Cats, Always, the Cats

This handsome fellow is the most recent of the Pets Past. Great guy. He thought I walked on water. He was convinced I knew how to turn off the rain (and that I just wouldn't do so when he wanted - this resulted in a few dirty looks during the Seattle winters). When western Washington suffered an earthquake, I was braced in an archway next to my kitchen counter. Copernicus jumped up on the counter and gave me the MOST accusing glare - he was certain all that shaking was my fault. Nothing like having all those super powers in the eyes of some critter that likes to curl up in the curve of your stomach every night.

For my family, it's always been cats. My folks had cats before they had kids. Long before they had kids. When I came along, a Siamese queen named Natoa had prior claim in the title of 'eldest' by a whole six months. She apparently decided that I was as much her responsibility as I was my parents'. As I was learning to crawl, Natoa would hide around a corner, wait for me to draw even with her, then she'd leap out of hiding, slap me upside the face a few times (soft paws!), then turn tail and race away. This, my mother tells me, amused me to no end. Natoa stuck around to participate in rearing me until she died when I was 16.

By that time, we'd had Katmai, who gave us two kittens - Skepna and Tyggja (say Tig-ya). They were followed by Pharoah, Isa, Alexander, Leo and Tabitha. Somewhere in there, I grew up, went to college and established a life of my own. Once I did, I needed felines to be the visible soul of my home (“I love cats because I enjoy my home; and little by little, they become its visible soul.” ― Jean Cocteau) I was working at a large software company that shall remain nameless and was a member of a group of cat lovers. I'd been doing feline rescue with the group when a woman emailed that she had a pair of kittens who needed a forever home and fast. My husband and I went out to meet with the lady. We walked in. The kittens oozed out from under the bed to come check us out. They looked exactly like my husbands' childhood cat. We ended up going home with that pair of fluffy white kittens and their kitty condo. That was Copernicus and his sister Eratosthenes (Erie). We lost Copernicus at 8 years old to aspiration pneumonia, but Erie is still with us. She'll be seventeen this summer.

The creatures who share our lives change us and encourage us to live up to their considerable expectations, I think...even if I really don't aspire to causing earthquakes. Honest.

Guest Post: Revenge of the Rat Queen

Hey guys, Allison here - I'm in the middle of revision hell for the next few weeks and decided lining up a few guest posts would be in everyone's best interest, so without further ado, I give you Delilah S. Dawson!


Revenge of the Rat Queen

I was recently asked in an interview if there’s any one thing my books have in common, and this was my answer: murderous rodents.

Not love. Not redemption. Not man’s eternal struggle for… whatever.

Just killer rats.

The funny thing is, I’m not a hater. I’m a cheerleader for the small and twitchy. When I was little, I loved animals, probably because most other kids found me annoying and strange. But my pets liked me well enough, even if it was just because I was the one holding the bag of alfalfa. I was a miniature Doctor Doolittle, with cats, a dog, a piano-playing rabbit, a well-trained parakeet, and a tank full of fish all named, oddly enough, after the rabbits of Watership Down.

But the strangest of all my pets, at least so far as everyone else was concerned, was my rat, Baby. She was an albino rat, the sort scientists use in labs and people use for snake food. She chose me when she was just a little peanut, running up my arm and perching on my shoulder. And, yes, her red eyes looked a lot like LifeSavers holes and her tail looked like a worm. But she was intelligent, clean, and affectionate. I even got permission to take her in to school when I had to give a speech. The topic was RATS, and my goal was to change everyone’s mind about the much-denounced vermin.

Guess what doesn’t make the unpopular weirdo popular? A rat crawling down her shirt.

And yet rats captivate me to this day. The middle grade book that caught my agent (but didn’t sell) was about rats that were actually goblins. My next middle grade book (that also didn’t sell) included venomous silenodons. And my debut steampunk paranormal romance, Wicked as They Come, includes cat-sized, rust-colored, blood-thirsty rats that are a bigger threat than the vampires.

Of course, the real crowd favorites among my readers are the bludbunnies, which look just like normal, fluffy, adorable, innocent rabbits—right until they bite you. And eat you.

