Author Archives: Donna Black-Sword
A benevolent ruler
One drizzly spring morning back in the day, I’m driving through our well-manicured middle class neighborhood. Three Boy Scouts are smushed into the back seat of the Buick like Spam in a can. An appropriate analogy for this adolescent boy sensory experience – rich in both sight and smell. (Mrs. Sword, roll up the windows, please? We’re cold.)
Ah boys, just a necessary inconvenience. You see, we need the front passenger seat for a higher purpose than ordinary comfort. (Cold? Don’t you guys tent camp in the winter or something? Cowboy up, gentlemen). I placate ’em by tossing a baggie of gummy worms into the back seat. The boys and I are on a mission this day. We’re hitting the houses in the ‘hood to retrieve bags of donated food for their Scouting for Food project. The Scouts do the running from house to car, depositing the bags of non-perishables into the front seat.
Now this part of town is not all together familiar to me. So I’m enjoying the guilty pleasure of picking up on the local townie gossip from the boys. But when we pull up to a house on a corner lot, the boys don’t get out of the car. Wassup, fellas? I ask. A glance over tells me the house is a otherwise rather benign ranch style thing, but with landscaping designed like a fortress. Tall shrubbery protects the front of the house obscuring every window and door from our viewpoint on the curb. Everything except the security camera posted above where the front door likely is.
Some crazy lady lives there, they say. She’s totally whack. If we even go near her yard, she’ll come running out in her nightgown with a shotgun, says one. That’s nuthin’, another says, I heard one time a Cub Scout went there trying to sell popcorn and an armed security guard answered the door and started yelling at him. As many an urban legend has a basis of truth, I take in the aggressive landscaping job and security camera. Uh huh. So what, no vicious pack of snarling guard dogs or shark filled moats? I ask.
No, they tell me, but she has a hundred cats in there.
And there, my friends, we have the neighborhood’s Crazy Cat Lady.
Now I’ve made the animal hoarding jokes in lightheartedness. With three dogs and a cat I’ve said we’re only four paws away from being hoarders ourselves. And being passionate about adopting from rescue groups, I do have a cautionary fear of taking on too many pets, local ordinances be damned.
And we have harmony in this furry household. Everyone is getting along just dandy and all. The cat (adopted as an adult from the local humane society) moved herself into the basement in the fall of 2008 when we brought home the first CCI puppy and refuses to come back up. Domino insists she is very comfy down there, thank you very much, and is fat and happy. Her vocation these days is to be my little tuxedo kitty muse posted on the corner of the scrapbook table.
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| Domino, scrapbook muse and cellar cat. |
So the question of the past week that’s on everyone’s minds as they see me . . .what made you decide to get another cat?
[sigh] Oh why, indeed? I’ve tried to form an answer, but profundity escapes me. After all, everybody knows I’m a dog person. Cats are quite nice, but let’s face the truth of it, they’re not dogs. But you know, I just liked this feline fella from the first time I met him. Bodine was one of the office cats at work that are up for home adoption. I work from this office location a few times over a month and Bodine would be there each time at the door to greet me and Yaxley.
An affectionate, purring kitty that “kneads bread” when you hold him. Sure, there’s lots of cats that have that delightful personality. But that’s not enough to risk upsetting the household dynamics, however. Bodine took things a step further by being a dog cat.
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| Bodine watching over his keep on a rainy morning |
Let me ‘splain. I’m a dog person, an appreciator of all things canine. Bodine is a dog cat. A cat who likes dogs, an amazingly thing to witness. With Yaxley in a down-stay, Bodine gives him the old head butt and then tosses his fuzzy self onto Yax’s front legs to expose his cat belly for inspection. I observe this exchange with a sense of awe.
And it becomes clear. I gotta get me this dog cat.
We apply, and are approved, to adopt this confident kitty. Bodine is a seven year old domestic shorthair, white with patches of tiger striping and a cheshire cat tail. A chronic, but minor, health condition that we’ll monitor with the vet.
