Doc's Place: Pets and Animals

Doc And The Four Feet Of Zoom

Sun, 18 May 2008 01:14:41 GMT

My regular readers will remember the story of the cat enchilada, "I Didn't Know They Did That," from last February. Well, The Boys are at it again. For a little while I believed that they were past the point of being able to do anything really strange enough that I wouldn't at least know what to expect or where the behavior originated. I was wrong.

Bittle, my 10 year old feline has decided that when I go to bed, the bed becomes his, also. During the day, Stinky, the three year old, sleeps at the foot of the bed. Very rarely, they will agree to share the accomodations with me, but so far as I have observed, only if I am in the bed. As the evening progresses, Bittle tires and tends to just go on into the bedroom and sleep at the foot of the bed until I come in.

Stinky stays up to patrol the premises, sniff the outside air through the screen, and occasionally jump straight up into the air to catch a flying moth. He is deadly accurate in his these hunts and has certainly earned Ace status several times over. This is in part due to the "catch the laser dot" he loves to play, and partly due to the joint moth defense strategy we have developed. If I happen to see a moth before he does, I point it out to him with the laser. Sometimes when Stinky is across the room, I have to begin by shining the light on his foot and lead him to the general area of moth. If the offending insect is on the wall or ceiling, we work together as an attack team. I move the light beam up the wall, and possibly to the ceiling, as Stinky follows it with rapt attention. When he spies the bug, it's game on! I learned that I could assist by acting as both a spotlight to help him keep the moth in sight and, twice now, blinded the bug such that it fell halfway from the ceiling. I truly mean halfway, as Stinky meets it halfway, paws "clapping" together with amazing accuracy. This was actually a digression, but I find that it fits the title quite well.

Recall now that we are dealing with two neutered males with a combined weight of approximately 40 pounds. When I go to bed, Bittle reverts to a behavior he displayed as a kitten and wants to sleep very close to my head. We have agreed upon the non-word "flump" to signify that he is welcome to come sleep under my right arm; "OK, Bitty. You want to flump now?" He is usually in position before I finish the sentence. On the rare occasions that I go to bed while he is in another room, he will hop up to his spot, and if I chance to be trying to sleep on my side, he will tap my side with his right paw until I turn over onto my back. If I am unresponsive, he escalates to walking on me until I submit. Now we have the stage set for the actual four feet of zoom.

Bittle and I were in sleeping position, I on my back and Bittle settled in under my arm. As I was drifting off, I heard the sound of a beast charging down the hallway. Stinky jumped onto the far right edge of the bed, launched himself in an arc over Bittle and me, and bounced from the left edge of the bed to the floor. I was both startled and laughing at this unexpected cathleticism when Stinky repeated the action in reverse. Jump onto left edge, leap over those attempting to sleep, bounce off the right edge, and bound down the hall. Bittle and I discussed the incident briefly and came to the mutual conclusion that it was, indeed, unusual. We settled in again and were headed for dreamland when, about two minutes later Stinky repeated the run, jump to the left side, leap over us, bounce off left side, and land on the floor sequence. This time I was ready for the reverse double back bounce and was even poised to try to catch Stinky midair. I remained in that state of heightened vigilance and was ready for action for nearly 15 minutes. That is when I heard the "meow!" from the living room. I swear that Stinky is not only learning how to play games, but how to play quite effective head games.

Peace, Doc

"Of all domestic animals the cat is the most expressive. His face is capable of showing a wide range of expressions. His tail is a mirror of his mind. His gracefulness is surpassed only by his agility. And, along with all these, he has a sense of humor."
-- Walter Chandoha

G.D. And The Bird Buddy

Thu, 20 Mar 2008 22:13:35 GMT

I have almost always adopted "used" pets. From friends and family, from shelters, incorrigible and geriatric Samoyeds from the breeder, abandoned little people in fur coats who walked in the door and stayed; they're the best. I believe that they recognize that they have had a promise made to them, and that it is for life. They respond in kind.

