the id, the ego, & the single misfiring brain cell

another one.

I'm an inveterate cat lover. I think cat people and dog people are more "born" than "made." That doesn't mean I don't like dogs, of course. It just means the cat part of my heart is a little softer than the dog part. I think.

I habitually get throw-away pets. I never planned it like this, but adopting the unwanted and unloved and probably abused and neglected is an ongoing theme in my pet ownership. My first kitty (as an adult) was Pita; Wayne (my "little" brother) was moving back to Texas or Louisiana from Colorado with his fiancee, and had a wolf-mix pup and Pita. Something had to go, so Pita became mine. I think she was a couple of months old, at the most. She'd been living in a commune sort of thing with Wayne and his workmates for a while. If you've followed my blogs at all, you know we bonded. I had to put her down last May. She was 18.

Gracie was a shelter cat from Alabama. A friend (Cindy, a woman who worked for me at the time) had discovered that her son was allergic to cats. They had two; her plan was to find a good home for Gracie and see if they couldn't somehow make it work with one cat. (Her son, incidentally, was broken-hearted to lose either cat; he's just as much of a cat person as I am.) I saw a picture and said, "OK. I'll take her." She'd had all her shots, been spayed, and had been declawed (front only).

Phlebas was a straw-haired scrawny runt when he found us. We were out walking Maxwell, and were about a half-mile from the house, talking with Jane, a friend of mine, in her front yard. I heard a meow, and asked if she had any cats. She said, "Oh, no. My dogs would eat it." Just as she said that, this pathetic creature came out of the bushes making sweet purring-meow noises. He walked straight up to Maxx and wove in and out of Maxx's legs, purring. I picked him up and he mad biscuits gently on my shoulder and purred violently while I scratched him. I removed a cowtick the size of a marble from behind his right ear. I asked Jane if she knew if anyone owned the cat. She said that some people across the street fed him. I decided that if he was still there when we came back, I was taking him home. We walked Maxx a ways farther, then turned back. The little critter was still there, so I picked him up and carried him home.

He couldn't hold food down. We'd talked to the vet when we brought him home, and the vet had recommended we keep him separate from the other cats for at least three days, but a week was better. We needed to make sure he was healthy, get him checked out. It was during this period that we learned that he ate voraciously--the poor thing was literally starving--but would upchuck it within a few minutes. The vet said he had a hairball, which (contrary to popular belief), can be a huge ball in the stomach that the cat cannot yak up, and it can sometimes form in the intestine, which may have been the case here. He said to give the little chap hairball medicine daily until it stopped, then weekly (which we forget to do sometimes, until Phlebas--as we named him--starts blowing chunks on the floor again).

About eight months ago, we found Mouse on Craig's list. The woman trying to get rid of her loved her dearly, but I think one or more of her children were discovered to be allergic. She had three cats, I think. The other ones, she wrote, were beautiful and would be easily adopted. Mouse, however, is a gray brindle. She isn't "showy." The woman was terrified Mouse might end up at the humane society; when I went to meet her (and who was I kidding? I knew I'd bring her home), the woman (Julia) told me, "If for any reason she doesn't work out, bring her back to me. I won't let her be put down." She provided food and litter and a litterbox, which was more than she needed to, but when people do that, it says something to me about how the feel about the pet in question. She was crying when Mouse and I left.

Mouse was skittish when she moved in. She'd started life as a barn cat, then been raised with children who apparently kept her scared (and I don't think they were mean to her; kids just have that effect sometimes). I've spent months walking up to her when she's sleeping and gently petting her, to get her past being handshy. I pick her up and scratch her, then put her down. And slowly, very slowly, she's learning to trust. When I picked her up before, her body would ball up so that even her tail was tucked tight against her body; now when I pick her up, the tail dangles over my arm and her hind legs are relaxed and dangling. It's wonderful to watch her becoming a different cat.

Maxx was a shelter dog who'd been adopted then returned several times to the animal shelter in Alabama. We went to visit him and take him for a walk. He was happy and puppyish...then a man walking another dog came within 20 feet of us. Maxx slipped behind me, stuck his head between my knees, and growled low in his throat. I could feel him trembling violently. I knew I had to take this dog home.

Now, seven years later, he's fairly well adjusted. He's gotten over his fear of men (and thus, his aggression problems with humans), but he's still not well socialized with other dogs. He spends a lot of time alone, so we've decided to get him a friend. This one is Gwen's fault. She started it. :p

Gwen is one of those people you might meet for just a few hours or days, and form a lifetime attachment to. We met at the NonFictionNow conference at the University of Iowa back in '07 (I think it was), hit it off immediately, spent the weekend in one another's company, and despite not being in touch for some time afterward, have remained oddly attached. This is Gwen and the book she'd just published. She let me borrow a copy at the conference so I could read it; it's honest, but gentle, nostalgia of a unique experiences. She writes beautifully. PBS recently did a documentary on it.

Anyway. I recently found Gwen again on Facebook. It's so nice being in touch again, in the way that Facebook allows you to keep up with the mundanity of others' day-to-day lives and have casual conversation with people you don't see much.

Well. A couple of weeks ago, Gwen posted a picture of a puppy (German shepherd mix) who had run into their garage dodging bullets. Georgia--where she lives now--has a lot of dumped dogs and cats, apparently, and some people thought it would be great fun to go target practice on them. She'd named this little flop-eared puppy Bullet, and she was looking for a home for him (she says their garage is a stray dog magnet).

I looked at the picture and said, "I want him." We were working out a time for me to make the trip to get him (early May?) that night; the next morning, she posted a picture of her husband (Preston) with my dog, who Preston had renamed "Buddy." They'd bonded and the dog wasn't going anywhere.

The problem is, I'd already gotten my mouth all set for a second dog (so to speak). You know how you decide you REALLY want a steak and no other meal will do until you get a steak? Well. That happens when you decide you want a new pet, too.

Well. We're looking at pit bull mixes now. There are a couple of reasons for this. I spend a lot of time at Lisa's in Broomfield with Zsa Zsa--a pit bull* mix--one of the most intelligent, gentle, sweet dogs I've ever spent time with. Lisa and Russell got Zsa Zsa after Sluggo died, and Sluggo was also a pit bull mix, and just as wonderful.

* Or as Lisa writes it, "pibble."

Almost all of Denver outlaws dogs which have the markings of a pit bull. When they are brought to the shelters, they are put to sleep. There is no effort to adopt them out. If they are not brought to shelters, animal control (on a tip, no doubt) will sometimes go to people's homes, take the dogs away from their families, and put the dogs to sleep.

We're looking into adopting one. A female. There's one at the shelter here in the Springs which is pretty certain to be adopted if we don't get it. We just found one that has been dog, child, human, and cat tested, had shots, gotten chipped, and done well in obedience school that the family must get rid of because they live in Commerce City (part of Denver).

Keep your fingers crossed that they haven't taken her to a shelter yet.

d