that are so much fun, it's also the squirrels the birdseed attracts!

But alas, the fun is over for awhile.

Night before last a big wind blew through and knocked over the arbor vitae next to the birdfeeder. The feeder is under there.

Somewhere.

Cooooolllldddd Feeeeeeettttsss!!

This morning, the guy on the radio said the air temperature was seven-below-zero F.

Llewellyn and I went out to the alley so he could take care of his business. After he'd done his wee, he started looking around for the best place to deposit his poo. But before he'd made even one complete pass over the available ground, he was lifting up one paw, then another, then another. Then he tried to lift several up at once.

"Hurry up, Llellyn, hurry!"

He veered away from the snow-mounded grass strip by the fence and headed out into the ice-packed alley. It only made things worse. If my poor dog could have found a way to levitate, he would have.

That does it. No waiting for a No. 2 this trip! So I called him back inside the gate to return to the house. But he couldn't even walk the length of the backyard, his pads were so miserably cold.

Well. When I adopted Llewellyn, I was looking for a dog that would be a) big enough to hug, b) big enough to intimidate strangers who arrived with dubious intentions, and c) small enough for me to pick up and carry if it was ever ill. At 45 pounds I figured he fit all three criteria. Now, obviously, I'd have to test assumption No. 3.

So I picked my dog up and carried him back to the house. He wasn't as heavy as I'd expected. And as I carried him, he turned his head and looked into my face with relief in his big limpid red-brown eyes. If dogs can say Thank you, I think mine just had.

Gwenith!!!!

This was once a heart-leaf philodren- dron.

A very valuable and historic heart-leaf philoden- dron, I might add.

It was cultured in the greenhouses of the Kansas City, Missouri, Department of Parks & Recreation, greenhouses that now have not only been closed down but have also been pulled down in the past year† because the stupid current City administration were unwilling to envision a time when there might be enough money to run them again.

It was an Adminstrative Professionals Day gift from my former boss several years ago, when I was serving the public good as a low-paid but hardworking tech in the Parks & Rec Archives. It was a souvenir.

And now, look at it. Or what's left of it.

Gwenith, you see, decided several months ago that she liked nothing better than philodrendron leaves. I was afraid for her because I've heard they're poisonous to cats. But the local Poison Control advisor said don't worry, philodendrons these days are cultivated to have almost none of the harmful compounds they used to. If she was showing no signs of trouble by then, there was no danger to her.

So then I was afraid for my plant.

I tried the old cayenne-pepper-as-repellant trick. But I applied so much I burned the leaves the kitten had left. I didn't give up on it, though. I moved it to a plant pedestal and nursed it back to health. It was putting out tender new growth, when my pink floofy kitteh figured out how to jump up there and nom them off anyway.

That's when I moved it to a shelf in the bedroom. But Gwen still found a way to get at it. By now there were no leaves left, but maybe, maybe, the roots where still good and it would rise again?

So I put an old calendar under the pot where I'd seen her jump up. It's floppy, and when she landed on it, it'd give way under her, she'd tumble off, and she'd learn to let the philodrendron alone, right?

And for a few weeks she did. It didn't grow any new leaves, but she let it alone.

Until this evening. I don't know what possessed her to try again, but she got up there from another angle, ate the smaller of the two remaining shoots, and ejected a quarter of the potting soil onto the shelf and the floor.

Gwenith, you pest! And then you have the cheek to come up on my lap and want to be petted, like nothing was wrong!

I cleaned up the mess and did some rearranging. The philodrendron is now on the third and highest shelf, where I hope it will make a new start.

But if some morning I wake to find my larcenous kitteh all the way up there making her breakfast out of the last, lone, lorn philodendron stem, I won't be at all surprised.

________________________

†I am reliably informed that the KCPR greenhouses have not been razed. Not for lack of intention, but for lack of funds to do the job. Same difference.

Cool Hand Llew

Since Saturday, we have snow! Snow on snow! Snow worth calling snow!

And my dog Llewellyn loves it.

He doesn't care how cold it is, he goes out and chases squirrels from one corner of the yard to the other. While my lunch goes frigid, as I get up again and again and again to go to the back door to check if he's ready to come in yet. Nawyet, Mommee, nawtymecominyet! Nawyetnawyetnawyet!! Gonnagitthaskwurl,yesyesyesyesyes!!

Enter the neighbor girl, Sophie*, who for the past three or four afternoons has dropped by to show me her new snow toys from Christmas. Two new toboggans. A snow brick maker. A snowball maker.

And to play with Llewellyn in my fenced-in back yard. She has dogs, but not a proper fence. And her dogs are runners. So Sophie comes and plays with my pup in the snow, and he likes nothing better.

Every time, I tell her that I have work to do and she can play out back with him by herself. And every time I come out and join the fun, too. And we all stay out till my dog lets me know his toes are getting cold. He lifts a forepaw and hesitates to put it down, then a back paw the same-- All right, that's enough! Time to go in for milk and cookies!

Whereat Sophie spends most of her time petting Llewellyn and cooing over how sooooooffffttt!!! his ears are.

(Well, they are!)

What I can't figure out is how my dog can tell the snowball Sophie has just thrown him from all the rest of the snow so he unmistakingly goes after it and eats it. He's been eating a lot of snow these past days . . . and I wonder if that's why he peed on the dining room floor just as I was sitting down to dinner this evening? He'd been out only two hours before!