When we first got a used parakeet from a sister-in-law and brother-in-law because it refused to talk, I was not entirely enthusiastic about the idea. These events usually take me a while to get used to, and to forget that they weren't originally my idea. This particular tail occurred in the early '80s when Firstborn and Number One Son were still quite young and impressionable. Initially, I referred to the bird as "God Damn Bird," but I couldn't say it above a whisper. I was a W. C. Fields comedy fan and recalled that he got around some of the censorship laws by implication or by using homonyms and heavily emphasizing certain syllables. Therefore, our little feathered family member was officially named "GOD-frey DAN-iel," which was often shortened to a simpler "G. D. Bird," or just G.D.

As (almost?) every parent knows, silence from toddlers for more than about three minutes, when they are not in direct line-of-sight, is a cause for concern. Our parental response was most frequently a call to them, asking "Whad-a-ya doin'?" As this was the most often repeated phrase in the home, it became our "speechless" budgie's favorite and most asked question.

G. D. was a healthy, friendly, outgoing, normal young male and quickly began to yearn for species-specific female companionship. I had learned from my own childhood success with Easter Chick ranching that this would not be a good idea. We therefore purchased a plastic model of a parakeet which was attached inside G.D.'s cage. Bird Buddy was mounted on one of the cage's perches. Repeatedly. So often, in fact, that we wondered which would be worse for the kids, hearing a bit of swearing or watching repeated acts of sodomy being performed by a bird on a piece of plastic. We should probably have named him Onan, "for he spilled his seed upon the ground." Who knew?

Being the psychologist of the house, I was expected to "do something about it." I was not sure at all what that "something" might be. I suppose it could have been as simple as removing the fake bird, but that seemed too easy and to be "unfair." I decided to try to replace the undesired sexual behavior with an alternative, socially acceptable one. When I initiated the plan, the first step was to to be stopping the undesired behavior. It never got much past that beginning because of Godfrey's response. When I caught him in the act, I grasped his tail feathers and began to gently pull him away from Bird Buddy. (I swear I am not making this up!) When G.D. noticed that his activity of choice was being interrupted, he turned his head, looked me in the eye, and asked, "Whad-a-ya-doin!?" I was too stunned and laughing too hard to proceed.

We had been clipping his wing feathers so that he couldn't fully fly, but just make a sort of wildly flapping downward glide to a lower object or to the floor. We decided to let his wings grow to their full length so he that could exercise more, and feel less need for Bird Buddy. He did this happily and was quite good at maneuvering in flight without running into anything in the house. He became accurate in landing on heads, shoulders, and extended fingers. He was happy while he lived with us. When we went on a short vacation, however, we asked a well meaning neighbor watch the house, water the plants and feed the critters for us. She took G.D. and his cage outside so he could get some fresh air and sunshine, not realizing that we were no longer clipping his wings. A cage door that did not latch completely was all it took for G.D. to gain his freedom and a chance to find the love of his life. When we returned from vacation, I was distraught and looked along tree rows, in parks, in bushes, called and whistled to him, all to no avail. I did, however see several other escaped or wild parakeets in the process and determined that they can survive the weather in this area. I finally convinced myself that he was meant to live free and find a mate. Over 30 years later, I still miss him, though.

Peace, Doc

"A Robin Redbreast in a cage Puts all Heaven in a Rage." - William Blake, Auguries of Innocence

They Never Did That Before

Fri, 22 Feb 2008 01:07:22 GMT

I was just sitting there quietly, waiting for nature to take its course, when I heard the thundering hoofbeats rapidly approaching. Well, it was only cat hooves, but two twenty-pound felines at full gallop will definitely get one's attention. I've been told by the downstairs neighbor that she can hear the cat crazies when they occur, but that she kind of likes it. That, in itself, is a blessing as she is one of the apartment complex managers. Sorry. Wandered off, there.