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| When one laptop isn’t warm enough, it only makes sense to sprawl across two. Might as well open up some new browser windows with that hind leg as well. |
While the dogs were excited about this new furry family member, their real joy came with the discovery of cat box treats. With Domino in the basement, they were denied the decadent pleasure of kitty roca. You know, cat brownies. Pecan logs. Litter Snickers. Recycled cat food.
Pet food companies go through a lot of trouble to make dog food palatable and tasty when they should be considering something as simple as cat turd flavoring. Sure,I’ve got a covered litter box, but apparently the hole is big enough for a labrador head to fit through comfortably. This hooded litter box is like a buffet bar to them. The sneeze guard is a nice touch, Food Lady, they say, it does help to keep the brownies fresh.
Well, that’s just nasty, you say, but how’s the household harmony these days? Not too bad, I’m pleased to report. A little of the expected drama at first until the dogs received their obligatory kitty smackdown and learned their new place in the hierarchy. The cat is the benevolent ruler of this realm and all will bow down to him. Micron provides a full face lick in agreement, Yaxley is sniffing feline nether regions and Jager is head and shoulder deep into the hooded litter box.
Ah, we have peace in the animal kingdom.
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Wordless Wednesday: Dogs are full price
Blogger’s note: Today’s Wordless Wednesday does indeed have more words than usual. This is a copy of a post from my photography blog from earlier this year. Originally published in February 2011, this is Micron when he was still a CCI pup in training.
The grammar witch in me is wondering why Kids is plural and Baby is not. Sure, Kids isn’t a possessive, so no need for an apostrophe, so we’re good there. And why-o-why, no dogs for sale when there’s one on display.
Filling a need to get out of the house on a gray winter’s day, we put the cape on Micron and head to the mall. We stop at Old Navy for a photo op with the supermodelquins. I didn’t make that word up, by the way. These ersatz people with the toothy grins actually have names, including the dog, Barker. To the left of Barker is Rita and Christopher, with Kimmy gazing into space behind them like she sees a double rainbow or something. It’s true; I looked this stuff up on the Internet.
After the photo shoot (grand total of three photos), I turn around to see a crowd behind me. There are people with their kids lining up to pet Micron. Wow. He granted an audience with his usual graciousness, while I’m encouraging to keep a Sit and stop asking for belly rubs.
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Turkey in the raw
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| Sugar cookies made with love by volunteer puppy raiser, Esther. |
It’s a rather gorgeous fall morning and we can’t think of anything else we’d rather do this fine day than spend it at Aullwood Farm. Time for the annual Aullwood Apple Fest where the crisp autumn air is heavy with the aromas of apple butter in copper kettles and lamb chili simmering over an open campfire.
Puppy raisers Jerry and Jerri, along with Bud and Esther, have scored some prime real estate right at the entrance of the day’s events for our CCI Meet & Greet booth.
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| Jorja, Juley and Yaxley on duty and ready to schmooze. |
And it’s the yeller dog patrol reporting for duty. Now Yax and Juley have worked a CCI booth before and they’ve got this stuff down cold. Indeed, so much so, that they’ve taken it upon their fuzzy selves to mentor young Jorja on the fine art of working the crowds.
Okey dokey, Jorja, says Yaxley, just watch Juley and me. There’s really nothing to it. You’ll wanna start with letting the little kids pat you on the head. See, kiddo? Easy nuff.
That’s right, continues Juley, but remember that there’s some young folk out there that aren’t very comfortable with the business end of a dog, so they may start with your fluffy behind. And that’s ok, too. Just don’t release a blossom, if you know what I mean. And actually, I’m talking to you, Little Lord Yaxley. You just about knocked out that last kid, you know.
Ha ha, sez Yax, good one, Juley. You’re so funny I forgot to laugh. Besides, I didn’t think that particular one was so bad. Heh, you should have been there yesterday at work when the Food Lady was in a budget meeting and . . .
Gross!, Juley says, ugh, boy dogs! You’d walk around nothing but a cow patty on your head and a smile on your face!
