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.

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.

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.