WHY do cats do this?

Jessie, Wonder Dog of the North

Yesterday I mentioned my previous German Shepherd Jessie, and how much she loved snow. Remembering her always brings a smile, because she was the greatest dog that ever lived.

She was intelligent beyond anything I'd ever experienced with a dog. I'd read somewhere that the average German Shepherd has the language comprehension of a 2 year old child, and Jessie certainly matched or exceeded that. We would caution- "watch what you say around the dog!"

Jessie beat the odds multiple times, overcoming a run-in with a car as a puppy, a 'discovered in the nick of time' spleen that was about to rupture, and lymphoma, living to the ripe old age of 13 - old for a German Shepherd. The years since her death in 2004 have only served to elevate her status as the greatest dog that ever lived. It's funny, the beloved pets of our past become more saintly with each passing year, and we tend to forget they ever did anything wrong. Or at least that's what I've heard. Jessie never did anything wrong, so I wouldn't know.

That dog loved the cold and snow of northern Minnesota. She was born and raised in the south, so I was surprised to discover how quickly she adapted to life Up North. One of her favorite games involved her orange ball. I'd toss it into a snowbank, and she would pounce with delight on the spot where it had disappeared and proceed to dig it out (maybe she was part terrier??). At other times she had to put up with me and my antics, like making her pose with the snow dog I created.

Then I decided that Snow Dog looked lonely and needed a Snow Owner, so I created one. She obliged me by posing with the whole family.

"Good dog Jessie! Now we can go play with the orange ball some more!"

What a great dog she was, the best that ever lived.

(in spite of herself, she was curious)

Dogs That Love Cold Weather

In the cozy warmth of my small library, my fingers tap on the keyboard as I jot off comments to fellow bloggers. I pause to take a sip of coffee and gaze out the window at Sunset Mountain, made blurry and gray by the swirling snow. It occurs to me that this is a delightful way to spend a morning, with a mug of my favorite Foglifter coffee, writing and watching it snow. I'm snug and happy and have nowhere to go.

Suddenly I feel a presence and look down. Lady has come into the room and is looking at me.

Now there's the look, and then there's The Look. This is most definitely The Look. She concentrates with all her might to beam her thoughts into my brain. The result is something like this:

If you try to pretend like you don't notice her (just keep typing...just keep typing....don't look...), she'll make a sound halfway between a huff and a woof and stamp her foot. Lucky can also do The Look, and his is even more beseeching and earnest than Lady's. Finding yourself under a double attack makes it almost impossible to resist whatever it is they're trying to beam into your mind, if you can figure out what "it" is. On this particular morning, I know what they want. Both dogs are desperate to go for a walk.

Ugh.

I try reasoning with them. "Come on dogs, does this look like going-for-a-walk weather??"

Answer: Why yes, yes it does!

They want to go. They've been cooped up inside for two days, and let's face it, there's only so much fun two big dogs can have in a living room. The fact that it is 27 degrees with a wind chill of 14 makes no difference whatsoever to them. These are dogs that are happier in the cold than in summer's heat. My beloved German Shepherd Jessie (who passed away in 2004) loved the snow and was happy as a clam when we lived in Duluth, Minnesota. I guess these dogs' thick double coats make them especially suited for northern climates.

I don't share Lady and Lucky's enthusiasm for 14 degree windchill, but being unable to resist their powers of persuasion, I go in search of my green marshmallow coat. When I lived in Duluth, I bought a down coat that was warm, but made me look like a marshmallow. 'Marshmallow' isn't a particularly flattering silhouette, but I've saved it for occasions just like this.

It does the trick. Off we go!

"Two turtle doves, and a ....."

Actually, make that 12 or so turtle doves! Don't know if they show up in the photo, but Lucy is watching a dove invasion. Woke up to the season's first snowfall this morning, and it looks like the doves have decided to hunker down in the relative shelter of my Baby's Blanket rose bush. Brrrrrr, it's cold out there! As I type these words, the wind is howling outside my library window, blowing thousands of tiny snowflakes in swirls through the air. The doves are all fluffed up against the cold.

Except a few that are eating the food I put out for the cardinals.

Okay, for the sake of accuracy, these aren't turtle doves, but rather mourning doves. Turtle doves are a species of dove found in Europe and Russia. Mourning doves, however, are fascinating birds. Banding studies indicate that they live about 10 years in the wild, and mate for life. Lucy is going from window to window, complaining bitterly because she wants to go out and be with the doves.



"Can you make her be quiet?"



She's driving us all crazy. Never in my life have I had such a vocal cat, except for my childhood cat Sugar, and she was a Siamese. I have tried to explain to Lucy that it is way too cold for a kitty out there today, but she is clearly not convinced. She seems to think it would be fun to go play with birds that are just sitting on the ground like this:

In honor of the Christmas season, here's a bit of trivia about turtle doves. Do you know how they got their name? Like our North American mourning dove, which got its name from its mournful song, the turtle dove's song also figures in its name. The turtle dove's song is a deep, gentle "purr, purr." To some people's ears the song sounded more like "turr, turr," which caused them to refer to the bird as "Turr-tle Dove." The purr, purr people didn't argue because calling the bird      Purr-tle Dove was just too weird.

Thanks to www.birdwatchersgeneralstore.com/TurtleDoves.htm for that bit of trivia! Now, the next time you hear someone singing the Twelve Days of Christmas, you can ask them if they know how turtle doves got their name!


When all else fails, find a cozy spot to sulk.



Playtime!

One of the best things about having two dogs is watching them play together. Big dogs playing together can make quite a ruckus, especially when you don't have a big yard. But they've learned how to make do in a small play space.

