It's a Jungle in Here

Wiley Ragdoll Cat on the Loose

2011-06-01T10:19:00.000-07:00

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

2010-12-13T06:29:00.000-08:00

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!

2010-11-19T07:12:00.000-08:00

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

2010-10-29T07:02:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-23T08:13:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-25T09:42:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-13T01:41:00.000-07:00

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.

Missy, Queen of the house

2009-05-10T02:56:00.000-07:00

Seventeen and a half years ago, we decided we wanted another cat. We already had a calico (RC for Royal Cat, of course), but we thought another kitty would be a good companion for her.

We visited our local humane society and found quite a few cages with kitties hanging out. Wanting to be certain we would choose a suitable one, we carefully studied every cat in each cage, taking our time, waiting for the feeling that comes to pet lovers when they know they’ve found the ideal companion not only for our other pets but for us as well.

One cage had a note stuck to it saying that the kitty in there did not get along well with people. Curious, we peered in at the antisocial creature curled up in the far corner of the cage. She looked cute enough, yellow with a white nose and a white tip on her tail. I reached in with both hands and gently pulled her to me. Surprisingly she didn’t squirm and in a few moments I felt her cold nose snuggling in under my chin, a sure sign that the kitty liked me. We decided the note was inaccurate and took her home.

It turned out that she had a cold, a common condition in cats that have been under stress from losing their home and having to succumb to strangers handling them. We took her to our vet who gave us some meds and instructed us to keep her in a room away from RC until she got better. During that time – about a week or so – we got acquainted with her, petted her, talked softly to her, and gave her a name. Missy.

The note on Missy’s cage was right on. When she became well, her true personality blossomed. She indeed did not like people except for my husband and me and that was questionable at times. She was one of those cats that when you reached out to pet her head, she grabbed hold of your hand with both paws (claws extended) and bared teeth. If you could get your hand back, it would be covered with scratches and, at times, oozing blood, not to mention the excruciating pain that came with all that.

Missy is now 18 years old this month. She still just likes my husband and me and if we’re not careful she will take a hold of our hand and have her way with it. But as she ages, she has become a little more docile and will allow us to give her a few pets before we need to remove our hand for safety’s sake. Lorraine has tried over the years to make friends with her only to be greeted with a messy hiss or worse. Our mother, who could get along with any animal with her soft-spoken ways, couldn’t even make friends with her.

RC who is long gone had quite a time with Missy attacking her, sneaking up behind her and walloping her as she sped by with gleeful mischief. But there was one time that RC got the best of her. We were trying to put Missy in the carrier to take her to the vet for her annual exam and, I’ve got to say, our efforts were quite futile since Missy’s four paws firmly clutched the frame of the door, preventing us from shoving her in. We were just about ready to give up when RC jumped down from her chair, trotted over and began throttling Missy with the ferocity of a mountain lion. Shocked out of her senses, Missy slunk away from her and backed into the carrier with very little assistance from us.

Missy is now the queen of the household; all dogs give her wide berth when she parades through the house. She has her own heated room with a couch, kitty bed, food, water and kitty box, a windowsill to sit on while she watches the birds frolic in the burning bush outside. She adopted that room when Orie came onboard, probably thinking she’d had enough of other animals bothering her. I mean, after all with her age she’s definitely the senior animal in the house and deserves her own castle. Makes sense to me.

Border Collies Need to Work

2009-05-09T03:09:00.000-07:00

A border collie never takes a day off. Ever. She’s a working dog and has to perform some type of labor daily – not just once but at least twice and preferably much more than that. Some collie owners don’t realize this fact, and unfortunately sometimes the dog and owner become frustrated with each other. Some collie rescue organizations actually have several sheep for the dogs to herd. My sister says Stormy, our border collie, should go to work every morning with her red kerchief around her neck and a lunch bucket with a milk bone in it.