Then again, I’ve always loved the odd things, the slimy things, the supposedly unlovable things. From snakes to lizards to tarantulas to vampires, I feel a kinship with the outcasts. When I was little, I loved movies like Piranha and Ben and Troll and Night of the Lepus. And when I got to college and had to read about all the rapes and assaults that happened around campus, I didn’t get pepper spray—I got a red-tail boa constrictor and carried him around my neck to class.

So maybe that’s why I like to give my rats teeth: so they can bite back at a world that rejects them. Wicked as They Come is a love story and a steampunk adventure and trip down, I hope, an Alice-like rabbit hole. But it’s also a story about prejudice and the predator-prey relationship, about what would happen in a world where vampires were just people, and not necessarily the ones with power.

If you ever get mail from me, expect to find a rat on my stationary. I never want to forget that the world’s most hated pest was once my best friend and that giving Baby a taste for human blood helped me become an author.

*
Delilah S. Dawson is the author of Wicked as They Come, out now and the first in a three-book series from Pocket/Simon & Schuster.  It’s a sort of steampunk gypsy vampire circus adventure romance with lots of murderous rodents.

Website: http://www.delilahsdawson.com

Book: http://books.simonandschuster.com/Wicked-as-They-Come/Delilah-S-Dawson/9781451657883

The Hairy Beasts

by KAK 

I like my men like I like my dogs ...

Hairy.

What? I don't have Daddy Issues. I have Doggy Issues. For my earliest years, I was the youngest in my family. Yes, even the family dog had more seniority than I. A fact my sister relished. Heck, even my grandparents' dog out-ranked me. I was totally okay with that. Why? Portable blankets that ate my vegetables and gave me baths.

Hey, you're not clean until you're dog-snarble clean.

My baby blanket has dog hair embedded in it. Ninety percent of the family photos have an ethereal glow due -- not to some cheesetastic amateur photography diffusers -- but to the dog hair clinging to our clothes. Hell, I used to get called out of school because my dog had escaped the yard.

 
Fetch, Girl, fetch. Go fetch the dog.

Once upon a time, for three years, there was no family dog. The elder statesmen had passed. We were out of country, traveling most weekends to exotic castles and battlefields. My poor father has never been nagged so much in his life as he was for those three years. Once we returned to the States ~baboom~ D.O.G.

Dog. Dog. Dog.

Yes. Dog. There are no cats, guinea pigs, hamsters, snakes, bunnies, fish, or iguanas in my household history. I know this shocks many of our loyal readers.

If it's not hairy, it's not mine.

In truth, there have been the occasional dragons, but that's another post.

Pets back in the day.

I'm with my fellow Word Whore Jeffe in that while I remember pets I have owned in the past, I don't really have pictures.

There was Zeus, the rottweiler/lab mix. He was a good dog. Big and scary looking but sweet as hell. Minded pretty well unless he got free and then all you could do was send up a prayer for his safety cause he was gone. No looking back, just running wide open. He'd come back in a few hours and lay on the carport until he was let back in. lol.
I would probably still have him today. I moved into an apartment that did not allow pets so I had a friend take him for a bit until I could move to a different unit that did allow pets. It took a month and by that time he was living like a king in a neighborhood full of kids who would get off the bus and go get him and take him through the woods on adventures. Plus my friend had truly fallen in love with him so I left him with her and her husband.

Back in the day, when I was a wee child we had a dog named Tiger. She was a German Shepard mix. Wonderful dog. Sweet, protective. She was always there when we were outside, watching over us. My mother still tells the story of going inside to get something and leaving me in the yard. A moment later she heard me start screaming so she came a running. I was on the edge of the yard, standing there trying to get in the road and Tiger had me by the cloth diaper, holding me back. I was apparantly mad as hell about it, hence the screaming.
Tiger was a good dog, lived a long life and finally died of old age.

I've had cats here and there, but most of them were crappy. I am not a cat fan. Even the coolest cat winds up peeing in my laundry basket....the clean one.

I did have a 10 ft Burmese python named Abigail that I traded a tattoo for. She was beautiful, but very scary. A 10 foot snake is twice the size of my bicep all the way around. She's a 10 ft tube of pure muscle designed to kill things. I lived alone when I had her and I always thought to myself "If this snake decides to take you out while you hold her, what could you do?" Nothing....hope I could stagger outside with 100 pounds of snake wrapped around my face and convince my neighbors to call the cops instead of pointing and laughing.

Abigail went to live at the animal preserve outside of Cleveland Ga.