Usually, Stinky will chase Bittle until he can catch him and groom him. End of "fight." Today however, Bittle was chasing Stinky as fast as I have seen them run since the move here. When they reached the end of the hallway, they had to either turn or run into boxes. Stinky broke left, into the bedroom and Bittle turned right, into the bathroom. Odd. This reversed their usual pattern. Stinky ended up somewhere in the bedroom, though I frequently find him rolling on his back in the bathtub. Bittle, who most frequently hangs out on the opposite side of the short hallway, found himself in the bathtub and appeared to be confused about this outcome. He carefully inspected the tub, faucets, odors, and then looked to me for an explanation. I had none to give, but offered to pet him, instead. He accepted that as an viable alternative and then lay down on the bathroom floor mat, parallel to the tub.

This had me laughing, but it was not yet over. You really have to have a mental picture of Bittle lying peacefully, near the center of a bathroom rug, to fully enjoy the next event. Bittle was parallel to the tub, but the rug's long side was perpendicular to it. After a moment, Stinky charged Bittle from the bedroom. Three things happened almost simultaneously. As Stinky tried to slow himself, he got his claws caught in the near end of the rug. As he made a leap into the tub to avoid hitting the side, the end of the rug, caught on his claws, went with him. This had the effect of folding the rug approximately in half, covering Bittle completely except for his tail.

Bittle reacted to this charge with a slight delay. As Stinky reached the mat, Bittle began to roll away from him, toward the tub. With the rug already in the process of covering him, this action resulted in Bittle unintentionally rolling himself up completely in the carpeting. The picture here is one of a large enchilada with a black, furry tail sticking out, a vaguely concerned Stinky watching over the edge of the tub, and Doc laughing hysterically. They hate it when I laugh like that. I'm sure they know that the joke is at their expense.

Stinky beat a hasty retreat into the hallway, and I did the best I could to calm and unroll the enraged cat enchilada. As the above circumstances may suggest, this proved to be somewhat difficult and further time was required to pacify the contents of the carpet. Life returned to normal as quickly as the strangeness began. We are all three now either napping or watching Dr. Strangelove on "free on demand" TV. Somehow that strikes me as being eerily appropriate.

Peace, Doc

"Who would believe such pleasure from a wee ball o' fur?" - Irish Saying

The Thing, the Son of the Thing, and so on to the Great Great Granddaughter of the Thing

Sun, 09 Dec 2007 14:52:09 GMT

I am an easy touch for almost all of the non-human population of creatures on the planet. I develop a feeling of responsibility for the health and welfare of virtually any critter I meet that does not immediately bite, sting, or otherwise try to kill me on sight. I am the sort that catches a moth and releases it outdoors rather than swatting it or takes a newly caught mouse from the cats and releases it into the bushes.

I suspect it will change with the new owners, but I let mulberry trees grow in the back and side yards, along the fence line, because the deer in the area loved the berries. I could easily determine this to be true by the deer scat under them. The neighbors considered them to be junk trees, but the deer did not. The trees stayed because I liked the deer better. The fruit that fell from the apple tree was left lying on the ground and it was well received by the local critter population. One of the most pleasant memories of the house on Deer Run Drive is of the hoof and paw prints in the new snow circling that tree. The gate to the decrepit fence was always left open for them if there did not happen to be a dog running around the in yard. One reward for that was seeing a doe and three fawns standing in the front yard, seemingly unafraid, shortly before I sold the property.

The same care goes for the rabbits that were seen as "pests" when they ate the neighbors’ flowers or other decorative vegetation. Again the neighbors were irritated when I left a roughly ten foot square patch of grass uncut in an otherwise well mowed lawn. It grew to a height of about 10 to 12 inches before it was cut because there was a rabbit nest in the middle. When the occupants were old enough to leave the nest, the miniature jungle was mowed. On one occasion, nearly 30 years earlier, I was so protective of baby rabbits in our back yard that I sat and held a golf umbrella over the nest during a hailstorm so they would not be harmed. Even toads were picked up, reassured that the ivy garden was a much more pleasant environment, and deposited there when I mowed.

