The Animals in Our House

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.

Taking Hank on a walk is kind of interesting.  He wants to, of course, sniff at every tree, bush and pillar on our way, and every square inch of the road.  Since we're old and decrepit, we walk slow, so Hank uses up the extra time by zig-zagging back and forth, while he tries to haul us faster.  That way, he can keep walking, keep his nose occupied, and actually maximize the distance the walk covers.

Bigfoot has been known to follow people on a walk through the woods.  He used to just mosey along behind my wife and her dog, all round the woods, and back to the house.  (Some people have succeeded in taking their cat for a walk on a leash, but we haven't tried that so far.  I suspect we would hear some very colorful swearing from the Bigster, even if it isn't very loud.)

After we've been away for a weekend, or for a whole day, as we come up the back garden path Bigfoot comes running up, and then throws himself on the concrete, writhing in ecstasy.  Before either of our cats, the neighbors' cat, whom we called Frank, used to do this.  He looked as if he was wearing a tuxedo.  And he would go splat on the rug, which seemed very inappropriate behavior for anyone wearing a tuxedo, and I used to think that the creature was suffering from some mysterious condition.  But no; experience seems to suggest that it is just the condition of being delighted with his circumstances: being in out of the cold, or having made new friends, or having the homies back, as the case may be.

OK, let's talk about Lola.  One of the very first times she wanted to be let out in the back yard, she had been sharpening her claws on a scratching post we had put up, just near the back door.  (My wife was delighted, because there's nothing worse than a cat who ignores a scratching post, and uses the furniture instead.)  So we let Lolz out, and she returned in due course.  Another day, the exact same thing happened: Lolz was scratching at her post, and I asked her whether she would like a brief period outdoors, and she gaily accepted and shot out the door.  At this point, I think, Lolz began to get superstitious.  Whenever she needed to go out, she would pretend to be scratching at the post, and we would let her out, and she would toddle out with great satisfaction.  Either she thinks she has to do some scratching to appease the door gods, or she figures she has us trained with this non-verbal routine.

After she has spent a morning upstairs, sometimes I go up, to get my phone, or change, and Lolz sits up and takes notice.  Company!  She skips down from the bed, and follows me everywhere upstairs.  She does the same thing with my wife.  Then she asks: where are you going next?
"I'm going down.  Wanna go down?"
I head down the stairs, and pretty soon she has run ahead, and is waiting at the door at the foot of the stairs.  It doesn't sound very cute as I write this, but it is quite amusing.  Her furry behind has quite a seductive motion as she takes the steps one at a time, and then waits at the bottom, staring fixedly at the doorknob, in case I forget where it is.

All my life I have been surrounded with essentially cats belonging to other people, and I have never really paid much attention to them.  But once Lola got here, suddenly they're all fascinating.

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