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The Animals in Our House

Tags: door hank cat

Currently, our home is also home to two cats and a dog.

Let’s start with the latter.  He is a large boxer-mix called Hank.  He was an amazing specimen until he hurt his spine trying to chase a cat.  (He tripped on something, or tried to jink just a little too suddenly, and he was rolling on the ground, howling in agony.  That was several months ago; he’s most good now, but he doesn’t have good control over his hind legs.)  But he can get up to quite a fast gallop, and unfortunately he gallops up the ramp we put in for him, back when he couldn’t walk, due to the injury.

He and the little Pit Bull female next door are in lust.  She occasionally comes over and whines at our back door, asking whether Hank can come out and play.  Hank, on the inside of the door, keeps saying: yes, I can!  I can!!  Tell her yes!  But we don’t want her getting pregnant, and we don’t want him hurting his spine again in the throes of passion, and his human, Fred, doesn’t want him to be de-nutted.  I don’t know what the thinking is, there, but it means we have to be very careful that Hankie does not service any fertile female, simply on principle.

A photo of Hank doesn’t do him justice, because a lot of his charm is how he looks at you, and wags his tail, and rockets up and down the ramp with his ears flapping!  In many ways, he’s the archetype of an old-time family dog.  He isn’t a big slobberer, though he certainly is very food-focused, and doesn’t leave the dining room when a meal is in progress.  If we toss him a viand, he is likely to take off from the ground and catch the morsel in mid-air, as if he were grabbing a low-flying bird.

The older of the two cats is a (neutered) boy called Bigfoot.  This 16-pound ambulatory ornament is a striped cat with a coat of dark grey and tan and gold and touches of off-white, and lovely solemn eyes.  He hates to be rushed, except to rush towards his favorite snacks, which are cheese, and smoked meats.  The mere odor of these sorts of foods, or even the refrigerator door opening, tend to inspire him into joining in long arguments with you, where he says such things as “Mack!” “Mrrp!” “Frrp?” and so on, and you can echo these things to him, and he comes back with something else, and it goes on.  After about six of these exchanges, he sits down and stares moodily at the floor.  Sometimes he sort of rises, defying gravity, like an Indian Rope Trick, and reaches towards the kitchen counter-top with his paw.  He doesn't really expect to snag anything, but he can’t help himself.  Because he is a castrato, he has a high soprano voice.  (He would probably have the same voice even if his equipment were intact, I suppose.)

He’s mostly a spectator of the passing scene, but he is such a grand-looking cat that it is rather intimidating just to be peacefully observed by him.  He’s totally harmless, and is sort of resigned to being picked up (if you’re strong enough), and being carried around for a while, after which he tires of it and wants to be put back on the floor.

The most junior member of our menagerie is a three-year old little lady called Lola.  For some reason my wife got it into her head that she wanted a white kitten, and we went out all the way to Danville, and discovered this tiny entry—she wasn’t actually a kitten; she was practically full-sized.  She was very unhappy at being put in a carrier, but we brought her home, and she zipped out of the carrier and hid under some furniture.

After several months spent as a classic scaredy-cat, Lolz (as I called her) began to explore the house, and the outside.  She finally got up the courage to hiss at Bigfoot, and take over the bed of Hank on occasion.  (I just can’t figure out why dogs allow cats to annex their beds as needed.  It defies reason.)

Now, Lolz has discovered the upper floor.  At present, her most favorite thing in the world is to zip upstairs when she finds the stairs door open for even a second, and settle down on our bed, my wife’s and mine, and go to sleep.  She has also found out how to use the toilet.  We’ve caught her squatting down on the seat and taking a peaceful dump.  But she also drinks from the toilet.  I sincerely hope she knows when it is safe to drink out of.

‘—’“—”


This post first appeared on I Could Be TOTALLY Wrong, But ..., please read the originial post: here

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The Animals in Our House

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