Would not! counters Yax, well, maybe. But anyway we’re outside, so I get special dispensation.
What?!, Juley cries, Dispensation my yellow . . . hey Jorja, wait! Where are you going? We’re almost done with the lesson. Pay attention, girl, you need to know this stuff if you wanna be all professional like us.
Now kid, the very last step, Yax says, getting all serious again, is to wait until your puppy raiser is talking to a parental unit, then you very slowly just kinda roll over to your side. Close your eyes, gently lift up your legs and . . .
Next thing you know, sighs Juley, is you’ve got cotton-candy scented hands rubbing your belly and you are golden. A special kind of nirvana, it is. The kids love it. Um, yeah, because we’re doing this for the kids. To make them happy and all.
Meanwhile, Micron is watching this exchange from the sidelines and rolling his brown eyes. Of course, Mr. Mike has worked many a CCI booth in his eighteen months of puppy training. He knows all the ins and outs of conning folk into a belly rub and making them feel like he’s the one doing the favor.
But now being a change of career dog (actually a no-career dog, I say), he can no longer represent CCI at the booth. Instead we leave the professionals to do their work and the two of us take a stroll through the farm for old times’ sake.
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| A stop at the herb garden |
So, the usual farm & barn stuff. We visit horses, sheep, pigs and . . . holy cow!
What is this fresh nightmare?, Micron wants to know.
Ah, this is indeed a new sight for the mighty Micron. In our earlier puppy time together, we may have missed the turkey socialization opportunity.
Here’s a rather personal question for y’all. You ever been stalked by a turkey? No?
Well, lemme share what it looks like.
Hmm, this little red-waddled mastermind is thinking, if I walk sideways real slow, then they won’t see me coming.
Right. Here’s another little known factoid about my previous life that you’re likely to find as compelling as the last tidbits I’ve tossed at you. In my long ago youth, I was indeed a simple farm girl and had spent enough time around smelly feathered fowl to know poultry are about as clever in the head as sheep. No offense to sheep.
I mean, just take a moment to study the head on that bird. Three quarters of the noggin is committed to the beak, with the remaining quarter used up for the eye socket. So, where do you suppose the brain could be? That’s right, the bird ain’t got one. Instead it survives on some primitive neurological packet located like a ziploc baggie somewhere around the poultry by-product section. No, it’s true, I looked it up on Wikipedia and everything.
So, I tell Micron, heed this advise from someone who knows. Whatever you do, kiddo, just don’t look the thing in the eye.
Well, that’s just great. Now you’re a turkey zombie, Micron. Ah, no matter, the effects usually wear off rather quickly. Let’s get back to the booth to check on the pups.
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| Collectively, they share one brain. |
But even turkey brains can’t turn off the Micron charm, it seems. We meet a few families on the way back to the CCI booth that want to give the big yellow dog a pat on the head.
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| Check this out, newbie pups. Let a master show you how things are done. |
And a bonus dose of lovin’ from a rather young appreciator of fuzzy yellow dogs. That Micron accepted this big wet kiss without reciprocating with that happy tongue of his, well, maybe the big guy is maturing just a little.
You know, I like this next shot so much, that I did some fancy-pants photoshopping with the levels and color. Micron’s gaze upon the toddler, those pudgy little digits gripping all that fluffy goodness, it just makes me smile.
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| Mmmwah! |
My no-career dog has a calling and we both know it. Now we just need to figure out what he’s meant to be doing.
Next post: Four paws away from being an animal hoarder. Or maybe not.
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Wordless Wednesday: Eye contact
I’ve been feverishly working on a post about Turkeys in the Raw. However, my gerbil-powered laptop (the “Abacus 2000”) has been working with a fever. Is the hard drive just malingering or will it commit to crashing this week? Stay tuned to find out. So in the meantime, here’s a sneak peek at the next photo bloated post.
Micron plays chicken with, well, that’s actually a turkey, Mr. Mike.
Go. Do. Be Dog. 