Bosley, the Schnauzer in the picture of my very large orange toy airplane, developed diabetes at about six years of age. The house in the background of that photo was selected, in part, for privacy such that I could collect his daily urine sample, following him around with a paper cup, hopefully unobserved by the neighbors. He lived for another six years following the diagnosis and beginning the insulin injections.

The Things have not yet been explained, have they? Old peoples’ minds tend to wander. That shall be remedied. I bought a Ford Ranger pickup truck in 1986 to be used for transportation, hauling stuff (Oh, how I wished I had it during the move,) and as the chase vehicle for flying in Cross Country RC sailplane competition. Rangers had a reputation for beginning to self-destruct at around 50,000 miles. Mine was donated to charity at just short of 250,000 miles. Keeping a vehicle this long leads to a certain number of idiosyncrasies. One was that the door seals wore, or were chewed, in a manner that would allow small critters access to the cab of the truck. Another was the seeds for the bird feeder that I spilled in the bed of the truck and never cleaned out. This, along with the cold weather that brings field mice and similar little beings into the warmer living space of a garage set the stage. The glove compartment of the truck became the winter home to several generations of Things. I never saw one in person, but found ample evidence of their presence including nests made from a cloth handkerchief or tissues, thing poop, seed hulls, and other evidence of occupancy. Further, I believe that the knowledge of the sucker with the truck was passed on from generation to generation for the 17 years that I kept the Ranger. It was pleasing to know that I was providing for a multigenerational extended family, so I made it a habit to spill a fair amount of bird seed in the bed of the truck every time I bought a bag.

Now the truck is gone, the Things are gone, the garage is no longer mine, but the fond memories remain. This has also become one of the series of tiny acts that I can look back on and tell myself that I'm not too bad a person after all.

Peace, Doc

"What is done out of love always takes place beyond good and evil." - Friedrich Nietzsche

Who Let The Cat Out Of The Bag?

Wed, 19 Sep 2007 10:42:23 GMT

A funny thing happened in the middle of a dream last night. A second home appraiser had been here in the afternoon taking pictures, measurements, and generally looking things over, inside and out. He seemed to be in favor of granting the desired mortgage to the potential buyer. Then again, so did the first one, when he was here. At any rate, I felt relatively positive when he left but resolved not to plan definitely for either selling or staying. I will continue to do things that I should do whichever the case may be. It is certainly an opportunity to continue getting rid of stuff that I know I'll never really use but just don't want to admit it. So the house is getting cleaner and more barren inside while looking OK from the outside (not counting the need for a coat of paint and the replacement of a few deteriorating pieces of decorative trim.) All in all, I was feeling more positive than not when I went to sleep. No disturbing dreams that I can recall. Everything seemed normal.

I awoke with a start, at about 2:15 a.m. I don't know what prompted it, but I had a sudden realization that I hadn't seen Bittle since the appraiser had been here. I was immediately worried because he has usually walked over me two or three times by that hour and generally let his desire for a treat be known. Perhaps it was the lack of an expected stimulus that startled me awake in almost the same way that the presence of unexpected one would have. A notion similar to the certainty that kids are getting into trouble if you don't hear them bickering for two minutes straight. While still dazed, I recalled that the appraiser had not closed the door when he went into the back yard for pictures.

I ran around checking every room in the house, the basement, and the garage. Stinky helped by running with me and causing me to trip or leap over him several times when he stopped abruptly. No Bittle. The doors had been shut and locked when the appraiser had taken his leave, so that made me certain that Bittle must be locked outside. All outside lights were turned on and out I went in search of Bittle the Timid. He's not the brightest cat in the world and generally just won't do outside. Being locked out of the house would have unhinged him more than it did me. I didn't bother with shoes as I deemed this an emergency search and rescue operation. For my valiant efforts I was rewarded by running through the overripe crab apples under the decorative tree near the front door. Dry socks and squooshy crabapples are not a pleasant combination, either in theory or practice. That turned out well enough, though, as the wet grass washed most of the crabapple sauce out as I wandered around the lawn attempting to whistle and call Bittle without frightening him more. I couldn't find him and eventually went back to the house.

