Chirp

The battery in one of my smoke detectors faded so it started to chirp. Thankfully this was at 9 pm instead of 4 am. Yeah, you know how that goes. The chirping really doesn’t wake you up. But it totally freaks out the dog. So I replaced the batteries and the chirping stopped.

Bob is still a little bit freaked.  Unsettled.  He’s staying close, and I reach down to nuzzle his muzzle.

And I realize that I’m a little bit freaked too. How much we are connected, how much he needs me. And how much I need him to need me. 

It’s been kinda weird lately – so many people ask how old Bob is. They think he’s a puppy, because his big paws look like something he needs to grow into.  But he’s almost six. That’s like serious middle age for a dog.

And recently, so many of my friends who are dog parents have had to deal with the thing you sign up for when you bring a dog into your life. My heart breaks for them. I’ve been there. And will be again.

Shit. He’s six. I’m starting to hear the chirping. I know we still have several years together. But I also know where this is ultimately gonna end up.

Bob, oh gosh, I’m just not sure the pain is worth it. But, here we are. So I guess we decided it is.

Good Lesson. Thanks Bob.

Water

Penny and Bob are amenable to sharing a water dish. For those of us who worried if they would ever peacefully coexist, this is a great relief. Still, this requires me as pet parent to ensuring that said water dish is always full. I confess I am not so good at that.

Ya see, all my previous dogs, and even cats, have figured out how to drink from the toilet. Much as we pet owners have positioned ourselves as being disgusted by this, we are secretly delighted that our furbabies have a constant source of water if we fail to refill the bowl with clean drinking water. Which we frequently do. We’re not perfect.

So, ya know, the toilet’s a pretty good back up to making sure our pets don’t get dehydrated.

Unlike my previous dogs, tank-like small Bob just can’t get into the toilet. And Penny, gymnast that she is, doesn’t seem to have the dexterity to pull it off either. And I wonder – are my furbabies uniquely lacking? I mean, Bob is not big, but he’s not Paris Hilton accoutrement size either.

No. They are not absurdly or fashionably small. They just can’t reach the toilet, and thereby assuage me of guilt of their dehydration.  Huh? Why?

And I realize when I scrub the toilets, and they take interest. I put the seat up. Which, being a single female, doesn’t happen very often. After I flush down the Comet, of course, they are VERY interested. Special moment when the seat goes up.

So someone missing in my life turns into something missing it their life. As simple as how to pee and drink. Who knew.

Bob’s mom realizes it’s not all that simple solo. Even if we’re only talking dogs and cats.

Good lesson. Thanks Bob.

Being loved for being

My church has a women's group once a month. This Saturday's topic was gratitude. As women, our bigger problem is accepting gratitude. Really? Do I deserve that?

This  doesn't  even occur to Bob. He doesn't have to do anything to be loved. And he is oblivious to the concept that it could be any other way. Love is there, Or it is not. Bob just sniffs it out either way.

Like you Bob. I don't need to do anything different to be loved.

Good Lesson. Thanks Bob

New Cat

Bob and I walked through our urban neighborhood this morning, instead of heading to the park as we usually do. In the postage stamp front yard of one of my neighbors sat a cat, a new cat whom I had not seen before. Once Bob got a whiff, his nose was magnetically pinned to the ground, sniffing every millimeter said cat might have walked. He was so focused on the trail that he completely missed the source who, cat-like, calmly and condescendingly observed my goofy dog.  Eventually, the olfactory parts of his brain gave way to the visual parts and he saw said cat. Who promptly departed.

At that point, I was given some insight into Bob’s neural priorities. He was clearly dismayed that said cat was gone before he had a chance for a proper greeting. He even sat down on the sidewalk for a bit, waiting expectantly for same. And then the olfactory drive kicked back in, and his sniffing took on a new urgency, as if he could smell the new cat into existence. Back home, he gave Penny, and the back yard, snorting comparative sniffs to confirm that, indeed, this was separate from and different to previous experience. And now he’s had his brekkies and is off to sleep…and dream, and ponder.

Life presents us with the unexpected. At the moment, we often miss the point. But it’s OK because our bodies, our subconscious…if you will, the universe…hold the moment for us until we are ready to see it.