Now I have a house full of pets. 6 dogs, 1 cat, 1 bird, 1 hamster.

But this one is mine. His name is Cash and you have my permission to "awwwwwww".

Pets of Christmas Past

by Jeffe Kennedy

One of the great drawbacks of these "historical" topics, like this week's theme of childhood pets, is that I suffer from the lack of access to photos. I can picture the photo albums in the living room armoire in my mother's house in Denver and the exact pictures I would show you.

Then I start thinking, for the umpteenth time, how I *really* need to get after digitizing all those photographs.

You can picture those old photographs, from the 60s, barely in color, square with those white borders around the edges. There's the one of me peering at a jack o'lantern with our kitty, Punky, sitting nearby. My dad grins with a hand on Shadow, the Weimaraner, who figures prominently in my early childhood stories. How I learned to walk by pulling myself up on patient Shadow. How my mother would send Shadow to find me if she couldn't spot me in the yard. Shadow always knew. After my dad died when I was three, and we went to live at my grandmother's house in Denver, and Shadow knocked an enormous bowl of spaghetti with marinara over on her kitchen carpet, Shadow went back to live with my North Carolina grandparents. The photo I would show you is one taken by their back garden gate, with Shadow gazing up in soulful concern. It feels like a betrayal that I don't really have any of my own memories of him.

Punky, though - short for Pumpkin - a cranky, marmalade cat lived with us for many long years. When I was seven, Stormy came to live with us. My mom gave her to me for Christmas. A particularly blizzardy Christmas, which is how Stormy got her name. She was my best pal and companion, and lived until I was in grad school in my mid-twenties. I'd show you that picture, too - me in my velvet Christmas dress, my hair up in a bun, and the utter, ecstatic delight on my face as my mom set the kitten in my lap.

I still remember the joyful surprise of that moment.

Those pets gave way to other cats and dogs. All companions to various stages of my life. Their affection is constant. Their simple pleasure in living provides a constant reminder of the daily small events that form the fabric of our lives.

Love to you all.

The Menagerie

By Kerry Schafer 

 I hadn't realized until I started thinking about this post that all of our pets are rescue animals of one kind or another, cats, dog, and even Survivorman the Goldfish. Let me present them in order of their appearance in the family. Max (short for Maximus) was born feral, and has been with me since before the Viking.No, he'd not dead in this picture, just enjoying a little sun on Elephant Ass Rock. His mother gave birth to a litter of kittens in a shed in our backyard, in the days when we lived in suburbia and had a back yard. After days of setting out food we succeeded in live trapping all of the kittens, but mama was too wary and I never did catch her. For about a week I had a bathroom full of hissing, spitting little balls of fur and teeth and claws, so wild they climbed the shower curtain when anybody walked in. My oldest son was eight or so at the time, a gentle soul who loved animals. He spent hours just sitting on the floor talking to them, and little by little they settled down and allowed themselves to be touched. Max was the first to purr when Ryan petted him - so he was the one we kept. Sadly, he is now an outdoor cat, having decided that the world is his litterbox and scratching post, and that he is above all rules of indoor behavior. He is appalled by the injustice of this, at least when winter rolls around, and is adept at hiding beside doors and darting into the house. Here he is waiting at the slider, alternately giving us the "poor kitty" look and the evil eye. (Note: the Viking made him an insulated cat house, all warm and cozy. He'd rather sit here.) Riddick came next. We were moving and not in the market for a dog, but when we met him we knew he belonged to us. He was in a foster home - his people had kept him on a short chain in the back yard, forgetting to give him water, just throwing his food on the ground. In spite of mistreatment in his early life, he has the sweetest disposition ever. He and Max are buddies - they even hunt together. I once rescued a chipmunk being tormented by both cats and the dog - they'd formed a triangle, all taking it in turn to make a move when the little guy tried to make a break for it. Riddick can snatch a grouse out of the air. He eats all of the mice and gophers the cats catch for him. Sometimes he catches his own. At night, if the coyotes are howling, he joins in with the most eerie, freaky loud howling noise known to man. Here he is, chilling with Max after a walk. You have to look for Max - he loves to go camouflage when I'm trying to take pictures. This cat - known to some of you as my feline assistant - used to be known as the GDC in polite company, or the Goddam Cat for everyday: Mostly now we just call her Kidders. The Viking bought her at a garage sale, when she was tiny and innocent looking. Why such a name for such an adorable cat? Let's see - as a kitten she could shred an entire roll of paper towels if left home alone during the day, and spread the shreddings far and wide. Toilet paper had to be kept locked away, for the same reason. She loved to play in water and the Viking came home one day to discover she'd managed to turn on the faucet. Her name was my fault really - he was trying to find a name for her, and I suggested he might as well call her what I was pretty sure she thought was her name by now. (Let it be noted that while there may have been yelling going on, she is the Viking's princess. He cannot sleep until she is safely in for the night. She shares his yogurt. He offers up all sorts of little treats on her altar. She responds by tormenting him at every possible opportunity.) During one stage of our existence when the Viking and I were conducting a long distance relationship, she traveled back and forth with him when he came to visit on weekends. No cat carrier for her - she rode on his shoulder, attracting all sorts of attention from people in the other cars on the highway. A rescue fish? Only at our house. Survivorfish may be the luckiest goldfish on the face of the planet. The Walmart pet department had him slated to be a feeder fish. A couple of years ago the Viking decided to put some goldfish in our seasonal pond as a mosquito deterrent. This pond has water in the spring, but by the end of summer it turns to nothing but mud. The fish were meant to be expendable - eat mosquito larva in the spring, and then die. They're only feeder fish. Right. The Viking happened to notice one fish swimming around in the last little puddle and immediately went into rescue mode. Said fish came home in a canning jar and was established in his own little kingdom, (a glass cookie jar that happened to be on hand) where he has been fed and cared for now for several years. Every spring, the Viking threatens to put him back in the pond, but I think his fat and lazy future is pretty well assured.