As I entered the front door, Bittle and Stinky were both standing in the foyer looking at me as if I were a madman. I suppose I did look that way, actually, with the soggy socks, serious agitation, and all. I then sat down on the floor and had a talk with The Boys. It was comprised primarily of trying to convince them that hiding was not a good thing for them to do and that if they caused me to have a heart attack, treats would likely cease rather quickly. I think they understood at least a little of my concern as they both followed me to the bedroom, jumped onto the bed, and settled in. Waiting for their treats.

Peace, Doc

"A cat determined not to be found can fold itself up like a pocket handkerchief if it wants to. ~Louis J. Camuti"

I'm Being Watched!

Wed, 27 Jun 2007 10:52:01 GMT

I think they suspect something.

Penetrating stares

Hidden thoughts 'hind half-closed eyes

Can't ignore the cats

When I see four eyes examining me in that way it can only mean one of three things:

1.) We want a treat.

2.) He's up to something.
3.) We want a treat!

Peace, Doc

"Never try to outstubborn a cat." - Lazarus Long (A Robert Heinlein character,) Time Enough for Love.

The Return of the Bears

Wed, 23 Aug 2006 11:38:02 GMT

I was carefully considering what to write that could possibly be more interesting than the comment section has been recently when my muse came a knockin’ at the window. Quite literally so. The “bears” are back. Improbably enough, Rocky and family were scrabbling around on the roof and bonking against the window at exactly the time I finished a comment on Cheryl’s site regarding raccoons. At least this time they did not startle me nearly as badly as the first time they came calling. I may have become a part of their regular nighttime rambles. I shall have to prepare more thoroughly for their next visit.

Again I threw open the draperies, this time armed with my Mag Light, only to shine it into two inquisitive faces. Their pupils were equal and reactive to light, but that was about the extent of their response to my presence. They showed absolutely no fear and actually seemed to appreciate the light as one worked his way between the partially open outer window and the closed inner one. Another family member watched with interest, somewhat impatiently awaiting a turn at window squeezing. Knocking on the window, even whacking it rather sharply by Rocky’s ear with the Mag Light, had no effect.

When everyone had their turn to see if they could somehow either find a desirable bug to eat or break into the house, they sauntered off at their own pace. This is the sort of incident that degrades a man’s belief that he is the defender of the home. I can only assuage my self-esteem by stating I was unarmed, outnumbered, and the attack cats were again otherwise occupied.

On the next visit, I hope to be prepared with charged batteries in the camera. There is just no way to describe adequately a raccoon, flattened belly first against one’s window, and actively trying to get in. As a final question to any who may know; is there any danger involved in leaving raccoon poop on one’s roof, other than the obvious aesthetic disadvantage?

Peace, Doc

Bears on the Roof

Sat, 19 Aug 2006 01:03:05 GMT

A few nights ago, I heard the bears on the roof. Either bears, or a very inept burglar, I thought. It certainly sounded like that, at least, because it was right outside the bedroom window. Large bodies moving, scrabbling around on the shingles of the front porch roof, even a scratching and “knock” on the windowpane. OK, I will admit that it had my full attention by that time. I even asked the person I was chatting with to call the police if I was not back in a very few minutes. The attack cats were conveniently busying themselves elsewhere and I was in this alone.

I crept toward the window as silently as possible, only tripping over a box once. When I got there, I waited a moment to build up courage, and then flung open the curtains to surprise the uninvited intruder. Nothing. I could not see well because the light was inside and the outside was dark. Therefore, my eyes were not night adapted. I bent over a cedar chest so that my nose was nearly touching the windowpane and peered out. I still could not see anything out of the ordinary. Until a small masked face appeared about six inches away and stared at me, that is. I am not at all sure which of us startled the other more. I reflexively jumped back and the young raccoon froze in place. I am pleased to report that I neither fell over anything nor harmed myself in any way during this nighttime terror.

