Category: Pets

According to the National Day Today calendar, today is Respect Your Cat Day. It’s a day for recognizing and celebrating our feline companions.

I’m a fan of cats in general, but my experience tells me that most of them already believe that every day is Respect Your Cat Day. I’m not sure that officially designating a day for this type of action is necessary.

Still, here we are. So, today’s cuppa honors my cats.

They make life better through their warm cuddles and loud purrs, their soft fur and curious nature. They can be demanding and insistent but also sweet and affectionate. At times, they seem wise beyond their years; at other times, they do incredibly dumb things. In either case, they are supremely confident, unconcerned with the opinions of those around them. Yet, they seek us out when they want to know that they are loved.

Indeed, they are.

Mollie, our older dog, is a picky eater. She likes her food served in a certain way, at a certain location, and there are some things she simply won’t eat regardless of how hungry she is.

Charlie, our younger dog, is the opposite. He’ll eat most anything, and he’s always ready to eat. Dog food, people food, cat food, scraps of paper, pieces of plastic, Kleenex, pillows, backyard grass, sticks, leaves…everything is fair game. He does prefer food, but he’ll eat whatever he finds.

Of course, I don’t want him to get sick, so I’m constantly watching, picking up tiny bits from the floor, moving things out of his reach, pulling things out of his mouth. Nevertheless, I’m sure he’s ingested some things he shouldn’t have. It’s impossible to completely Charlie-proof the world he lives in.

We thought we adopted a puppy all those months ago. Maybe we actually adopted a goat.

Our puppy, Charlie, hasn’t quite learned to bark yet.

He makes lots of noises, especially when he’s settling down to sleep. He’ll sigh, and squeak, and make long, drawn-out sounds of sweet contentment. It’s hilarious and adorable.

He also does a “rrrrruuuuuuugggggghhhhh” growl when he meets somebody new. It’s not an aggressive sound; it’s more like curiosity mixed with caution.

Every once in a while, he’ll make a short yip that sounds a little bark-ish. And, I’ve heard him truly bark, quietly, hesitantly, once or twice, echoing our other, older dog, Mollie. But Charlie doesn’t bark on his own. He’s definitely not much of a barker, at least so far.

Mollie, on the other hand, barks all the time. She barks at squirrels. She barks at neighbors walking their dogs in front of our house. She barks at the mailman, and the cats, and even at us, if we’ve been out of the house and are coming back inside. Sometimes, she’ll just randomly let loose with a bark, and we can’t figure out why.

I’m actually okay with Charlie not barking. Mollie does enough barking for the two of them. She’s sort of the spokesdog, the big sister who tells the story. The alpha. She gives the verbal cues, and Charlie follows along.

I suspect that Mollie is also good with this arrangement. Mollie and Charlie are good companions now, but there’s still a bit of jealousy from time to time. Mollie’s gone from Only Dog to Older Dog. It’s been an adjustment, this learning to share toys and snacks, walks and sleeping spaces, attention and affection.

One day, Charlie will probably become a little more verbal. He’ll most likely have more to say. As long as he understands, however, that Mollie gets to have her say first and loudest, I think everything will work out just fine.

We have some coasters that light up in neon colors when something is placed on them.

We don’t actually use them; they have a slick surface that doesn’t provide a secure hold on whatever’s placed on top. Still, we’ve kept them around.

One of our cats, Bandit, has taken to sitting on them. When he does, his backside glows. He looks a bit surreal, like an alien cat.

Sometimes, instead of sitting, he’ll do the kitty crouch, with his front and back paws tucked beneath him so that he looks like a loaf of fur. In that case, most of his body glows, the neon colors reflecting off his white fur.

When he’s in that position, he’s typically staring into the distance, eyes wide, watching the world around him. He looks wise, like he knows the secrets of the universe.

I suspect that, if he could talk, he’d have a lot to say about important matters in life. I also suspect that his advice would be liberally interspersed with the words “tuna” and “dinner” and “warm blanket.”

Our new puppy, Charlie, is an early riser; most days, he awakens well before sunrise.

He’s potty-trained but still has accidents, at least one per day. They tend to happen at the most random times and in the most random places.

He’s an eating machine, always ready for another meal. We have to watch him carefully, lest he eat Mollie’s dinner or the cats’ food after he’s finished his own.