Storm has us trained to play Frisbee (or if it’s windy out, ball) twice a day. Morning and late afternoon. She begins to lobby for it the minute we wake up and again at around 3 p.m. The people schedule is about a half hour after we rise in the morning and then again at 4 in the afternoon. Even if we play with her at Noon (sometimes we sleep in), she still begins whining for her play time at 3, an hour before the scheduled event is supposed to actually occur.

This morning the temperature was 12 degrees. That’s right, 12 degrees. Quite cold for human flesh, but apparently not so for border collies. I got up at a decent time (6:40 a.m.), did my usual stint on the treadmill, and paid some bills on the computer during which Stormy whined, groaned, rolled around on the carpet next to my chair, and then just stared at me with those pleading, brown eyes of hers.

Of course, reasoning with her was out of the question. “It’s cold out, Storm. Can’t you at least wait until it warms up a bit?” Nope, she was not to be deterred.

So, I put on my 10-year-old winter coat from Cabella’s, donned some gloves, took a peek at Orie, the mini dachsie, who was ensconced in the living room chair with pillows and blankets all around and over him. Obviously he wasn’t going anywhere soon. Meanwhile, Storm was prancing around me, trying not to bark because her dad was still sleeping, but finally she gave in and let out a huge, “Hurry up, Mom, I gotta play!!”

I shushed her, but that just makes her bark louder.

Finally, we began playing Frisbee in the snow and cold; me, all bundled up shivering as though I had nothing on; her, dashing back and forth, lunging for the Frisbee, jumping high, circling the barn, huffing and puffing with all the energy of a steam engine. Her black, furry face was covered with snow except for the dark slits of her beady eyes.

I could stand no more of the freezing cold; so I motioned toward the house, our signal for her to stop playing and go in. She stopped in her tracks, Frisbee dangling from her mouth, and stared at me in shock. “Now? You want to go in now?! We just got started.”

I ignored her and kept walking towards the house. In defiance, she dropped the Frisbee and trotted up to join me on the deck.

“Storm, get your Frisbee.”

No answer; just a gentle wave of her tail. I had the choice of leaving the Frisbee lying in the snow to be covered up with more snow so we wouldn’t find it until Spring. Or, I could trudge back down the steps through the snow and get the Frisbee myself. Punishment for curtailing the work/play too early.

With resignation I sighed and went back down the steps to get the Frisbee. The moment I reached for the green disc lying in the snow, Storm slid up to it, grabbed the Frisbee out of my hand and trotted back to the house with it. Her morning work was done.

It’s time for a snack!

2009-05-07T03:22:00.000-07:00

Why do some dogs eat poop? I mean really, what a disgusting habit! We’ve had a lot of dogs throughout our long lives and most of them didn’t partake in the stinking aftermath, but some did and some still do.Orie, our mini dachshund, is a pro poopeater particularly in the winter. It goes something like this:

Early in the morning I let the dogs out to pee and poop – as some more refined people would say “do their business.” But let’s cut to the chase. Orie waits in the warm house for as long as he can get away with it before I stomp toward him, letting him know I mean business (oops, a pun!).

Then he scampers innocently by me as if to say, “I’m going, Mom, I’m going.”

Once on the deck he breaks into a gallop, paws pounding, ears flopping and romps down the couple steps leading to the yard. BUT, instead of finding a place to “do his business,” he snoops around for fresh poop – steaming fresh poop. Then as though it weren’t 15 degrees out with a brisk breeze making the temps drop even further, he slowly takes a bite of the nasty stuff, savoring it as though it’s a fine, roasted chunk of lamb. When I holler at him, he speeds up the process. I know he hears me because he’ll look over at me standing in the doorway in my nightshirt, freezing my buns off, and then he’ll go back to his snack.

If I stomp my feet, he looks up again as if to say, “What’s the problem, Mom, I’m dining here.”

When he’s finished (he knows I’m not going to risk slip sliding in my treadless slippers on the deck and snowy lawn to get him away from his fine meal; he also knows I’m not going to risk letting the neighbors see me either), he races back up onto the deck and into the house.