Cats. Why Did It Have to Be Cats?

They're neuroses wrapped in fur and armed with sharp, pointy bits. Depending on who you ask, you’ll get various stories about how I was reared, not by my parents, but by a seal point Siamese queen named Natoa. Mom tells tales about how, once I’d learned to crawl, the cat would lie in wait just out of sight. As I crawled past, she’d leap out in front of me, slap me upside the face (softpaws!) a few times, then turn tail and run away. I was six months old. This was apparently high comedy. Mom says, I’d plop back on my diapered butt, looking startled, but then laugh. My husband claims this explains a great many things. Beyond the fact that I am without question a cat person. 

This is my eldest, Madam Eratosthenes. She is sixteen, arthritic and stone deaf (not congenital – she wasn’t born deaf, she went slowly deaf about the time she turned seven). She, of all the cats, most enjoys living aboard her boat. She endures the months we house sit, and then blossoms when we cart her back to the boat. The only downside is that a deaf cat cannot hear herself. Vibration is the only feedback loop available to her. So Erie sings opera. Klingon opera. At the top of her considerable lungs. At 2am.

This is Autolycus. He has a serious issue with stress, as you can see. He’s eleven. No tail. Hell on four paws. His specialty is blue screening computers. We’ve threatened to sell him into slavery as a tester for major software companies. Hasn’t slowed him down. I had a conference call scheduled with my editor to go over a few changes. The night before, I got all my files together, made sure I was organized, shut down my computer, and left for dinner with my husband. When we got back to the boat, this little orange terror was lying across my keyboard. He’d started the machine and then pressed F10. During the boot cycle, pressing F10 takes you into set up. The little sh*t was trying to reformat my box.

This is Cuillean. She helps with the laundry. She’s my fraidy cat. Change of any kind makes her terribly anxious. She eats to compensate. It isn’t your imagination. In this photo, the girl is chunky. We’re working on that and she has slimmed down a bit. Not enough, but some. She’s eight. She’d been brought into a local pet supply store as part of Purrfect Pals adoption program. I found her hiding behind the bags of dry dog food. Every time I went to pick up catfood, I made a point of finding her hidey hole and stopping by to whisper sweet nothings to her. Eventually, she let me skritch her chin. One day, my husband went into the store with me. I showed him her fort, spoke to her, and offered her a chin rub. She accepted. Then the unthinkable happened. She left her hiding place and followed me. DH finally stopped me and said, “You know she’s your cat, right?” J This one doesn’t meow. She trills. Softest fur, ever. I call her My Plush Velvet Cuillean. She’s still all about hearing the sweet nothings.

