if only I woof known, I'd have done this sooner

So, it turns out I might not need to maintain that fitness club membership. It served its purpose, got me moving, helped me loosen up the bad knee—but what I really needed? An active dog.

We recently adopted a female Vizsla. She came from friends, so it wasn't a completely clueless adoption; we had met the dog several times, had even spent a few days with her when we visited with said friends after Christmas last year. However. I still had some reservations. This type of dog is a particularly energetic breed known for running all day and hunting to exhaustion.

A high-energy, boundless beast? Probably not what I would have chosen for our family. I was thinking of something small, harmless, fuzzy and lazy.

And yet, the plan had been laid; after much preparation and many texted Q&A sessions between the previous owners and us, we brought the dog home. She was confused, we were confused, the already-tiny house suddenly seemed to shrink by half... What had we done? The dog alternately fetched a newly purchased squeaker ball and paced, barked at us a bit, quivered with fear the first night, and seemed generally lonely and depressed. I had doubts, my husband tried to assuage them, and our son watched it all with raised eyebrows.

Fast forward three-and-a-half weeks, and we are all adjusting rather nicely.

She's a lovely girl, well-behaved, polite, unbelievably pretty, and extremely expressive. Her light brown eyes can convey an expansive array of feelings, she accepts a biscuit in the dainty fashion of a fine lady, and we are all three of us completely smitten. The energy level is there, no doubt about it—but heck, we needed some shaking up, right? Who wants to sit around and do nothing? I've been outside more than normal, have been back in the woods and on farms, have smiled more, and have solemnly pondered life and the world much less. Pros, all of those things.

And the timing? Perfect. My son is old enough to help care for her. She gives our little family something else to hug, a warm wriggly body when I want to snuggle my son and he wants only to be left alone. And when he needs comforting or feels cuddly but doesn't want to compromise his newly discovered independence from his overly affectionate parents? There's the dog, begging for a belly rub.

Isn't it funny—and wonderful—how God gives you what you need? Even when it wasn't what you asked for, He knows best.

So, it's been an eventful month at our little homestead. Blessings abound. I have always believed that animal companions lend much warmth to a home, but this darling dog has exceeded my expectations pleasantly.

P.S. Learned the hard way to proactively repel ticks. On her and on us. Also? She's going to cost us a fortune in food, toys, and various accoutrements. Oh, well. I'll get back the fitness club fee, I suppose...

The Diplocat

So, our cat... Yeah, the one I mentioned in this post. She's become quite naughty of late. Little "surprises" have been left for us. She's done it before, but never with regularity until recently. (Let me say here that none of my past cats have ever partaken in such rudeness. Sigh.) Anyway, at first we thought it was a health issue, so we had various tests run; all was well. She's been put on various expensive cat foods, is now gluten-free for crying out loud, but to no avail. She is, quite simply, a very nervous and temperamental beast, but she's perfectly healthy.

Yes, she has an extra litter box. And yes, I clean it at least once daily. Sometimes the prizes she leaves are in very deliberate places, such as in front of her favorite person's workbench... or in my son's Croc sandal. Niiiiice. That makes me think she's letting us know when she's angry or hurt. Not that it makes her actions acceptable, mind you. Not at all.

I've thought many times of re-homing her. Of hurting her, even. In rage, as I spray yet more Resolve and pet scent remover (she never defecates in the same place twice), I've had fantasies of releasing her into the wild... And then, just as I ponder her unfortunate fate, she behaves herself again; she's incredibly cute and sweet, she rubs her scent on us, she shares a rare purr. I never forget how bad she is, but I do let it go and try to hope she'll stop her obnoxiousness. Until inevitably, she is obnoxious again.

I have declared, vociferously and repeatedly, that she is the last cat for me.

Except I keep meeting other cats that do not disappoint. Take my parents' awesome cat, for example: a delightful female who found them by appearing under an outbuilding one morning as a tiny kitten. That incredible cat hunts, stays outdoors, and never leaves inappropriate piles in places where someone is sure to step (unless you consider dead rodents to be inappropriate...) She's a great cat.

The most recent wonderful cat showed up at my son's piano lesson. As I sat on the "waiting couch" to read while my dude played for his teacher, here came a huge, solid-looking orange tabby with light green eyes. He jumped immediately onto the couch with me, proceeded to climb onto my lap, and then, oddly, he sat up and placed his two front paws over my left shoulder. Then he looked at me, imploring me to give the feline species another chance. I asked his name (Mozart—he does belong to a music teacher, after all), and we all chuckled at his very forward behavior. Mozie stayed with me for about 5 minutes, hugging my shoulder, gazing at me meaningfully while I rubbed the top of his head and neck. After a bit, he settled his heavy self next to me on the couch cushion, and napped while I read and the music played. I remembered that not every cat is as ungrateful and ill-mannered as mine. I felt a bit of the bitterness toward our own awful pet leave me, as the weight of that diplomatic orange fellow lifted from my shoulder.

She's still the last cat, though.

More fur

Here's the most recent commission: a lovely dog that went to its rightful owner yesterday. Now I am free to share her with you. Isn't she sweet?

