A Fine Friend

A tribute originating in February got shelved when our silly old dog's decline kept my emotions
in turmoil. Letting go of our furry friends weights so heart-heavy that realizing the inevitable
end brings little peace.

Maybe rabbits run across a meadow and proved irresistible chases in his dreams.

The wheeling motion of Woody’s pumping legs as he lay sleeping on the makeshift

garage floor bed showed some crazy action was happening in his subconscious. More

and more time spent in slumber each day gave old legs that could no longer steadily

carry his girth a chance to run again. Two previously torn CCL tendons saw to that. 

To watch those legs move conjured a doggy-dreamstate bicycle. Surely dogs reach REM, too.

At 98 in “people years,” Woody slept through most of his later days. 

I asked at our very first vet visit, “Is it true that puppies with a spot on their tongue are

smarter?” Dr. Peacock croaked a non-committal reply, “Sometimes they are. Sometimes
they aren't."

Woody proved to be clever if not smart, listening when otherwise unoccupied and

convenient to him. Searching the world via scent is so much more important to a

strong-willed dog. 

The thread-bare washcloths and towels we left available made excellent chew toys,

but all else on the floor was fair game. We dared not leave any shoes, lest they get

chewed to a leathery pulp, that lesson learned only once. All others went where they

belong -- in the closet, forcing me to tidy up better than normal for a few years.

A number of gross canine traits devolved into time-tested bad habits. The lovable
lummox advanced the art of fish bone scavenging and litter box sampling. Baby
gates aren't just for tiny humans. He perfected a warning growl to protect prized
possessions like a dead, maggot-infested baby possum, empty turtle shell with
bugs decimating the host's rotting carcass, residual post-deer-season legs. The
"drop it" command meant nothing from second-in-command me. Woody remained
Beta only to my husband. What about not biting the hand that feeds you?

The Kid being born put our five-year old cat in charge, proven when he went
into attack mode, I guess defending the baby and me. Woody went after a
dropped pacifier, I yelled, "No! Leave it!" apparently with too much urgency
that sounded a feline alarm. Char lit into the dog's head like only a cartoon
cat usually can. Four legs formed an aerial "X," claws pumping madly, a jab
here, a round house there.

Softer times came later. Many nighttime bottles spent with pre-dawn television
re-runs of Cops hosted a line of partners down my body -- baby in my arms, a
big silver striped cat on my lap, a smaller tabby outstretched on my legs, and a
big lummox dog on the dog at our feet. Tender wee hours stoked my postpartum
crying when I irrationally questioned God's letting him run away on a 4:00 am
escapade when let out to pee.

Neutering was one thing we did right to keep him close to home, healthier, and
prolong his life. He never destroyed baby toys, at least not with the cat in charge
and all the old ruined towels we gave him to chew. He basically teethed on them
just like the baby.

Along with allegiance to Alpha came submission and piddling, though. Being
former housebroken at the old hardwood floored farmhouse didn't earn him a
place inside our newer carpeted home when we moved. He pooped in the
basement, probably marking his new territory but sealing his fate. Instinct's
backfiring on him, our "family member" should've still lived inside instead of
simply existing apart from his pack.

Beta (me) cleaned the floors before, but Alpha (my husband) won the struggle
of Woody being banned to outdoors. The dog pen let Woody feel nature, and
the garage kept him warm at night in wintertime, but my guilt feelings still
overcome me when I get a whiff of that lingering yeasty smell out in what
became a bigger doghouse.

Our walks got shortened by old bones and sore joints, which made me sad.
A jaunt to the lake turned into a line down the street and back. Little stamina
diminished our ability to enjoy that time as much, regardless of our wishes.
Walks stopped entirely in June. Having him tug on the leash to go, that drive
to keep going, broke my heart a little. His determined will to live is probably
what prompted Alpha's absence and left Beta (don't moms always have to be
strong?) with the final vet trip responsibility. That really sucked.

It’s not all about me, but I’m tired of feeling sad so much of the time. People die, pets die, the

seasons change and nature dies, and all of it sucks bad.

No dog should be outside all the time. I now firmly believe domesticated animals belong inside --

cats AND dogs. I hope we change our ways if another dog blesses our home.

A veterinary condolence card made seeing those black pads and toenails with his inked

print bittersweet. Trying to get big webbed-foot-pawprint didn't work so well. He yelped unhappily

which seldom happened in 14-plus years.

With the cashing instinct still intact and so strong, Ol' Wood wiped out chasing a damned neighbor
poodle this summer and yipped painfully. He'd had such a high tolerance but then couldn't walk at
all, which meant we lifted him up to do his business. Pee cascaded over his feet, and sometimes
he pooped beneath himself and sat back into it. Your heart rips out watching that happen. A wise
women once told me how pets should be allowed dignity, too, and we have to decide when it's
time to let them go with some grace.