Then there’s the youngest, Hatshepsut. Why, yes. She is convinced she’s the princess, was there ever any doubt? She’s also eight – she’s the youngest only by a few months. She was a happy accident. I had four cats when a neighbor boy showed up with an itty bitty squalling kitten in his hands. He’d found her under a car in a parking lot, screaming her head off. His mother wouldn’t let him keep her, so he’d brought her to the local crazy cat lady. I didn’t dispute the title. I keep four cats aboard a 34’ sailboat for eight months out of the year, two of whom get seasick. I’m comfortably certain ‘crazy’ covers it. Regardless. I took the wee bundle of feisty kitten and put her in my isolation room. It took her fewer than 24 hours to wind me around her paws. It took her 72 hours or so to get to the DH.

The fifth cat? He fell hard for my mother. Really hard. When it's obvious that a cat you adopted has found the great love of his life and you aren't it, there's only one thing to do. He lives with my parents and another rescue project of mine - a Japanese Bobtail named Pikachu. Seeing a theme here? Yeah. My folks, too.

Why the adoration of all things feline? Maybe I'm a pushover, but I love winning the trust and affection of a creature a single generation removed from the wild. I rescued a real feral once – she’d been hit by a car and left in the middle of the road late one night. I scooped her up and raced her to the emergency vet. After she’d been treated and spayed, I went to pick her up. She was a roiling, shrieking mass of claws and teeth. I might as well have rescued a bobcat. The vet said the only reason *I* was still alive was because the cat had been in shock when I'd found her. We caged her, let her heal, and then released her where I’d found her. The moral of that story being that every cat who has been a part of my life has brought a tiny bit of that wild heritage with them. The choice to live together is a mutual one - they choose me as much or more as I choose them. They aren’t just pets in my household. They are partners in the family dynamic. Each of them, at one time or another, has voluntarily operated as a familiar when I had specific energy work that needed doing. More than once, when I’ve been sick in bed, one or more cats has sought me out and demanded a spot on my chest (or head, if the primary spot is taken). The application of purring feline has enormous healing power. You do know that the feline purr resonates at a frequency that helps knit bone, right? Mind you, I do not intend to go about breaking bones in order to test that assertion. It’s watching the wariness and tension melt away from a cat because you’ve taken the time to listen to and to understand the needs and wants of each feline individual. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but living with my furry companions makes me a better person. Or maybe if just makes me want to be better.

Pokey

by Allison Pang

I have a penchant for collecting animals. I always had the normal sort growing up - both cats and dogs, fish, a bird or two (including a dove, at one point.), hermit crabs, sea monkeys, whatever.

I lived out in the boonies in NJ, right in the pinelands, so we also had a ton of wildlife always trotting in and out of the yard at any given time, which meant I did my fair share of rescuing baby birds and turtles.

At one point, I played around with becoming a vet and did an internship at a wildlife hospital. (Where I was bitten by just about every animal in the north east, and taloned by a red-tailed hawk in a rather unfortunate set of circumstances. Translation: I am an idiot.)

Anyway, fast forward a few years to where I'm supposed to be a grown up or something. I'm currently the proud owner of two cats (plus at least one stray), two birds, two kids and a hedgehog. And sea monkeys. (And apparently we are now feeding a mother possum and her several clingy babies, as of this morning.)

I did have a 75 gallon salt water reef take for several years as well, but ended up selling it the last time we moved, alas.

However, as far as weird pets go, I have to give props to the hedgehog up there. Also known as Tumbleweed, she's definitely a bit grumpy, but cute as a button for all that. Not one for social graces, there's still nothing quite like putting her in the giant hamster ball and letting her pad all about the house. (I'd let her free roam, but with the kids and their toys, it's just asking for trouble...)

Hedgehogs, by the way, are mostly nocturnal. And they run. A lot. Like between 3 to 8 miles a night. She has a giant wheel and from about 7 PM to 4 AM or so, that's what she's doing. Of course the part they don't tell you? Hedgehogs also crap and piss themselves while they run. Which means by morning she's got what I've fondly come to refer to as "poop boots."

So, foot cleaning becomes a bit of issue from time to time. It involves a toothbrush, if you're interested.