What is it about animal eyes? I don't believe that animals have a soul that can be saved... and yet, their eyes are definitely soulful. Can something be "full of soul" but still lack one? The smartest animals I've known definitely have feelings, simple emotions, sensitive instincts that go well beyond their innate animal drives. We've all seen how they have loyalty to protect those who care for them. Are they capable of love? It would seem so, if you've ever come home to an animal that missed your presence and was happy to see you.

I suppose the jury is still out for me on this topic.

I did laugh out loud recently, though, when I witnessed our cat's latest trick. She has decided that she prefers the freshest water to drink, so she leaps lightly into the bath tub to steal any lingering drips from the faucet. That's not the trick, because a lot of cats do that; our last cat did the same thing. This kitty's trick is waiting for her turn in the bathroom.

We have only one bathroom, you see. (Yes, we dwell in the stone age.) Twice now, I've come out from having showered, and have found the cat sitting tidily, patiently on her gray haunches, a few inches from the doorway. The minute I open the door and emerge, the cat heads into the steamy room with much purpose and jumps into the tub. She doesn't scold me for lingering too long—at least, she hasn't done that yet. She can be rather smug and entitled, though; such an attitude from her wouldn't surprise me in the least.

Dog days of winter

The last two commissions I've painted have been dogs, beloved pets. (I forgot to post this one—it's been with its proper owner for a week or two now.) Shown here is my interpretation of a much-loved, now deceased collie named Petey.

I just finished the more recent pup yesterday, but the client hasn't seen it yet, so I'll keep it to myself until it's safely in her paws—I mean, in her hands.

If anyone out there wants a custom pet painting, I'm your girl! Just let me know. People surely do adore their fuzzy companions.

Sittin'

I mentioned in a previous post that we are dog-sitting this week, for a neighbor. The folks live close by, the dog is small and sweet, and he's able to stay in his own home and get by with visits and walks. The occasional field trip to our home is exciting for him at first, and then he realizes that we aren't hiding his people there, and the same dismayed expression comes over him before he sighs and lies down with chin between paws, looking pitiful.

Pet-sitting is good practice for us. My son is delighted when we dog-sit for these friends. He adores the dog, at least until he's bored with him, and it's nice to have a warm, fuzzy thing around again. (We lost our elderly kitty just over a year ago, you may recall.) We even did some fish-sitting earlier in the fall for a different neighbor while they vacationed at the beach, but I figure that somewhere in the word "pet" is a history of being able to actually pet and stroke the creature in question—and I don't see how that's possible with a goldfish, which in my mind eliminates the fish from any list of potential pets...

Anyway, not only is the sitting good practice for us, it's also a realistic reminder of what pets entail. For example, most of them have a distinctive animal odor. Sometimes they like to scratch and dig at things: themselves, you, the furniture, the floor. Our borrowed dog has the itchiest snout known to canines, and he loves to rub it on any and everything he can find. And some dogs (this one, for example) tend to regurgitate meals that are taken in too quickly, or when the pup's stomach is already upset from heartbreak over disappearing people.

Then there's the whole issue of following the furball around with a scooper and a bag. Just like cats who must eat soft food, I'm sad to share, the dogs on soft-food diets also have what must be the most squishy, malodorous waste in the world. Put a few bags of those treats in your garbage can (the outdoor one, of course) and you'll swear a couple days later that there's a dead body in there.

I realize dog-sitting someone else's pooch is not the same as having your own. Your own pet would rejoice at your presence, instead of eventually rebuffing you in sadness. Your own would have a different schedule, and you could fence in a portion of yard or control whether the dog was bathed frequently.

But I would not be able to control that the dog has favorites, and that it may not be me. This dog, searching madly for a replacement Alpha dog, is not happy unless Todd is around. The little guy will run around the house, searching for Todd. He'll bark at the top of the steps if he suspects Todd is downstairs (he's not), and will resist going back into his own home if he hasn't ascertained that an Alpha dog is still in the vicinity and still in charge.

I also would not be able to control the need for a dog-sitter in our home if we had to be away. We don't travel much these days, but it still bears considering. Are we able to cover days and nights away? Would we simply exchange favors with the neighbors? What if they get rid of their dog, or he dies, and the debt can no longer be repaid? What then? Kennels are expensive and traumatizing.

Additionally, I can see that if a dog should join our family (or even another cat for that matter), the bulk of responsibility would still fall on my shoulders. Am I ready or willing to take that on at this time? Not sure. Maybe when my son is a bit older, this will be a more attractive option.

Right now, I think I'm happy to borrow. Last evening, I was walking with my boy and this little neighbor dog in a howling, frigid wind, holding a make-you-want-to-retch bag of poo as far from me as I could, and I was undeniably immersed in the true meaning of dog ownership. Fuzzy companionship, loving eyes, and so much more. Maybe this isn't the season for us yet.

Please, remind me of all this if I start romanticizing pets come springtime. All it'll take is one whiff of puppy breath, one squeaky kitten mew, and I'll be foolish again.

