Pets!
Without a doubt I believe you lead a richer life with pets. There's something about them that makes you a better human. Maybe something that reminds you how precious and delicate life is.
From an early age, I have always had pets in my life, usually cats my mom and grandmother loved them and passed that love on to me. Kristie now has fallen under that category, though she never thought of herself as a cat lover. Sorry if there were typos in the last two sentences, but Boo has seated herself in front of the monitor. Okay, now she is back on my lap. No more excuses for errors. But we also had our share of dogs too. I remember Trixie, a white dog of some sort, being the earliest. Though I think she met the end from a rendering truck that always passed in front of our house. Excuse me, Boo is not sitting on my arm and staring at me as if she is contemplating how to best kill me and eat out my eyes.
Alright, she's back in my lap. Wait, she's in the hood of my sweatshirt. Oh man. What was that little squeak and whoosh. I hope she burped. Nope. Oh man. This kitten is rotten. No more big cat food for you el stencho. Ugh. Picture fanning motions with my hands.
Ugh. Awful. But back to the point. My favorite dog from my childhood was Pooch. We found her out at my dad's farm. She was just hanging around the old house and farmstead like she had lived there all her life. I soooo wanted to bring her home, but Dad refused. I begged. Okay now Boo has decided to plop herself on top of my right hand. So all the keys on that side are going to be tricky. I think she whooshed again and it smells bad. Oh great, here's Mischa now. Can't I get any work done around here?
Picture more fanning motions.
Dad finally did agree, though, that if the dog was at the farm the next day, we could have her. I never looked so forward to going out to the farm as I did that day. And, alas, she was there! So we took her home and dubbed her Pooch. She was the only animal we ever had that we didn't get fixed. So a few summers later, she had puppies. I remember one morning getting up early and crawling right into the dog house with her and the litter. It's a miracle she didn't growl or bite me.
But she grew too old and had to be put down. The came a run of dogs - Fletcher, Tuffy (a poodle that lasted quite awhile. In fact, he made the transition from our home in town to a new farm we bought out in the country. He would have made a real run for it except one day Dad noticed that he was out by the mailbox and called Tuffy back to the yard. Of course, Tuffy always obeyed and bolted across highway 32 and right under the wheels of a car. End of Tuffy).
When we moved out to that farm, we inherited the original owner's dog, Skippy. There is no other way to put it: he was a hound from hell. Originally we got along well. Then we parted company when Dad bought me a three wheeler. See Skippy always used to win all of our battles because I could never catch him. Skippy was one of those dogs who, if you played fetch with him, he didn't return whatever it was you were playing fetch with. Worse yet, if you were just playing by yourself, he'd intrude and soon secure whatever it was you were playing with (usually a baseball or softball - I would toss it against one of our sheds and catch it on the rebound). He would not give the item up either. Even after you were done playing and decided to go into the house, the next time you came out, he saw you and made the connection and ran to where ever he left the ball and he'd crowd over it and growl. After a few chomps, he always lost interest. He just wanted to growl at you and nip if you got too close. That's how he liked to play. And that's when it hit me - I'm not playing with him! That damned hell hound is playing with me! So I decided to use two tennis balls next time, storing the other in my back pocket. Inevitably, after Skippy took my original tennis ball, I'd just use the back up one. Well, he'd secure that one too. Then I planned to just run after the first one he had taken. That worked. For about fifteen minutes. I mean who really likes to play catch with a tennis ball all slick with dog saliva?
But the tables turned when I got that Honda 360 three wheeler. We were on even terms then. I'd hop on my 360, fire it up, and toss the ball. Skippy would haul after, and I'd kick the 360 in gear and go after it too. I finally had him. The first time he went for it, I think I actually ran his head over, but he came out fine with it. I mean I'd even run myself over on the three wheeler (you know how you could get it up on two wheels by leaning hard one way? Well I was going all Dukes of Hazard when I let one leg drag too far on the ground. It went right under that back wheel, dragging me off and under it in about a second. I was fine. Just my ego was damaged. Luckily, no one witnessed it. Well, I bet the hell hound did and he had a good chuckle at that!)
Of course, I couldn't stop pestering Skippy there. He loved the cement steps to the back porch. So I would drive my three wheeler up them and force him off. He'd bark and nip at the tires the entire time. But I got him off.
Then there were times I'd see him sauntering across the yard and take in after him. He'd scurry under one of our sheds to get out of the way.
Horrible right? That is not the reason to have pets at all you're thinking. And you're right. I was cruel to that dog. And I feel bad about it. But don't think I'm too harsh. The dog got his licks in on me too. Ever notice I have a nice two inch scar below my left eye? Guess who gave me that? Yep, Skip who nipped at my face once (never mind I was taking off the rope I had lassoed around his head and was trying to hook him up to the three wheeler).
But the dog didn't just hate me. Other than my mother, he hated everyone. Even my dad. Sure, he liked to work the sheep with my dad. But often times he'd growl at Dad too.
He hated any friends I ever had over. Of course, I'd turn him loose on my friends just for fun. One time Lon and Harry came over. The first words out of Harry's mouth were, "Where's that dog of yours?" He had a phobia of big dogs.
"Oh, he's in the porch, but I'll hold him back while you guys come in," I lied.
He was in the porch, but I wasn't going to hold him back. For long anyway.
Lon and Harry cautiously approached the steps. I opened the door and grabbed onto Skip's collar, who was barking madly at the intruders on his beloved steps. I could hear his old dirty black claws digging into the floorboards of our back porch. Poor Lon and Harry looked like they were headed to the gallows. Just then I let Skip go and yelled, "Get 'em. Sick 'em boy. Intruders! Intruders!"
