The Heaviest of Kittens

Today I journeyed into the rain with two of the sweetest friends I’ve ever had. I carried them in a plastic box, balanced to my side awkwardly like a five gallon bucket of slop in danger of spilling. When we reached our destination, I learned why it was such a struggle to walk with them in tow: Willie is a fattie.

….In my eyes, Little Willie will always be my baby, just as Biscuit will always be a puppy (though I never knew him as one) and Carter will live forever. I love him just the same after today, but the rose-colored glasses have been wrenched from my eyes by a stone-faced doctor who sees only the objective reality in front of him. I am now forced to view Willie as he is: a big cat, and getting bigger in an unhealthy manner. In a way, it is good that I see him today as a big boy. It is time for a new baby to take his place.

The Long Way Around

As I walked the Terrible Twosome around the village of Hoosick Falls today, I was struck by how the simplest things can bring back waves of long-buried emotions, releasing cobwebs from the heart and replacing them with billowing dustclouds of painful nostalgia. Today it was the slightest crispness in the air–not our usual coat weather, but the first hintings of spring that signal a real change in season. While I know it was only a tease, a pre-cursor to tonight’s snow, it poked at my aching heart just a little.

Walking on Empty–Wait, Have I Done This One Before??

The most consistent presence in my life these days has to be Ina Hall’s Queen Bitch. Miss Katie goes to bed the same way every night, and wakes the same way every morning: cuddly. Whenever I enter the Hall, she wiggles and squirms. When I sit on the couch, she double-pumps to hop on the couch and sit with me. Whenever a cat walks by, her ears perk up. When a bus or truck drives by, she lunges. And whenever I cry, she just looks at me. Looks at me, square in the face, and stares.

Trash, and Re-Trash

One of the great “joys” of dog parenting is the wacky way they mess with your stuff every time you turn your back. Beds get unmade, laundry piles get “re-sorted,” and disgusting cast-offs make their way out of the trash can and into the unlikeliest of places. Things that otherwise wouldn’t be eaten, such as banana peels and eggshells, are made attractive by their placement in a trash receptacle. I’ve even found traces of dog-vomit stains on sofas, containing pieces of bubble wrap.

Dogs are wacky and dirty, yes, but there is a certain air of predictability in their destructive antics.

A Visit to the Zoo

Tall Boy was my boyfriend when I graduated high school. A whimsical search on Racebook brought him back into my life (after the disastrous affair with The Colombian turned positively James-Patterson-awful) by long-distance phone line, and now he was about to enter my reality at Ina Hall. I could not have been more excited. I suppose one could also say I was nervous. While our conversations had been easy and somewhat magical, I worried that our chemistry might have evolved enough over the years to have simply disappeared.

Bitey Face

Occasionally my dogs engage in a puppyish game called “Bitey Face.”  It is most often played when they are understimulated, suffering from too-short walks or none at all.  A recent game followed a good walk, supplemented with some cuddling and kitchen time; yet, for no good reason, their jaws were open wide like crocodiles as they jabbed and snarled at one another.  Some days I love living in a Zoo.

Prior to the arrival of Katie, Biscuit was Bitey Face-free.  He would occasionally attempt to engage Carter or Wyatt Earp in a session, only to have his face unceremoniously slapped in scorn as he whimpered away.  He never seemed to learn that asking a badass cat to fight you is like…well, let’s just say it’s a bad idea.  Having a fellow scamp with whom to play must be like dog heaven for him.

Earlier tonight, barred from walking by frigid temperatures, they went absolutely crazy as I watched from the couch.  While eating my dinner, I was treated to raucous canine entertainment.  For no apparent reason other than the joy of horseplay, out came the teeth, and the jaws sprang open like pez dispensers.  Bared teeth came close to making contact; but it is just a game.  Any time they scrape one another with an out-of-control fang, they freeze, size up the situation, and resume when both are ready.

Their faces may seem ferocious, but these two aren’t interested in hurting one another.  They merely know the importance of exercising one’s more aggressive instincts.  Their mutual love for the game is what drives them to engage in it.  If one of them were truly hurt, the game would stop.

I have my own bitey face.  I tend not to practice such caution when I play.  This is probably a mistake.  There must be a way to exercise the instinct without causing harm; but I haven’t yet found it.  When I bare my teeth, most people know to get out of the way.  My dogs certainly know it.  And The Colombian will no longer let my fangs anywhere near him.

When their game ends, the two breathe heavily, then let out a sigh of satisfaction before jockeying for position on the sofa.  They take turns curling up next to Mommy.  Their naps are peaceful and precious.  The urge has been satisfied, and they move on.  They do not dwell on the game, on who won or lost, or any offense that occurred.

Two sweet little dogs sleep peacefully next to me now.  Their voices are quiet, their breathing slow.  The innocent faces I see now are not the same as those that were snarling and biting only a short time ago.  They have forgotten their battle. 

Sometimes I wish I were a dog.

Gravy, Minus Biscuit

So much of the physical emptiness I feel, the constant hunger I allow myself to feel as I starve and suffer the effects of it, is related to the absence of Biscuit. I feel a tremendous sense of sadness and loss when I think of him. While my life here is sometimes happy, and always dramatic, it is half lived without one of my most cherished friends. I’ve said before that Biscuit reflects my own sadness back at me, and seems to want to comfort me in my dark moments. He wants to hold my sadness and anxiety. How can he do his job from the other side of the region?

Dogless Whisperer

In preparation for my trip to The Big Apple tomorrow, I’ve sent the Queen Bitch away for a sleepover. She joined her Uncle Patrick and brother Biscuit–and, much to his chagrin, Wyatt Earp–on their journey home. If I never felt lonesucky before, I certainly do now.

Mi Gordita

This morning when I shoved the Queen Bitch into her snappy red jacket, I was reminded of my favorite scene in the classic “Tommy Boy,” where Chris Farley’s Tommy Boy attempts to make David Spade’s character laugh by doing “Fat Guy in a Little Coat.” Katie is a fat dog in a little coat. Like a heavy woman in too-small pants, the coat rides up on her body, wrinkling and scooching until it is too short for her. People are beginning to stare.

Morning Cuddles

These days, I wake to an entire crew in my bed. Little Willie’s is often the first face I see, because he spends a good chunk of the night lying squarely on my stomach, facing me so his wake-up screams land like firebombs in my bleary-eyed face. Biscuit lies at my right hand, just touching me, so he can roll over and sneak a French kiss if I’m not paying attention. Katie guards the lower passenger side, just in case a large cat attempts to sneak in during the night. (It hasn’t happened in many months.)

Bathing Beauties

A quiet Saturday night at the Zoo can feel like a curse at times, bound to be lonesucky. Tonight, however, I’ve chosen to enjoy the quiet and human solitude, and appreciate my furry buddies for what they bring to the table.

Brothers and Sisters

Biscuit and Katie are typical siblings in every sense. Their relationship is further complicated by our odd custody arrangement. Every week, or ten days, or two weeks (depending on our personal and work schedules) Biscuit is traded back and forth between Ina Hall and EAT–my code name for Patrick’s house, whose architectural style he has always affectionately referred to as “early American teardown.” The dynamic changes not only when Biscuit arrives and leaves, but over the periods of togetherness and separation.