“So, did you pee? Did you poop?”

He glances up at me and rolls his brown eyes, “No, silly, I’ll take care of that in the house where it’s warm and toasty. You don’t want me to freeze out there, do you?”

Silly me.

The Big Cat

2009-05-06T04:06:00.000-07:00

Ragdoll kitties are just that – rag dolls. When you pick them up, they feel light like a bundle of feathers. When you hold them, they drape over your arm as luxuriously as a knitted scarf. Their blue eyes stare at you with curiosity and when they blink, that means the kitty loves you. When you meet a ragdoll kitty in the hallway and her tail flips up, she’s saying, “Hi! How are ya?” They’re a special kind of kitty, so loving and so soft to pet. Never a bad mood, always calm and congenial.

EXCEPT for Cozy. I don’t know what happened to her when she was born, but the mischievous gene really took hold and hung on with that cat. She’s quite a phenomenon with her long, bushy fur making her look like a musk ox, her coal black eyes (sometimes they’re blue although I can’t remember the last time I saw that color on her), and the charcoal tail that she believes is not part of her anatomy.

But most phenomenal is her behavior. I can pet her two times in a row gently on the head, but the third try is risky. She could just as easily get a tooth-hold on my hand as she could simply sit there demurely. It’s a chance I’ve taken several times with dire consequences; so, now I just pet her twice and leave before she gets any ideas.

Although she only weighs maybe 14 pounds, she can intimidate anyone including dogs four times her size. But our mini dachshund, Orie, has taken the brunt of her moodiness. When he was still trying to achieve his current 20 pounds, he learned a lesson from her that has remained with him for nearly 4 years so far. Me, too. One morning when I was in the kitchen, I heard a sudden scuffling sound on the other side of the island immediately followed by the sight of my new puppy scurrying around the corner as fast as his short, little legs could carry him. He sidled up to my ankle and we both watched in fearful anticipation as the biggest cat we’d ever seen burst around the corner of the island and came to a skidding stop in front of us.

She was full blown; I mean Cozy had somehow increased her fur size to nearly double, perked her unwanted tail up to an unbelievably, expansive bushiness, and furrowed her eyebrows so that she looked as insane as they come. I’m convinced that the only thing that stopped her from devouring both of us was my sharp “COZY!” in a voice that half squeaked and half hollered. It was like I had snapped her out of a delirious tangent. The fur sank back to normal size; her tail drooped and somehow the nasty brows settled back down. She marched off into the living room as though nothing had happened while the pup and I remained side by side frozen in fear.

Both Orie and I learned a lesson that day. Leave Cozy alone. Period.

Hey, that’s my food!

2009-05-06T03:47:00.000-07:00

This morning our border collie, Storm (Stormy for short), curled her dainty lips at our little, mini dachshund, Orie (Oreo for short or even Or sometimes depending on his moods). Now, you may think it’s strange that two dogs who have lived together for four years would have altercations, but they do. This time sweet, little Orie was boldly trying to get into Storm’s food and the Stormy dog took offense. When she curls her lips, chills run up and down the back of my neck especially if my hand is anywhere near those pearly white teeth of hers.

Sometimes Orie cowers when she gets in his face, but this time he calmly grabbed a bite (a dachshund bite mind you) and ambled away from the death-threatening grimace, dropped the morsels on the carpet and crunched away on them. Well, Storm was not to be deterred from correcting that little guy; so, she followed him and shoved her bared teeth and black nose in his face with a weird whine sounding mysteriously like Chewbacca. I gotta tell ya, even a barracuda would have backed away from that threat. So, little Orie with a quick gulp (not sure whether that was from fear or just finishing up his snack) turned his head away and finally slinked off, letting the border collie win this round.

I’ve got to give the little guy credit: I’m thinking chills didn’t go up his neck like they do mine, because as he was leaving, he passed gas so stinky that Storm backed up in disgust, the grimace totally vanishing. For now.