Ha.
You should have seen the looks on their faces. They made a run for it, with Skip right on their heels snapping away. I rushed into the kitchen, only to see Lon's shaggy mop fly by the kitchen window on his way to our front porch - their only hope of escape. I ran through the living room and into the porch and held the door open for them. I don't know that I've laughed so hard as I did then.
Harry and Lon weren't pleased.
Good times.
But Skip succumbed to arthritis and his hip breaking and Dad put him down. Then we had another poodle, Annie, who would get so excited she'd be where ever she was. She got hit out by the mailbox too.
Then there was Kanavis. Mom ran him over by accident. Then there was Napoleon. He got hit by a gravel truck.
I think up next was Karney. He was my dad's favorite. I swear that dog was a reincarnated Nascar driver because he loved to ride in the back of Dad's Silverado. In fact, my dad would park the Silverado with the back facing the highway, just so Karney could sit there and look at the road. The dog never spent a minute in its doghouse. It lived in the back of that pickup.
Case in point --
In fact, one time Dad took Karney to town. He stopped at Brent's Foodpride. For some reason Karney leaped out. But Dad's end gate was closed, so he couldn't get back in. But Art, one of my Dad's friends, had his truck parked right next to Dad's and he had his end gate open. So when Dad came out, there was Karney happy as ever and raring to go, just in the wrong truck.
I always joked that it would wander out by the road and someone would stop to pick something up and that dog would jump in with them and be gone forever. Well, one day poor Karney was gone forever.
That was about the end of the dogs for Mom and Dad. Then when Mom passed we brought Dad our dog, Joker, and Dad treated him like a son. I bet Joker gained 30 pounds while he lived with Dad. If Dad made eggs, he made some for Joker. If he had steak, Joker had steak. I think Dad just cooked sometimes to feed Joker. He lived like a king!
Among our long history of dogs, we always had cats too. The first was Smokey, my grandmother's old cat that we inherited. I think it was she who was sleeping on the headboard of my parents' bed. Somehow she slipped off in her sleep and landed on my dad's head. Dad sat up, and since he was completely bald on top, the poor cat had trouble holding on to his slippery scalp and dug her claws in. So he had huge scratches on his head. But he wore a cap all the time anyway.
Then we got a black and white kitten from our neighbors who I would dub Sylvester. He lived a good 12 years and made the transition with Tuffy from town to country. Then we got Patch, a kitten who was meowing from our hay shed during our second winter out there. Apparently, the neighbor's cat had kittens somewhere among the alfalfa bales. Patch must have wandered out of the bales and tumbled down the side because I found him sitting on a bale next to the hay shed. I soon did some digging and found several more. Their mother must have died or abandoned them. Soon we had a house full of kittens.
The rest we gave away, but we kept Patch. He lived about 10 years too, surviving the removal of a tumor in his side, but it eventually spread and he was put down. Sylvester too eventually was riddled with cancer and was put down during my junior year of high school.
Then we picked up my brother's obese white angora, Albany. I'm not sure what happened to her. I think she got a bone stuck in her throat and had to be put down. Then after some months without a cat, I picked Mom up a kitten from the humane society and brought it home with my laundry. Mom named it Sam. Then we got another huge angora from my sister. I think we named him Tommy. But he went out one night and never came back. Mom always thought maybe a brush wolf or fox got him. Sam is still alive and well though. After Mom passed and Dad grew ill he gave her to a neighbor lady who was in need of some companionship.
Which brings us to our freakin' house hold: Joker, the wise, sage veteran.
He is very well trained but has grown into something of a pampered baby since his time out at my dad's. He refuses to eat dry dog food, looking up at me as I pour it into his dish as if saying I once ate steak by the pound. Surely, you cannot expect me to dine on such filth as this?.
Next is Einstein, the obese cantankerous cat.
Whenever Kristie portrays him, it's with a thick Russian accent, as if he is a diplomat or something. I've already blogged about having to get him off the porch roof at 3 am and having him claw at our door around 5 to be fed. Oh yeah, and his humping of stuffed animals and clothes. Just this morning I found a pair of Kristie's black slacks dragged into the kitchen and thoroughly molested.
Next is Kozy, our special needs dog.
Where to begin? Yesterday, she crapped in Casey's room. This morning she crapped in her kennel. Twice. Once when my Dad and I were watching a football game, I heard a 'whoosh' and smelled something wretched. I turned and right behind Dad's chair, there was Kozy all hunched up, her tail high, dropping a steamin' hot greenish-gray load of Kibbles and Bits onto our laminate flooring. Then not too much later when Kristie's father and uncle visited, she rolled over and began to urinate high into the air and all over herself. Special needs. That's all I can say about her.
Then there is Kristie's favorite, Mischa.
Discovered on Koko's birthday on the side of the road. She is a lover, always wanting to snuggle under your chin. Of course, she is flawed. She's mute. No meowing. Just a few shrill squeaks is all. Oh yeah, she has the rhino-virus. So there are streaks of snot all over our house.
That brings us to Boo.
It's too early to tell with her.
And then finally there is Buddy.
He has to be 170 years in dog years. I think Kristie said he was 6 when they rescued him from the flood. And that was a decade ago. This guy should be pushing up flowers rather than pushing 17! Oh yeah, he's totally blind and deaf too. And his limbs don't function that well . . . sometimes with each one moving independently from the others. After surviving two plummets down our basement stairs and his fall into the washout next to our house, Kristie said that he deserves to die a natural death.
Pets. Sure. Why not. I'd welcome another in if we had to!
1 comment:
I could barely read the words what with the tears of laughter blurring my vision
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