Chocolate-Eating Dog Update

Going by what I read tonight on line about toxic-level dark chocolate doses for dogs, my Llewellyn has apparently dodged a bullet. Again.

(He did this before with half a bag of semi-sweet morsels a year or more ago.)

Meaning, I haven't observed the more serious symptoms of theobromine poisoning described. Last night, I had to pull an all-nighter to work on my final AutoCAD class project, and he lay quietly on the floor under my computer chair, as usual.

Right now, he's chilling out on the downstairs sofa, just shedding, as usual.

No unusual hyperactivity, no tsedrayt behaviour; he has a regular appetite, everything is mostly as usual.

Really, I notice no effects out of the ordinary-- except a heightened urgency to get out the gate to do his business.

Which he is doing with alacrity. I won't get clinical, but going by the list of typical theobromine toxicity symptoms, it's not half as bad as it could be.

But oh my gosh, am I going to have to redouble vigilence or what? Makes me wonder if the plastic chicken fencing I got last year to keep him out of the dining room during Christmas cookie making will work this time around. He's so determined to chow down on anything quasi-edible he can get.

Though if I will leave candy and snacks on the hallway bench, that doesn't pose him much of a challenge . . .

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(I didn't ask the tech at the vet's about it when I dropped Gwenith and Huw in for their spay and neuter operations this evening. Being an Official Poor Person for the nonce, I'm getting it done through a low-cost program that's not patronized by my regular vet. Didn't seem right to sneak in questions about the dog when my only business with this new practice is to get the kittens done.

Though if I'd remembered the toxicity proportions better, I might have asked anyway. 3.5 ounces is really pushing it, even for a dog of Llewellyn's size.)

Kitten Milestone

I dropped Gwenith and Huw off at the vets' this evening. Tomorrow they have their operations.

To read some authors, failing to get your dog or cat spayed or neutered is tantamount to pet abuse.

But I can't help it. Having to take the kittens to get fixed makes me sad.

What on earth for?

Maybe I'm afraid their piquant little personalities might change.

(Though if I let Huw grow into a full-blown tom, his personality very well might change. And not for the better.)

Maybe I feel I'm irrevocably cutting them off from their natural development.

(Yeah, natural developments like incest-engendered kittens running around the house.)

Or maybe, maybe, it's just me thinking, sob, gulp! my babies are growing up so fast!

They're only five months old! And Huw already weighs eight and a half pounds! Gwen is over seven pounds! They're so big, they no longer fit into the cat carrier together! I had to press an empty file box into service to get them to the vet's!

And now they're getting their operations!

They're almost all grownded up!

Whahhhhhh!

I Am a (Half-Asleep) Idiot

I arrived home from work this evening to find this scene in the front hall:

Before I got the light on I was preparing to find the philodrendon and its pot in shards and shreds on the floor.

What it was was quite as bad, from a dog health point of view.

You see, I flew to my mom's for Thanksgiving, and got home last night. I bought an 85% cacao chocolate bar at the airport to eat on the plane, but it was too bitter. No problem, I'd do some cooking with it.

Or not.

This morning, after maybe two hours of sleep (up late doing homework I couldn't get to while I was gone), I did the bat out of Hades bit trying not to get to school toooooo late. I really, truly, really intended to stuff the dried banana chips and the beef jerky and the trail mix snacks back in my bookbag and take them with me . . . And I'd forgotten all about the chocolate bar in its sack, which I guess I must've shifted out of the bookbag and laid on the hall bench . . .

So ten hours later, I return home-- to food wrapper chaos. Including the chocolate wrapper that I homed in on and picked up right away. Oh, no!

If Llewellyn were a little dog, I would be freaking out. Chocolate is bad for dogs' hearts, and the darker it is, the worse. But if Llewellyn were a little dog, that 3.5 ounce bar would have done its dirty work long before I returned to the scene. But at nearly fifty pounds, the only thing apparently wrong with my greedy mutt was that he'd gobbled down every flake and chip of that chocolate and those snack foods and was still nosing amid the debris, unwilling to accept that there simply wasn't any more.

No point in making him throw up. He probably got at it as soon as my key was out of the lock at 8:00 AM. He seems okay so far. No more hyperactive than normal; in fact, he's as usual, quite content to lie at my feet while I work at my computer.

But someday, someday, that dog is going to eat himself into real trouble. And I have got to stay awake enough to prevent it.

Campaign Against the Fleas

The anti-flea medicine came yesterday, but I didn't get it on the beasts until today. Had the idea that I needed to go buy flea shampoo for Rhadwen and bathe her first.

Got the shampoo yesterday afternoon; did not get the bathing done.

Nor today. The thermostat is set low for economy, it's blowing and rainy outside, and it's too cold to handle wet felines.

But something had to be done. So all four of them, the dog and three cats, got their first doses of flea medicine today regardless.

And it's almost too good to be true how well Gwenith and Huw took the between-the-shoulder-blades application. Almost as if they thought they were being groomed by a very wet tongue.

Rhadwen objected, rather. I made it up to her with a dried salmon treat.

In fact, treats for all! Treats for all my good four-legged children!

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.

Ode to a Pink Tabby Kitten

I've written a poem on the ways and character of Gwenith, my pinky-yellow medium-haired tabby kitten.

WARNING: Egregious Sentimentality and Affected Archaisms Dead Ahead!
To My Capricious Kitty

O Gwenith fair, thou pink and coy,
How dost thou wend within my heart?
Flirtatious, clinging, shrinking, shy,
Thy feline ways a thing apart.

Thy pale and striped tabby fur,
Thy bib and belly white as dove,
Thy elfin face, thy plushy tail
Me call to give thee snuggly love.

And purring, purring like a mill!
Content thou seemst in all thou dost:
At play, at food, at mischief, too:
To pet thee seemeth only just!

But O! illusive as thou art!
Thine act denies thy winsomeness:
So quick eluding every touch,
So loath to brook the fond caress!

Thou might'st be tripping through the hall
Or crouching snug the stairs upon,
Or anywhere the house abroad:
I stoop to stroke--and thou art gone!

But let me lay me in my bed,
Or sit to work, then verily,
There art thou, Gwen, upon my lap,
My desk, my work, all over me!

Thou trammelst me at every turn!
I cannot see, thou block’st my view!
With kisses rousing me from sleep,
With paws that knock my plans askew!

No good nor use to sigh and groan,
For kittens walk in fancy’s ways;
And Gwenith fair will grow a cat,
And then I’ll mourn these wanton days.

Flirtatious, clinging, shrinking, shy,
Thy feline ways a thing apart,
O Gwenith fair, thou pink and coy,
How thou dost wend within my heart!

So True! So True!

I received this the other day via email from my friend Ruth*. She got it from our mutual friend Ieuan*. I don't know where he got it, but if anyone knows who the artist/animator is, I will gladly and appreciatively revise this post to credit him or her.

"For anyone who has ever owned a cat . . . "