Of All the Nights . . .

Of all the nights for Llewellyn to decide to get skunked, he chose this one.

Yeah.  The one where I've been working two different jobs since 7:45 this morning, got home after 11:00 PM from the second one, and haven't finished filing my taxes.

Took him out, soon as I got home.  No leash, since there's no other dogs around that time of night and well, it's easier.

Yeah, right.  Now I know.

The skunk was a white one, frequent around here, sauntering through the parking lot on the other side of the alley.  When he took off after it I prayed it was a cat.  I yelled at him to get his rear back here, and if had been a rabbit, he would have.  But with a skunk, nooooooo!

When he finally came back to me he wasn't fazed at all.  Oh, no, not he!  No yelping, very lively, proceeded to do his business . . .

But he smelled like garlic and something else, which was weird.  Not at all "dead skunk the the middle of the road."  I read that that's how skunk spray smells close up.  Who knew?

Hustled him inside and into the bathtub.  Found out a few minutes ago I should have used peroxide and baking soda, but I hit him with the doggy flea shampoo since it was what I had on hand.

He didn't enjoy the bathing process and it serves him right.  I don't enjoy the garlic stink that's still got its claws embedded in the back of my throat.  But once he got out of the tub, oh, he's Mr. Lively!  He's around ten years old now but he generally contrives to forget it.

Llewellyn's sitting next to my chair as I type this.  Yeah, he's in the house.  What am I supposed to do, kick him out in the backyard where he'll bark at the full moon and disturb the neighbors and get into even more trouble?  When I sniff his fur it smells all right.  That's the dry parts.  Maybe it's the wet parts that still stink.

Tomato Sampling Expert

Less than five minutes ago I harvested my first Pink Brandywine tomato of the season.  I set it on the counter, and went upstairs to get my camera to document the occasion.

In less than a minute I returned to the kitchen, to find the tomato gone and my dog Llewellyn in the dining room having a last chomp.

You greedy beast!  So, was it good, sir?  Did it meet your expectations?

And don't you know tomatoes are supposed to be bad for you?

Sheesh.

Resolutions

I really should make a resolution to write something for this puppy at least once a week. It's not that I take my critters for granted, it's just that they are so consistently cute that I don't find myself jonesing to write about it. And when they're naughty . . . well, it's not really nice to talk in public about the rude things your kids do, is it?

Nevertheless . . . here's some pictures to be going on with.

Rhadwen in the red leather chair.

Rhadwen on the dresser.

Llewellyn and Huw exchange schmooz.

Gwenith keeps my ankles warm.

Like adoptive mom, like son.

That's good for now. This'll give me time to decide whether to tell about how this morning I discovered down the basement that the kittehs had pulled the big new bag of cat kibble to the floor and torn it open, and how it's heavier than I'm supposed to lift yet, but I lifted it anyway to put it away safe . . .

A Seedy Post

The birdfeeder is outside my dining room window. To get to it you have to go out the door on the other side of the house, around the front, and back along the other side to where the feeder hangers from its wrought iron shepherd's crook.

There's still a lot of snow on the ground. Deep snow, that I don't want to tromp through.

I have, not a ten-foot, but a four-foot pole, with a hook on the end, that I made for fishing things out from under bushes (mostly plastic grocery bags that the wind blows out of my dog-doo collecting stock on the back porch. But I anticipate). This winter I have discovered, that if I open the dining room window and lean out, this pole is long enough for me to hook the birdfeeder, fetch it in, refill it, and hang it back on the crook.

(This may explain why my natural gas bill was so high last month, but let's not think painful thoughts.)

On Friday, I fetched the feeder in and poured in the mixed seed from the big popcorn tin under the window. I hung the suet holder on the plastic hook under the feeder, then, having placed the feeder bale on my pole hook, I leaned out, out, out the window to hang it up.

Oopsie!

This time, I missed. Feeder and suet cage crashed to the ground. And this time I could've used a ten-foot pole.

Rats. Gotta go out in the snow regardless.

Picked my way along the partly-thawed strip along the front border and crunch, crunch, crunch into the side yard. Where I discovered that the plastic hook on the birdfeeder was broken.

Oh, well. I hung the suet holder on the shepherd's crook, too, and came back inside.

1. Where I discovered that
   I had neglected to put the lid on the birdseed tin before I went outside, and


2. There was a biiiiggggg dent in the birdseed and scads of millet and sunflower seeds and cracked corn scattered across the floor, and


3. Llewellyn was happily helping himself to it all.

If I had any question that it was he who'd caused the birdseed level to drop so precipitously, it was settled in a few hours when I took him out to do his business. You'd think my dog had turned into a canine seed drill. Doubt the birds will want them any more, sauced as they are with essense of doggie digestive tract, but I do have to wonder if any of this stuff will sprout when Spring finally comes.

After all, it works that way with birds.

Consistency in Dog Training . . . Not

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

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?

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!!!

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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 . . . )

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.

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' . . . )

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.

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.