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.

WCWF

Over-amplified announcer: Laaaadieeeees an' gennelmennnnnnn! Welllcommme to t'night's champeenship bout of the Whirld Cat Wrassling Federation!

Tooonighttt! in this corner, wearing the calico spots and weighing in at 10.9 pounds, we have the nine-year-old deefending champeen, Rhadwen the Great!

An' in this corner, wearing gray-brown stripes and a white bib and weighing in at 8.5 pounds and ever-growing, we give you the six-month-old challenger, Huw the Bold!

Referee: OK, you cats know the rules. Hissing, spitting, snarling, tackling, swiping, givin' the evil eye-- thass all okay. But keep them claws in, okay? We don't want no blood spilt in this house-- I mean, in this arena. Okay, shake paws and may the best cat win!

Announcer: Ladies an' gennelmen, we got a reelly beeg cat wrassling battle in store for you tonight!

Rhadwen leaps full force on Huw! Huw springs away and down he goes on his back, he's got them pointy ends up in full defensive position! Rhadwen leaps again! but Huw scrambles and swipes with paws, front and rear! But now the Champeen has her mouth around the challenger's neck! Huw ain't lying down for that, nosirree-- he swipes! one! two! three! with his fierce front paws and springs clear! Will the Champeen go in pursuit? No! she turns her back and gives young Huw the advantage! A hit to the backside! Another! Another! Quickly Rhadwen turns and pounces and the battle is jined agin!! The contenders are locked in an all-out roll-and-wrassle head-and-body-lock duel to the finish! Who will win? Will Rhadwen keep her creown? Or will Huw be the new champeeen?

. . . Wait a minnut. There seems to be some problem in the ring! Llewellyn the Magnificent has vaulted the ropes and jined the action!

Ref: You dumb dog! You got no business here! This is Cat Wrasslin we're on for t'night! Hey! contenders! Git back in the ring! You run away like that, you both forfeit the match! Git back heeere! No, not you, you dumb dog, the cats, the cats!!!!

Announcer: Ladieees and gennelmen, the Management's apologies, but tonight's Whirld Cat Wrasslin Federation Champeenship match seems to be over before a decision could be reached. Thank yew all fur comin', and jine us agin for the nex WCWF match, to be held any time, any place, at a multiple-cat household neer yew!

_______________________

Notice: No felines (or canines) were harmed in the production of this blog post. Not so far, at least . . .

Nobody Loves Me, Everybody Hates Me: I'm Going into the Garden to---

Escape.

At least, that seemed to be Rhadwen's intention late this afternoon.

I'm familiar with the jump-from-the-top-of-the-compost-bin-and-over-the-fence-to-the-dining-room-sill-and-down-to-the-side-yard-and-around-the-front-to-freedom ploy.

I've seen the variation where she dispenses with the compost bin and attempts to shinny up a fence picket and over and gone.

I've caught her seriously considering the possibilities of the jump-to-the-top-of-the-woodpile-and-up-to-the-top-of-the-fence-and-over-into-the-neighbors'-yard route.

And with the advent of Llewellyn the dog a year and a half ago and now the kittens Gwenith and Huw, I can sympathize. She used to be queen of all she surveyed. Now she has to put up with a dog who beats her to the door when I come home and pretends to chew on her, just to show her he's now the boss. She has to suffer kittens who eat out of her bowl when their food is ready and available, just to show her they can. She has to endure their occupying my lap, when everyone knows it belongs to her. It's enough to make any self-respecting cat feel unappreciated and ready to explore new horizons.

But not by the route Rhadwen tried this afternoon. This afternoon Rhadwen tried a new one. She sprang up to the very tippy top of the wooden garden seat, stood on the corner newel on her back legs, reached up nearly to the top of the fence with her front paws, and nearly, nearly, made the leap for freedom into the back alley.

The attempted escape route

Or at least, into the neighbors' rose of Sharon tree. And thence, perhaps, to the top of their garage.

Either way, this is scaaaaary. In the side yard, the front yard, the neighbors' yard, I know where to find her and bring her home. But back in the alley, next stop is our town's main drag. Which doubles as a major highway. And let's not even think of the neighborhood liveliness that would ensue if my big cat had to be extricated from next-door's garage roof.

I moved in and grabbed her before she could make the jump. And took her right back in the house, whether she likes sharing it with the dog and the new kittens or not.

Besides, I can't be letting her outside anymore. At least, not for awhile. When I was petting her day before yesterday, I discovered that she's brought in-- fleas! We're sitting tight till the flea medicine for one and all comes in the mail.

Pecking Order

Let's figure this out:

The kittens Huw and Gwenith openly steal food from nine-year-old Rhadwen's bowl.

Rhadwen blatantly steals food from my plate.

So where does that put me in the household pecking order?

(Llewellyn I don't allow to eat till after I do, but that's only because he hasn't yet worked out how to pry the lid off the dog food tin . . . )

Rhadwen Takes Advantage

Being a cat, Wennie has an eye to the main chance. She knows when something is up, and if she can get in on the bargain, she drives it home with all her might. That is, if she feels like it.

In this case, she knows Llewellyn is being trained. She knows he doesn't get his breakfast or his dinner unless he sits and stays while I go across the room and fill up his bowl. I have to set the bowl down on the table to put the lid back on the dog food tin. And that's where Rhadwen siezes her advantage.

Up she jumps on the table, and she's got her face in the dog's dish, chomping away, before I can get the lid centered on the can.

(Now, Llewellyn does get his turn at this game. Rhadwen gets fed on top of a bookcase, to keep the dog out of her food. And he's figured out how to tease her so badly that she knocks the dish onto the floor. Pieces of kibble go flying, and guess who gets the most of it?

(And what the dog doesn't gobble up goes down the register.)

But now Wennie has found a new way to get her own back. Tonight I tried leading Llewellyn around the house with his leash attached to his Halti collar, around and around from kitchen to hall to front room to living room to dining room to kitchen and around again. Rhadwen figured out that if she sat on a certain dining room chair, she was in the perfect position to whap him with her claws every time he came around. She obviously knew he was under restraint and couldn't hit back!

If you're wondering why I didn't stop this feline agression, it's because Llewellyn never seemed to feel it. I wonder if that's because his coat is so thick. Or was Rhadwen only playing, and thought he should know what she could do if she really wanted to?