So I told his life story out loud in homage and embraced the poor fella as the vet administered the
euthanasia, my selfish olfactory sensitivity be damned, and bid farewell to our faithful friend and
my son's protector. Woody's cremains joined Char and Gris Gris up on the fireplace mantle with
my tired old heart. Maybe it's ridiculous to hold onto ashes and bone fragments, yet they may be
burnt up with my own body one day, and we can all go for a final swim in the river. Let's hope
there are a lot of rabbits to chase past the rainbow bridge.

How did camp creep up again?

sweet kitty pic apropos of nothing

I love/hate doing NaNoWriMo. Camp NaNo is less stressful as participants set their own word limits. Cranking out 50K during November tends to be too much pressure. Undeniably, I enjoy being part of the online community undertaking such huge projects. The camaraderie is fun. Watching NaNo Sprints via Twitter is intriguing - witnessing all the productivity when I could be sprinting myself has a somewhat self-defeating purpose. But I just can't seem to hang.

So I'm riding the fence about starting again tomorrow. My last Camp NaNo project sits listless on the back burner. It isn't even simmering, not even tepid, just cold and congealed. The project before that one is what I need to finish. It is simply stuck in the purgatory of revision. I've fallen out of love with my characters and can't seem to re-ignite the passion.

Meanwhile I try to use Studio 30+ writing prompt to actively create over at my other blog. Check it other over there. Whether I "go to camp" or not remains to be seen.

Cleo's Revenge - unedited

Who the hell was he, as a self-professed “dog person,” to smart off about her cat? He knew nothing about them, and a cat had never been known to like him either. Cats can sniff out the haters, you know. One particular torty she had used to get into the purse of anyone who came to visit, sniffed out their chewing gum or something, and pull things from within those confines. She’d warn her suitors how that little Tortoise Shell girl stole wallets. Some of them didn’t get the joke, which served as a good litmus test of their compatibility.

This particular feline-adverse fool had no cat sense. He watched the lovely calico go about her casual ways - lounging in a cozy ray of sunlight that crept in through a gap in the blinds - with no unnecessary hurry in her step. An aged cat leads a well-deserved life of luxury, but his scornful look proved he didn't approve. 

Cleopatra’s long orange, brown and tan hair and white stripe running the length of her nose, mixed with that look of intent longing when hungry, bore into her owner’s soul. She swooned as the cat wound in a figure-eight around her ankles.

The woman’s last boyfriend didn’t also experience the same attraction to Cleopatra. He had a cute face but a cold and ugly heart. If Cleo couldn’t chip away at his icy soul with her saucer-like eyes, then nothing could reach him. He was a lost cause.

Proof came when he asked why she was so lazy. Lazy? Cats are increasingly sedentary as they age. Cleopatra’s sore old bones and instinct tell her to nap throughout the day if no one is home.

Unless another kitty companion is with them, no other conceivable activity is worth their effort.  Especially not the expectations of an otherwise disinterested human who provides no sustenance, under-chin scratches or catnip. Someone like him simply doesn’t matter in the leonine world.

Cleopatra tried to warm up to him by bumping her head on his shoulder and rubbing her cheek against his shoe as he sat on her owner’s couch. She meant to leave her mark on him, just a little oil from her skin to make sure he knew it was her house and he was only a guest.  The disgust in his glare dripped off his face and onto her shiny coat, almost tainting its beautiful sheen. She felt dirty with his disdain and retreated to a corner to groom and rid herself of his condescension.  

He questioned her owner, “Why does it just sit there?” She huffed in reply and spat, “It? Her name is Cleopatra. You could at least say her.”

Ignoring the answer, he further inquired, “Why doesn’t it run around like a normal cat? It should pounce when you try to play with it.” Lip curled with displeasure, his unspoken hatred was obvious.  

Cleo was aghast to be left in that beast’s care when her owner went out of town for a whole week and left the cat at his apartment. He had grudgingly agreed to care for her but made no promises to scoop the litter box or pay her any attention whatsoever.

The jerk had no tolerance for a grimalkin such as her. He’d stomp in her direction and say, “Scat! Get out of here, cat!” He clapped his hands and shooed her away. He had no idea his downfall was imminent. She had plans for his undoing.

Her owner arrived on Friday afternoon to find Cleopatra cowering under the dining room table. After rising slowly to her mistress’s call of, “Here, kitty kitty,” wise Cleo limped slowly to the woman’s side and emitted a pitiful, ”Rorrrwl” in greeting before releasing a heavy breath and sinking back down on the carpet. The woman quickly scooped her from the floor for closer examination. Another pathetic and seemingly painful mewl elicited exactly the reaction she’d hoped.