The rest of my pets aren't nearly so interesting, though my old man cat (15 years old next week) Killian, was the direct inspiration for some of Phineas' actions. He's definitely a bit of a bastard overall, and had a delightful tendency to drag my bathrobe around the house, where he'd invariably find some sordid corner and hump the shit out of it.

No, I *don't* want to go there.

I say used to, because he's mostly outdoors these days. (He's fixed, but he sprays. Vomits on stuff. Pees on stuff. Figured out how to open doors by turning doorknobs. In short? Bastard.)

My kids aren't quite as interesting as all that, although Lucy does have her own Twitter page (@LucyisTweeting in case you choose to follow). I haven't updated it in a bit, but she really does say the weirdest stuff.

But then, so do I. :)

The Bairy Heast

by KAK

  

This is my bairy heastie. My constant companion. My breathing blanket. My furry source of endless affection.

My fart detector.

That's right, ladies and gents. Whenever the tropical fruit makes a toot, my brave beastie will bolt to the other end of the house. It's genius, really. He leaves the enemy in convulsions while he takes cover from the personal chorus. Yes, yes he does run faster if the flatulence belongs to him.

 

"Look, Mommy, a wolf!"

Bwwahaha. If only that child had known that looks are so very... yeah. Sure, he's a handsome boy. Big blue eyes. Cuddly soft fur. Doesn't bark. Charming, no? Not always. Gods forbid that you are in the middle of a people-to-people conversation and he has a stray thought. I said he didn't bark. This boy can sing an aria that'll put Placido on notice. Vociferous? Very much so. Vicious? Not even when threatened.

Not every Husky is Balto. 

Not every owner is a musher from Snow Dogs or Eight Below

It's hard to believe he went through three homes before he landed with me. First owners? The story of newlyweds, new house, and unexpected illness. Off he went to a asshat handyman, who left him chained to dumpster at a local eatery. After a short stint with Animal Control, he landed with the big-hearted Queen of Tchotchkes. One puppy + a house full of breakables = Come to Ma'ma.

Huskies are a little odd.

(I shall leave kibble offerings to the Earth Goddess -- little crunchy trails throughout the house. Please do not step on them, again.)

 

Huskies also are:

1. A family-oriented breed (I will permit each of you to give me your bowls. Now.)
2. Fun-loving (Let's make snow-angels together. What is "3:00 AM"? Come, you will love the blizzard. Promise.) 
3. Playful (Lookie, Mommy, I brought you a MOLE! See how well it fits in your shoe?) 
4. Energetic (Shoulders should dislocate on walks. How else will you see the SQUIRREL?) 
5. Perpetually affectionate (If I put my chin on "delete" key, you will pet me, yes?).

Huskies are attention mooches for whom there are no ethical boundaries:

 

 

The Extended Animal Family

by Laura Bickle

"When the pupil is ready, the teacher will arrive."
-Buddhist Proverb

There's something about animal companionship that's a rare joy in life. Something pure and loving that's deeply comforting - a deep purr, a weight across one's feet in the middle of the night.

At the moment, I'm surrounded by fur: ChemoCat, DudeCat, ScaredyCat, and EvilCat. Ex-ferals, all, and an interesting group who still carry with them some of their former wildness. They've all arrived at odd times in my life, when I didn't expect them. It wasn't always convenient. Sometimes, it was hard. And frustrating. And with tears and worry. But a thousand times worth it.

But I learned a lot. Animals have their peculiar wisdom. A stillness. Something to teach. Certainly about winning unconditional love. Commitment. Sacrifice. But also something else. About communicating with the world on it's own terms. Giving without demanding anything in return - focusing on another creature's wants rather than one's own. Being quiet and listening.

Cats are their own enigmatic selves. But I have other animal friends. Always had them since I was a kid, from looking for salamanders underneath river rocks to hearing the eerie howl of bobcats at sunset. Carrying buckets of bluegill from the river. I remember my father showing me a great horned owl in the headlights of the car as a child. The owl had hauled a rabbit up into a tree and stared back at us, wings spread and fluffed forward. Just amazing. I remember my father telling me: "Owls are like people. You eat what you kill." Good truth to remember.

Now that I live in a city, I still find nature about. There's a duck at the pond in a park that my husband and I feed. He's the only white Peking duck among the mallards - he's a domestic duck who cannot fly. He can't migrate with the others. So we feed him, handfuls of cracked corn he's learned to gobble from our hands.  His trust in us is truly amazing, and he caused me to really contemplate the nature of trust. Once, he strained up and gave me a kiss on the lips.