No longer

Without much warning, after nearly 13 years, I find myself petless.

My trusted kitty, whom I adopted all those years ago from a shelter, has left this spinning orb.

He hadn't been himself lately, and the last visit to the vet revealed some serious things amiss. And he was already 4 when I brought him home. That means, in people years, my sweet cat was probably around 92 or 93 years old. Growing thinner by the day, intestinal issues, digestive issues, kidney issues all confirmed. We went round in circles and finally decided that waiting for the inevitable wouldn't make it any easier when it came. Yet I still struggle with it, this evening, in our too-quiet home that no longer needs food and water dishes at the bottom of the steps: Did we do the right thing? I think we did. But I know that none of us truly has that right, to aid the natural process, to assist the permanent vacation from the body. Am I suddenly a Kevorkian who avoided a sentence because my victim was animal, not human? Do I still have to right to express pro-life beliefs? Should I ever be entrusted with another animal?

I hope that somehow, my good ol' cat understood how hard it was. I hope, on some level at least, he was ready to go. I know that recently, he didn't much resemble the cat I loved all those years. I know that he was not at all well. I know he was, short of a miracle, not getting better. I know he was really, really old. And I know he had a good life.

It doesn't make it any easier. Tonight, the world, our little world, is absent one soft, fuzzy orange mass of fur accompanied by a purr like a rumbling motor. Tonight I will not feed the insistently mewing creature. Tonight, he will rest in our yard and not in his favorite spot in the hall, where we all tripped over him at first and then gingerly stepped over him of late.

There is a hole here.

The bestial truth

I used to be an animal lover. I suppose I still am, to a degree. But that degree is shrinking.

I’ve already written about the cat here and here. You know he’s old, cantankerous, demanding, and high-maintenance. I’ve expressed my fears to many that instead of aging further, the cat appears to have reached a plateau of sorts and is now maintaining and/or perhaps even growing younger—thus ensuring his [annoying] presence with us for years to come.

Yeah, that sounds mean. But listen. He’s awful. Last night, I wasn’t feeling well and I went to bed at a reasonable time, falling into bed with relief, anticipating the hours of much-needed healing rest that awaited me. Do you know how many times that *!#? cat woke me? Three. That’s right, three. First because I heard the telltale double thumps, separated by a sliding sound. (Said combination of noises indicates that the horrid beast has attempted to jump on the dining room table, and careened off the edge.) And then, the second and third wakeful occasions? I woke with a start to the critch, crunch sound of the fool beast chomping on polyester sheer curtains. Two separate sets of ‘em. Isn’t that ridiculous? This is the same cat who chews on dryer sheets, then throws up. He likes to chew the ribbons on a pair of my shoes, too. It’s quite a trip, except it really peeves me beyond belief. At this point in our relationship, that pesky feline has used up all my tolerance to his idiosyncrasies (there’s a reason that word begins with the same letters as the word “idiot”).

I’m running out of patience, I’m telling you.

And the neighborhood dogs. I thought I loved dogs, I really did. I was wrong. I only love some dogs. There is a growing number of them that I abhor. The neighbor’s dog, for instance, who announces each street activity with sharp, throaty-then-shrill barks. It doesn’t matter what the activity, that stupid dog punctuates every single one of them with his repeated vocal disturbances. He can see us when we’re in our back yard, and guess what? We’re terribly exciting. Bark, bark. Bark. And he must come out pretty early each morning, like most dogs do, because that’s the sound that awakens us on many occasions.

His early-morning concerts encourage all the other neighborhood dogs to join the chorus: Oh, hey, Yippy’s over there barking! There must be something happening! What, a car drove by? Oh, by all means bark! Bark more! We’ve never seen a car go by! And now, someone else is coming out his door to get the paper? Bark, bark bark! This is unbelievable! Wake the village!!! It’s our duty!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

In defense of dogs, I know they are only doing what dogs do. I realize that many dogs are sweet and lovable. I’m certain, too, even the dogs that torment me are sweet and lovable sometimes. I just don’t get to enjoy that part of them. I am only exposed to the canine discordance of suburbia. And it’s getting old.

I keep reminding myself of the dogs I’ve known and adored, of the cool dogs across the street from us who have very little to say and who look mildly perplexed when their counterparts lose control over and over again. And I’ve seen and read amazing stories of dogs that saved their owners, or other dogs, or performed incredible feats that made the people around them gasp. I’ve seen brave dogs that walk on only two back feet, or two feet on the same side. There are some really great dogs out there, dogs that help blind and handicapped people, that really care—dogs that are, in short, actually better at being human than some humans. That helps me get past the barking.

And why is my cat so obnoxious? Probably because he doesn’t get enough attention. Would he have so much ornery energy at 4am if I played with him daily? Unlikely. Has he brought me much joy in his [ridiculously long] life? Yes.

So where is this going? I guess I love the idea of pets. And I love some pets. I must love my own, since I haven’t left him anywhere yet. Still, when the cat goes where all cats go in the end, there’s gonna be a serious animal hiatus at this house. The chipmunks and the birds will have to fill the bill for a while.