Good Lesson. Thanks Bob.

By the way, Bob and I went to a Memorial Day cookout yesterday, and he made friends and melted hearts all around. Is Bob a great dog or what.

Cat Years

Penny has made it abundantly clear that she wishes to be an outdoor cat. The longing meows while perched on the window sill.  The dash for the door when I take out the garbage. I’m beginning to think that she is the one to greet me when I come home from a protracted absence not because of separation anxiety but rather because of the potential for escape.

With trepidation, I have acquiesced to this desire. We have a typical urban “backyard” i.e. a postage stamp patio surrounded by six foot walls. Certainly adequate to confine a dog (especially a tank like Bob), but not so much for a cat. Indeed, after a couple forays out back, Penny found her way to the top of, and eventually over, said walls. There follows several anxious hours while I try to convince myself that she’s perfectly capable of handling it. She’s chipped and spayed. She’s lived here more than a year now so she knows where home is. She can hold her own with Bob, so can most likely hold her own with whatever she meets out there. And she has her claws – I would not care to have my fingers amputated at the first knuckle, and suspect Penny feels the same.

Sure enough, she eventually finds her way back over the wall. Or, I was delighted to learn that she DOES recognize the back gate from the other side and meows for re-entry.

And it occurs to me; I have a teenager. Yes, there’s all that talk about one human year is equivalent to 7 dog years or 5 cat years or whatever. And that’s valid as far as physical aging is concerned. But psychologically and intellectually, dogs plateau as toddlers, and cats plateau as teenagers. Maybe that’s one difference between dog people and cat people. Some prefer the goofy childishness of a toddler dog.  Some prefer the challenges and rewards of a teenage cat. Standoffishness – the feline equivalent of the dreaded eye roll.  Which makes those moments when your cat deigns to acknowledge you that much sweeter. Letting Penny out gave me a glimpse of how parents feel when they hand the car keys to their 16-year-old, praying they raised them to make good decisions.

Reflecting on my own teenage years – I made some stupid decisions, yet managed to survive. And maybe that’s why cats seem to have nine lives. Testing one’s independence inevitably leads to some scary situations. With good guidance and God’s grace, teenagers (both human and feline) usually land on their feet.

Now that I think about it, I STILL make some stupid decisions. Hmm, maybe it’s not just cats who plateau as teenagers. Guess I’ll always be risking scary situations and stupid decisions. But given the alternative of longingly meowing at the windowsill, I’ll take it.

Good Lesson. Thanks Penny.

The Bob/Penny Crime Syndicate

Glad to report that Bob and Penny are getting along much better these days. Penny got a little bigger. And she found her claws. So now the wrestling is more of an even match, and all in good fun. Which usually concludes with a snuggle or, at least, détente.

Which means, of course, that they are now partners in crime. They pin me by weighing down the blankets on either side of me, so that getting out of bed in the morning is like crawling out of a sleeping bag. They collude to trip me up as I carry laundry on the stairs. And most importantly, anything, on any surface, is now within their grasp.

I previously commented on Bob’s prodigious counter-surfing skills. While impressive, he still needs to keep his back paws on the floor. Penny is not similarly enslaved by gravity. And, just like babies, cats are instinctively fascinated by batting things over edges. Catch a few viral videos if you doubt me.

I’m not a big fan of cop shows, but even I know that organized crime bosses usually get nabbed by something relatively innocuous like tax evasion or inhibiting interstate commerce. Not sure there are canine/feline equivalent statutes. Even if there were, Bob would just look at me quizzically and Penny would walk away huffing “Jeez – humans!”

So the best I can do is minimize the probability of the really bad outcomes in the gangland that my home has become. Poisons, breakables, sharp things. You know, the usual suspects.

Meanwhile, one thing is quite clear, which is obvious to anyone who has ever lived with both a cat and a dog. The cat is clearly the brains of the operation. And occasionally needs to remind the lesser species of that fact.

 

“Nothin’ to see here, ma’am”

Bob has to accept a little embarrassment in order to access the really good stuff at the back of the counters.

In other words, you gotta let go of control and accept help, in order to reach further.

Good Lesson. Thanks Bob.