The woman gasped, “Oh, you poor thing! What has he done to you?” She cradled the old cat gently in her left arm as she crafted a Dear John letter to her boyfriend with the other hand. It read:

“I don’t know exactly what happened to Cleopatra, but you’ll remain forever unforgiven in my heart. You are truly a monster, and I never want to see you again!”

Upon returning home, he was at a loss for what could have caused such a mysterious breakup.  He was perturbed at the ingratitude, having read the angry note just before he found the small brown gift Cleopatra left him on his pillow.   

(This was the initial version of a Studio 30+ prompt with a much shorter word limit.)

The Caretaker

via Magic Ketchup on Flickr

A faint whiff of Vicks VapoRub drifted across the stale room as her Mistress exhaled heavily and dispersed the scent. Even a cat could sense the thick medicinal smell. Moogie, a long-haired Calico, lay on the rocker’s seat next to the bed and lifted her head to sniff, sniff, sniff the air as felines are apt to do.

Moogie was originally called Mookie, regardless of being a female, after her favorite baseball player who’d helped the Mets beat the Red Sox in that “Buckner Play” during the ‘86 World Series. Her Mistress hated Boston. One of her favorite memories was listening to ball games on the radio back before her hearing failed. With her slurred speech following the stroke, nurses thought she called the cat “Moogie” instead of “Mookie,” and it had stuck.

Now the Mistress spent most of her days reading the paper, even though she may not remember what news she’d read minutes after setting it down on the night stand, or slowly rocking in the chair her late husband had built out of oak boughs. Moogie spent many afternoons on her lap in front of the window, resting in a supine position enveloped within an irresistible splay of sunlight. Her Mistress’s gnarled fingers still endlessly stroked the cat and immersed them both in joy. Such happiness had been hard to come by since the Master’s death several years prior and the failing health of her Mistress after that aneurism somewhat incapacitated her. Regardless, they still had each other.

The attentive companion realized a sudden absence of the sharp vapor aroma and crept from her perch on the rocking chair and onto the resting place of her Mistress. Moogie padded softly across the bird’s-nest patterned quilt, ironically named for the only other place the cat would rather be than with her beloved Mistress. The cat stepped gingerly to ascend the woman’s body and onto her regular nesting spot atop her chest. But her ears immediately perked up, as something was amiss upon her arrival there.

Moogie noticed the lack of a rhythmic tempo, the normal rise and fall usually present when she sunk into repose, and how the body of her Mistress seemed flat and absent of breath. The night nurse was in the other room and, unfortunately, had no way to know if anything was wrong. A growl emerged from Moogie’s throat at the possibility of that woman not paying attention.

Magic Ketchup on Flickr

She sprung into action and leapt into the hallway to gain the nurse’s attention. Of course, the lazy woman sat with a pile of knitting in her lap in front of a static-filled screen in the living room and her head lolling onto the back of the sofa. The white noise emitting from the television muffled any sound from the adjacent bedroom where her Mistress might lay dying.

Forming a tight figure eight around the dozing woman’s legs, Moogie intently rubbed on her calves and mewed as strongly as possible to rouse her from slumber. She ambled onto the sofa when those caresses seemed too slight to do the trick and alit on the back of the couch beside the nurse’s head. Moogie positioned herself strategically by the woman’s ear to let out a yowl loud enough to stir poor Mister, long since six-feet-under. The cat mustered all she had, for an aged being such as her, to wail at top volume.

It wasn’t actually the caterwauling that awakened the nurse but an annoying tickle from Moogie's long, white whiskers and a perpetual tinkle of the round bell hanging from her red collar that did it. The nurse bolted upright and rose to her feet, frightfully aware of her dereliction of duty. “Silly, cat,” she said. “What are you doing ... trying to steal my breath?”

As she strode toward the bedroom, the nurse called, “Missus, are you alright?” There was, of course, no answer. No stirring whatsoever came from within the confines of the room. A startlingly loud snort broke the silence just as she reached toward the Mistress to check on her odd state of still reticence, and the nurse let out a heavy sigh of relief. In her twist to find a comfortable position, the Mistress made several other snuffling sounds indicative of her persistent sleep apnea. The nurse retreated to her knitting once she’d pulled the mussed coverlet back up to her charge’s chin.

Already back up on the bed, Moogie wound her body in several circles before settling down once again at her Mistress’s side. She closed her still sharp green eyes and lost herself once again to repose amidst the familiar yet calming current of menthol breezing past her whiskers.


*This post was prompted by tinkle at Studio30Plus.