Occasionally they get so wound up that I fear one of them is about to get impaled on the corner of the coffee table, so I'll jump up and scoot it out of the way, but so far so good. It's fun to watch Lady play. But watching Lucky dash about, chomp on a squeaky toy, then flop down kicking all four legs in the air, well, that's really a treat.

There was a time when Lucky didn't know how to play.

 

Lucky spent the first four years of his life at an overcrowded "no kill" shelter, essentially in solitary confinement. This shelter (which has since been closed down by the state) housed hundreds of dogs and cats in cramped, unsanitary conditions, and convinced me for the first time that there is a place for humane euthanasia. Rehabilitating Lucky and teaching him basic dog social skills has taken years. He still isn't what I would call a "normal" dog. But he's happy, and that's all that matters.

Chicken Noodle Soup and a Cat

Colds and flu seem to be running rampant this first week of December. Every other person I know is coughing, sneezing, or puking - which has had the effect of turning me into a Germ-o-phobe. I've become one of those people that carry their little bottle of hand sanitizer everywhere they go. I move to the next line if the cashier at the grocery store is sniffling. I create elaborate excuses to cut conversations short if friends are ill. Speaking of which - I have a question.

Why do people go out in public or drag themselves to work when they're deathly ill? Now I can understand going in if you'd be fired otherwise. But with some folks, it appears to be a badge of honor. "I was running a 102 degree fever this morning and haven't been able to keep anything down for three days!" the sick one will proclaim in the shampoo aisle at Walmart. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that" I respond, although what I really want to say is "WHY are you not at home in bed??! What in heaven's name is so important at Walmart that it couldn't wait a couple of days?" Then I rush out of the store, breathe in some fresh germ-free air, and douse myself in hand sanitizer.

I don't want to be sick during the holidays this year! Last year I was laid up recovering from surgery, and during two of the four Christmas seasons before that I came down with a stomach virus. However, in the event that I do catch one of these germs, at least I have the essential ingredients for a speedy recovery. Progresso Chicken Noodle soup, and a cat. I recommend that everyone have these two remedies on hand as we head into winter. The soup is important, but especially the cat. Even when you're miserable, there's something so comforting and innately healing about a warm kitty snuggled close.

Lucy doing her part to help me recover from surgery last fall.

 

The Dogs of My Childhood

My very first dog was a black dauschund named Spooky. Check out those matching pot bellies! :)  What in the world were they feeding us back then? I don't remember a whole lot about Spooky, just that I loved him and he was fun to play with. Dogs who live with young children need to have lots of patience and be a good sport.

The first dog that I remember well is Taffy, a kind and intelligent Golden Retriever mix. She stole my heart the moment I laid eyes on her, and broke it when she left us. That's the problem with loving dogs - they don't live long enough. I sure did love Taffy. I loved her in that enthusiastic,
'we're-all-gonna-live-forever-and-be-happy' way that we love people and pets when we're young. Without hesitation, without fear, without thinking of anything other than today. Come to think of it, dogs love this way too. Perhaps that's why dogs and children make such a good match.

Taffy's birthday was February 25th. Why this date has stuck in my head for three decades, despite the fact that I can hardly keep track of the birthdays of flesh and blood relatives, I have no idea. But it was a warm spring day about six weeks afterward that my mom, my sister and I piled into the family's Chevrolet and headed out to a stable in the country, where the newspaper claimed that a litter of puppies awaited good homes. The smell of hay and horses confirmed to my young city nose that we had arrived somewhere exotic. I heard the yipping of puppies, and followed the sound while my mom talked to the stable owner. One glance was all it took. My 14 year old heart melted as soon as I saw that fuzzy little ball of fluff. She rode home on my lap and threw up on me. No matter. I was in love. 

I doted on her when she was a baby, and in the years that followed, Taffy became my best friend. She greeted me each day when I came home from school, and most mornings I awoke to her leaping onto my bed, licking my face amidst a great fanfare of tail wags and happy body wiggles. "Where have you been all night?? I missed you! Oh joy, joy, we're together again!" She was smart and quickly learned every trick I taught her - except for how to be a good jogging companion. We never mastered that one, the passing scents were just too interesting.

There was a hide and seek game we played around the hallway and kitchen that always made me laugh. I've tried to teach other dogs that game, but never had any luck. The dogs I've tried to teach always get quite confused. "Look, if I just follow you to your hiding spot, this is all much simpler - I won't lose track of you in the first place." But Taffy got it. When you are a teenager, you think that no one else on earth has ever been through what you are going through, and no one understands you. Taffy understood me. 

Unfortunately, we had Taffy for just seven years before losing her to kidney failure. I was away from home, in my third year of college, and I was devastated. My dorm roommate, bewildered by my profound sadness, and probably worried that I was going to fail my final exams, attempted to reassure me.

"It's okay, you can get another dog."

I can still hear her gentle, concerned voice. It was instantly and dramatically clear to me that my roommate was a different sort of being, one who had never known the love of a family pet. She was genuinely sorry for my sadness, but she could not relate to my loss. I appreciated her attempt to comfort me, but I could no more easily "replace" Taffy than I could replace my sister. Anyone who has ever truly loved, or been loved by, a dog will understand this.

Thankfully, time eased the pain, as time always does. But the years have not erased the love I felt for my childhood companion. If I close my eyes I can still see her big doggie smile and that beautiful feathery waving tail. I can even feel the silky hair on top of her head. In my mind's eye I see her trying to sneak up on me in my hiding spot by the pantry, and I smile at the memory. Hmmm... German Shepherds are smart. Maybe I could teach Lady the hide and seek game.