The little person just stayed there, looking in the window, so I was forced to do something manly and inhumane. I went back and looked at him. When even that was not enough to frighten him, I was forced to more drastic action. I tapped on the windowpane. That did not bother him either, but I think it was what finally convinced Mother Raccoon and the rest of the tribe to call their adventurous family member to leave.

Is there a moral to this story? I suppose only that things that go bump in the night are seldom as frightening as they seem. Also, never to trust a chat partner to call the police, especially if they are living on another continent.

Peace, Doc

On the Bathroom Behavior of Cats

Mon, 10 Jul 2006 11:59:38 GMT

I was toilet trained early, so I am told. I believe I still retain those habits most of the time. I seem to have some strange attractiveness, however, to used cats who are also interested in bathroom functions. This first became apparent with Boomer, who absolutely loved to stand over the seat and watch the water swirl as the toilet was flushed and always was thrilled with the “glup-glup” noise the water made at the end of each flush. Sometimes I treated him to a glup-glup without ever having used the facilities. He loved it.

In turn, Boomer taught this same interest, before his passing, to Bittle, who didn’t seem to understand why he was supposed to like it but quite dutifully carries on the tradition. Somewhere near the beginning of the “Quite Extraordinary Cats” photo set, both are standing proudly and intently on the seat of the commode. Bittle, when a kitten, liked to sleep close to or nestled into the hair on my head. His own brand of unique bathroom behavior developed from that. At infrequent but absolutely hilarious moments, this 20 pound “kitten” can be found sitting on my head as I am sitting on the other type of head in the room.

Shortly following his recent adoption, Squeaky (see the “Name-the-Used-Cat-Contest” photos) developed nearly the same interest without any formal education in bathroom loitering. Actually, he follows me quite closely wherever I go in the house, including the bathroom. He has also become quite adept at hiding around corners and pouncing on, or leaping at, passers-by. When he does this to Bittle, he ends up licking his head and cleaning him. Unfortunately, he usually does this to me after I have entered the restroom and am standing in front of the porcelain god, preparing to relieve myself. Then the butterscotch streak leaps out of the shower and hangs his head and paws over the rim to observe what may be about to occur. No, the obvious has not yet happened. All I can do is pray. Please, God, do not let me pee on the cat.

Peace, Doc

We Have a Winners

Tue, 02 May 2006 19:40:30 GMT

I have read that when one finds oneself in a hole, one should stop digging. The hole I find myself in is that I have no idea how to choose a winner (because you all are) and no idea what to offer as a prize or prizes. Of course you all have my thanks for participating. You gave me insights into something I had not really considered; names evolve and mutate until all concerned finally mutually agree upon one or two that feel right and that even that changes with circumstances. OK. Contest is officially over as of 12:00 noon 05/02/06. At this point the little furry person's name is:

Neo Jiro, Cesar Jeb, Jennifer Lennibur H.R. Puffinstuff Belly Rub Car Cat, Feline Unit 5, Pumpkin, Jack-o-Lantern, Jethro, Buddy O'Hell, Pickle, Billy Bob, Beanie Weanie, GigaByte, Blackie, Butter-Butt, Butter, Blondie, Blooper, Mi Amigo, Morris, Thomas O'Malley, TAFFY, walt, kingkat, Charlie, little yellow, creamcicle, mouse, Maximillian, Max, Camthalion Tulcakelumë (Gold Storm), Tathar Narmolanya (The Golden King), Dínendal Melwasúl (The Peaceful Ruler), Clive, Charlie, MegaBite, Morris, Murphy, Saffron, Sphynx, Mouse, Marmalade, Clyde Warm M Celtic/Gaelic, shaun God's Gift M Celtic/Gaelic, PLATO, elliot, Sandy, tequila, Oisin: Son of the great leader Finn McCool, MacDoogie, Sam, Samuel, Mr. Green Jeans, Butterscotch, Doc, LOVE, Stinky, