Wiley Ragdoll Cat on the Loose

This morning I was letting the dog out, for the ninety seventh time, and noticed a miller stuck in the door frame. He was still alive though kind of sleepy. Simba, my ragdoll kitty loves to play with them. She picks them up and carries them around. Then lets them fly around with her chasing nimbly after them.

It seemed like such a simple idea. Just open the door a bit and flick the miller back in the house for her. She was standing right next to me waiting for the treat. However, the groggy miller had a different idea. I flicked the miller, he woke up, and flitted out of the door with Simba racing after him. They both tore out onto the deck and under the railing.

 
Ragdoll cards and gifts

I might take a moment to explain that Simba is a house cat. She knows nothing of cars, foxes, or the humane society. Bred to stay in the house, she had never been loose outside before that moment.

My heart was in my mouth while I followed her out on the deck with only stocking feet on. I grabbed for her and she squished down and away as only a ragdoll kitty can. Finally she landed on the mulch in front of the deck and paused to check out where she was. I grabbed her and whisked her safely back into the house.

From now on she is restricted to house millers. The ones that are born in the house, to stay in the house.

Walter, the Rat

I was talking on the phone with a friend last night and the multi-topic conversation swung over to rats. He had a pet rat when serving in Vietnam - also some pet cockroaches until the rat ate them, and I remembered Walter whom I haven't thought of for a long time. When I was finishing my psych degree at Colorado State University, I took a class called Learning; you'd think there'd be more to a class title but that was it - Learning. Anyway, one of the many things we did in that class was train rats.

We were assigned lab partners and given a small, white rat with tiny pink eyes. We named ours Walter and trained him with positive and negative rewards to run a maze, climb a tall building and fly over the ocean; you know, things like that. He was a fast learner and I do believe he should've received a plaque for Valedictorian or something to that effect.

At the end of the class I took Walter home to my parents with whom I was staying for the last year of college. He was such a dear thing. His otherwise pink tail was gray from the newspapers in his cage and was as long as his body; he had grown ten times as big as he was when I first saw him; and he had developed a yen for adventure. So, I let him out of the cage to roam the house much to my mother's chagrin. He'd climb up on my shoulders, sniff my ears and I could feel his whiskers tickling my earlobes. Sometimes he'd nibble on them but it didn't hurt.

Later after Walter and I had left the premises to get on with our lives, my mother discovered tiny holes in things like bed sheets, towels - ya know, small stuff. I told her Walter didn't mean it but that didn't seem to appease her much.

I'm just glad we got out of the house before she discovered his little chewing hobby.

What is Cuter!

What's cuter than a sassy ragdoll kitty rolling around on the carpet or chasing a bottle cap down the hall, her fluffy pantaloons flouncing along like feathers on a turkey's butt? Our little Simba is so cute she gets away with way too much mischief. One of her tricks is to beg to go out into the garage, but once we've opened the door all she does is turn around and wait. She used to scamper down the steps and explore at her leisure.

But now Simba will wait at the door until one of us grabs her favorite feather toy and tries to coax her back into the house. It used to be easy: just wiggle the red and yellow feathers attached to a long stick and she was in, shut the door and be done with it. But, not now, oh no, it could never be that simple. Now she expects us to get creative - real creative. Sometimes we bounce the feathers around the room as though they were hopping birds teasing her, other times we skitter them along the floor, a snake scurrying off into the weeds. Sometimes she'll accept the ploy and bound into the house, attacking the intruders with vengeance. Other times she sits there looking at us with her pale, blue eyes expecting much, much more from us.

When I can't come up with anything more for her and the feathers, I give up and toss them down the hall. Depending on her mood she may or may not rush after them. I sit down, exhausted, and wonder how in the world can a cat control my behavior so well. We have so much to learn from animals. Sigh.

Apple Bandits

One night not too long ago we looked out our bay window and saw six raccoons nibbling on fallen apples under the tree in our yard. Six! A couple were fairly large, their fur all fluffed up from the chilly breeze. The others were smaller, maybe young ones born this past spring. One of the adults spotted us and raised up on its haunches like a prairie dog to study us, a bandit caught in the act of stealing. We, of course, were delighted that they were chowing down on the apples; the more they ate, the fewer we had to clean up before winter. The raccoon seemed to sense this as it settled back down on all fours and continued munching away. Quietly we backed away into the shadows of our home and left them to enjoy their meal.

Some Days are Wildlife Days

Some days are wildlife days. Most days we see some wildlife activity; either we spot a fox streaking across the front yard, a squirrel teasing the dogs, or a mourning dove cooing gently at us from the upper fence railing near the driveway. But, occasionally we witness a truly wildlife day.

Take yesterday. Lorraine and I were unloading my pickup in the early morning when we heard a soft sound above and looked up to find three, white pelicans floating overhead. It took only a few moments and they were gone, but in that brief time their red bills, black tipped wings, and glistening white feathers fascinated us; their soundless flight seemed effortless to the two of us who have trouble walking down steps without crashing to the earth beneath. We stood in awe, gazing at the gift before us. I’m thinking the Lord knew we were out there and led the pelicans to us so we could enjoy.

Then there’s the killdeer. One morning there was nothing in the gravel next to Lorraine’s driveway, and the next day a killdeer ruffled her feathers and yelled at our friend who was just passing by to get into her car parked on the cul de sac. Sure enough, we discovered not only a killdeer but a nest of eggs as well, all parked next to the driveway.

A killdeer is quite a bird. When it thinks you’re too close to her nest, she’ll act like she’s injured: limping, drooping her wing, screeching in a high pitched cry – anything to lure you away from her babies in shells. It’ll take on anything. When I drove my pickup (hey, it’s paid for) into the driveway one morning, the mom ruffled her feathers at the big monster. She’s seen and felt huge garbage trucks thunder by her, construction equipment lumber through, and plenty of rain pouring on her back, but through it all she undauntedly protects her nest.

Lorraine had to educate the kids in the neighborhood. “It’s a killdeer and we need to leave her alone so she can set on her nest. Give her plenty of room.” In hopes that some expert could shelter the expectant mom and her soon-to-be family she called our local humane society who, upon hearing that there were eggs in the nest, referred her to the Department of Wildlife because, “They’re federally protected.” Now, I’m not sure what that means, but I don’t think it covers killdeer nests, because when Lorraine left a message on their tedious answering service, no one ever called her back.

So, it’s up to us and the Lord to take care of the killdeer, and I’m pretty sure the Lord will have more to do with that than we will. So far, it’s still there and the killdeer husband hangs around sometimes to relieve her so she can get something to eat and probably take a potty break.

All things small and beautiful.

Kitties are Silly

Kitties are silly. When the Lord created a kitty, he was being silly and probably enjoyed the amazing possibilities of quirkiness that could go into a bundle of fur with snappy eyes and a long, fluffy tail. Particularly Ragdoll kitties. They must be the epitome of silliness in the cat world.

Take Snuggles, our youngest Ragdoll. She’s my helper when we’re packing books and pendants for shipping. She’ll follow me around and rub her furriness against every piece of furniture she passes while I locate the books. When I’m sitting at the table wrapping pendants, she plops herself down on the wrapping paper in a loaf-of-bread shape and watches – she’s my supervisor. When I need another section of paper, I have several choices: move her, try to slide the paper out from under her, or get another piece of paper. I usually opt for the latter. Moving her entails precision lifting since she is truly a rag doll and can slide out of my arms as easily as a slippery fish, and sliding paper out from under her is risky in so many ways that it’s foolish to even consider attempting.

She loves it when I wipe the table with a dishrag. She can be in the furthest room from the dining area; yet by the time I’m only halfway through cleaning the table, she’s up on it waiting to do her thing – well, she doesn’t even wait, she just sprawls out and starts her ritual while I’m hurrying to finish up. First she lays there, soaking in the luxury of a clean tabletop. Then with a sudden flourish, she rolls on her back and onto her side; she spins, stretches, kicks at the air, and just gets crazy. If I try to pet her while she’s being so cute, I run the risk of getting clawed – not because she’s mean, but because she’s in ecstasy and has no clue of her surroundings.

We’ve discovered the smellier the dishrag, the more excited she gets. Although we try to put the dishrags in the laundry before they start to smell, Snuggles’ kitty nose can detect the stink far better and sooner than our mere human noses can. So, when she gets ridiculous with her performance on the tabletop, we know the dishrag needs to be tossed into the wash.

We call her the Stink Seeker.

Don't touch

Rosanne and Storm, our border collie, have known each other for nearly seven years – for Stormy that’s forty-nine in human years. During that time not once has Storm allowed Rosanne to touch her. In fact, she hasn’t let anyone touch her except Lorraine, Chuck (my husband) and myself. I take that back; Mom petted her when she was still with us. Mom could calm her down by reading to her, stroking her long black hair, or just by being with her.

Anyway, Storm is part Border collie and part red heeler. I heard somewhere that a heeler has a touch of dingo in it and whether that’s true or not, I can see that wild dog in Storm sometimes. If she doesn’t want someone or something around her, she’ll curl her lip in that cute yet horrifying manner that bares her teeth signaling the offending one to back off. She also whispers a growl if you know what I mean – kind of a hissing Chew Baca sound. Consequently we always try to tell anyone coming onto our property to avoid reaching out to Storm, talking to her, looking at her.

“Just ignore her,” we say. “Don’t look at her.” Now that’s difficult for some people to do as Storm is a very pretty collie with long, wavy black hair, white legs and tail plus a very thin white line running down her nose. Her appearance deceptively says, “Come hither.”

Those who fall for her wiles get a quick snarl and air-nipping from the pretty, little creature. She’s never bitten anyone yet and we hope she never does; hence, the warning, “Ignore her. Don’t touch.”

So, Rosanne has been very patient with her over the years. Sweet talking her, ignoring her, giving her a little treat at a distance. Rosanne is that way; she’s our best friend if there ever was one. She worked with Lorraine many years ago, traveled with her, helped us take care of our parents, and has been a godsend to us. She now takes care of her mother and father plus tries to keep us up and running as well. To me Rosanne and Storm seem made for each other, but Storm has never allowed her to pet her.

Until the other day. Storm has a “den” under the staircase in our home and she cuddles in there frequently to rest or to get out of the way of us humans. It’s her quiet place. I think she also likes it there because as we go down another set of stairs we pass her laying there, our eyes level with hers by the time we get to the bottom step. More often than not we stop and pet her soft ears, tweak her nose, or just say, “Hi, Storm.”

Well, Rosanne walked down the stairs a couple of days ago while Storm was in her den, and for whatever reason she reached out and touched Storm’s paw. Instead of the typical air-nip and growl, Storm licked her fingers. She gave Rosanne a kiss! Can you believe that? Seven years and they finally made contact.

Miracles do happen.