Close Calls

When I was on restricted activity post-op, I arranged for the neighbors down the street to come and feed the animals and especially, to take Llewellyn out to the alley to do his business. If I had him properly leash trained I could've done it myself early on, but noooo, he's still tugging and pulling at the best of times. And if he sees another dog, it's Katie, bar the door! Definitely in the category of Heavy Lifting.

But about two weeks before I was cleared for regular activity, the teenaged kid from the family that was helping me told me they couldn't find my house key. For a few days, he'd ring the bell morning and afternoon, I'd let him in, and he'd take the dog out. And late at night, at bedtime, I could take Llewellyn out off-leash, since nobody walks their dog in the alley at that hour.

But gradually, none of my helpers from down the block came at all. It was up to me. Whattodo, whattodo . . . ? Ah. Midnight trip, as before. Daylight potty breaks, I let Llewellyn run down to the back gate and I'd get him secured when I got there. Then, "Sit!" He sits. I put the leash on him. "Wait!" He waits. I open the back gate, carefully, carefully . . . I stick my head out, and sweep the scene, up and down the alley. No dogs. "OK!" And out we'd come, Llewellyn would do his business on a relaxed leash, and I wouldn't get my stitches pulled and he wouldn't be menacing other people's pets.

This worked so well, that last week, I got careless. I didn't take the time I should've to make sure the coast was clear. And for three straight mornings, at different times each day, I just missed letting my fear-agressive mutt into the alley right in the path of a neighbor and his little brown dachshund!

I do not know how Llewellyn didn't nose that dog and go off after him, but I guess he had other business to attend to.

Unless . . . ?

Not sure when it was, last Friday or Saturday, but we were out there so he could do his business. And a couple houses down the alley, two young guys I didn't know were standing by a car, I guess waiting for their friend to get home. Then I heard a jingling as of dogtags, and yes, they had a little mutt on a leash, right where Llewellyn could see him. And Llewellyn did see him. And did nothing, except finish his business.

Then yesterday, the neighborhood children were out in force, accompanied by the big Dobie owned by the family on the corner. Vader, who is always off-leash, lay down in the next-door neighbors' yard, not twenty feet from my front entrance. Where the door was open. And Llewellyn was sitting right behind the screen. Did he go crazy? No, he didn't. In fact, the kindergartners and I did some training with some doggie treats I brought out. Llewellyn got treats for sitting nicely behind the door and not barking at Vader, and Vader got treats for chilling out and not coming any farther into Llewellyn's territory.

All seemed well. Until the one preschooler in the group ran into my house to get something, and let the door hang open when she came back out. And out Llewellyn came with her, starting down the front steps, with the child's pet Doberman just a long leap away.

But . . . Llewellyn wasn't running, or barking, or attacking. He was just ambling out, enjoying the fun, wanting to be outside with all the kids who like to pet him and spoil him rotten. Had to spoil his fun, of course. "Llewellyn, back in the house. Now."

He went. Dare I say he might be getting an eensie bit more dog-socialized? If so, I wish I knew what we were doing right. I hate having to be so careful of him now-- and I know he'd love it if he could get over his fear and get out and play and frolic with other dogs.

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.

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.

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.