In the shed behind the house, we have bats. When the door's opened too quickly in daylight, they slip down from the rafters and scramble in the dark. There's a rabbit who's lived behind our shed and had many litters of rabbits over the years, just beyond the reach of the lawn mower. When the deer are restless at night, they've been known to jump the fence and leave tracks in the snow.  Once, I found a snake at the edge of my yard. Those little guys have taught me about blending in. Observing. Co-existing with larger creatures and big machines.

In our city, there are red-tailed hawks who've adapted to everyday life. They nest near the freeway and glide through the neighborhoods in search of small prey. Rarely a day or two goes by that I don't see one perched on a telephone line, watching. Their falcon cousins live downtown, among the skyscrapers. Sparrows and chickadees eat from the bird feeder, much to the afore-mentioned cats' delight. And sometimes, the hawks.' The big birds and little birds showed me a lot about paying attention to one's environment. The loudest little bird always seems to attract the most attention from the hawks. I feel sorry for the ones that are taken, because they were all wrapped up in their beautiful music and have no idea until the shadow of the hawk passes over them that the number's up.

And I have some new friends.  I put some Frosted Mini-Wheats out in the yard at the end of winter, for the squirrels. There are a few young squirrels who were in the process of surviving their first winter, and looking bedraggled. I left the cereal out for them. They devoured the cereal as if they were vacuum cleaners. One of them is a greedy little guy. He's developed a strong preference for the frosted sides - he'll gobble those down and fling away the non-sugared parts. It would be incredibly obnoxious behavior in a human, but in a squirrel - it's cute. I find that I'll tolerate a lot of bad behavior on the part of animals that I'd never put up with in a human, simply because of the cuteness factor. That, and they don't talk.

Something else showed up after the Mini-Wheats. Ravens.  First, a female. Very shy - she is timid to be seen even through window glass. I think that someone was unkind to her in the past. But she grasps the cereal squares in her talons, dunks them in the downspout like a cookie, and then eats them. Eventually, she brought her mate. He doesn't much care about dunking the spoils. They've both gotten into the habit of eating their fill and taking pieces of cereal far away. When there's fresh cereal on the ground, one will come and call the other.

They've become used to me. They come every day, around five o'clock. If there's not cereal on the ground, they sit perch in the maple tree and watch. They've gotten to the point where they will watch me from above, without flying away, and descend upon the treats when I go back into the house.

They don't even mind when the cats observe them from the window.  Or me, anymore.

I caught the female watching me when I got the mail the other day. She was perched on the downspout, peering down at me.

I told her what a pretty bird she was, how magnificent and glossy. I'm sure that she thinks it's shameless flattery.

But I wonder what she'll teach me.

The Fur Family

We have the option this week, to talk about our pets or our kids.

Same thing?

My stepkids have grown up into these fabulous, glossy adults and my grandchildren (two) are so adorable that I would feel bad showing up all the other Word Whores with photos they could never out do.

Pets it is.

Isabel (above) is the youngest of the current fur family. Yes, that's my writing desk she's taken over. She's leaning a shoulder on Sailor Whore, Marcella Burnard's, newest release, too. She's a Maine coon cat, so she's big. And smart. Full of affection and mischief.

Yeah, I totally let her stay there.
Teddy is senior cat. Also known as Queen Cat. Also a Maine coon cat, she's bigger than Isabel. Fortunately, Isabel thinks that Teddy hung the moon, so they both agree that everything Teddy does is wonderful. Teddy is sharing my arm chair as I type, which she does every evening when there's a laptop computer on my lap instead of her.

Finally, there's Zip. Odd man out. Beta dog. Poor Zip is beta to everyone, even to Isabel. In this photo he looks perplexed because he's wondering what I'm doing to him. Zip is a red border collie, if you're wondering, born on a ranch in Wyoming. I've never been much of a dog person, but Zip is David's partner dog.

The three of them are buddies. Dogs and cats, living together. They, plus David, are my immediate family. The beings that share my day from the moment I wake - Teddy against my side, Isabel on the dresser watching me and the birds, Zip on the floor on David's side of the bed - through the day and all through the night.

I'm a lucky, lucky girl.