He’s teething, so he chews on everything – furniture, shoes, clothes, human fingers. He’s ripped numerous toys to shreds, leaving pieces of fluff and stuffing scattered around the house.

Sticks, leaves, dirt, the most minute pieces of life – all end up in his mouth. No matter how thoroughly we clean the floors, he will find the one fragment left behind. I’m constantly fishing something out from between his little jaws.

To put it simply, he’s high maintenance. His energy and carefree, youthful, happy-go-lucky nature necessitate constant awareness and attention. My days are filled with What’s Charlie doing where’s Charlie no Charlie no Charlie good boy Charlie come here Charlie let’s go Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie.

He’s also overjoyed to see me anytime I’ve been out of his sight for more than a few minutes. Overjoyed. Bouncing, wiggling, tail-wagging, putting-his-paws-up-to-be-held kind of joy.

When I hold him, he snuggles against me, putting his head in the gap between my head and my shoulder, and gives tiny, contented sighs. When he’s ready for a nap, he’ll curl against me, a warm bundle of fur and happiness.

And when he looks at me, it’s with one of three expressions: cute curiosity, total trust, or absolute adoration. I am his Favorite, his One Above All Others, his Most Beloved.

Dear little Charlie, I sincerely doubt that I’ll ever be as worthy of your affection as you believe me to be. But, I promise I’ll never stop trying.

We have a new puppy. Our local animal shelter was at capacity, and we’d been contemplating adding to our pet family, so we took the plunge and brought Charlie home.

In general, Mollie and Charlie have adjusted well to each other. One area of occasional conflict, however, is the dog toys.

Mollie has a couple of favorites from the Before Puppy times, and I bought a few new toys when Charlie joined us. My plan was that he’d have his toys, and Mollie would have hers.

What’s happened, however, is that they both want to claim them all.

Sometimes, one of them grabs a toy from the other and runs off. Sometimes, they follow each other, taking a passive-aggressive approach while Moose or Dr. Pooper or Blue Dog is held captive within their teeth. At other times, they’ll stare at each other in a quiet attempt to guilt the other into relinquishing control.

Typically, I leave them both to work it out on their terms, but I do sometimes step in to help them with this process of learning to share. I’ll offer them both a toy when it’s play time, and I referee when necessary to ensure peace. Occasionally, I’ll take Froggie, Mollie’s favorite, away from Charlie and give it back to Mollie, and then distract Charlie with a different toy.

What’s interesting to me is that this situation is not that different from when my sons were little and learning to share their toys. Of course, teaching young humans to get along with other humans involves circumstances and options that don’t apply to dogs. And I recognize there’s a bit of anthropomorphic action going on in the way I evaluate and approach the dog behavior. But there are undeniable similarities.

I’m encouraged by the fact that, after struggling to gain control of a prized possession, Mollie and Charlie will often playfully run around the backyard, taking turns being the chaser and chasee. Once that game is finished, they’ll explore the fence line and trees together, sniffing and digging in the leaves and dirt. When playtime is done, they’ll both search for a comfy napping spot, sometimes near to each other, sometimes apart, and they’ll settle in and drift off into a mutually contented snooze.

Here’s to dogs and what they can teach us about the foundational elements of successful pack living.

We have a long-haired cat, Bandit, who got himself closely involved with some weeds and brambles, subsequently developing a mass of mats in his fur.

After unsuccessfully trying to brush and cut them out, I took him to the vet yesterday for what they call a “strip and clip.” He is now bald, with only the fur on his face and a little pom-pom on the tip of his tail remaining.

I tell myself that his fur will grow back, probably more soft and luxurious than before. The vet said that we did the right thing, that had we not shaved him, the mats would have dug into his skin, ultimately creating sores and causing him pain. Still, I feel guilty about subjecting him to that experience.

It’s also a bit unnerving to see him without fur. His white and black coloring, where his fur patterns will grow back in, is evident, giving him the look of an exotic animal. The white patches have a pink undertone, an indication of the skin beneath, now covered only by a thin layer of soft transparency. He also somehow seems heavier in his bald state. He’s a large cat, solid and chonky, and he feels even more so right now. Perhaps it’s because his fur creates a pillowy effect, a cloud-like feeling that is missing at the moment.

Today’s cuppa is for our (temporarily) bald Bandit. Hang in there, buddy. You’ll be back to your old, fluffy self soon. Just be sure to stay out of the weeds.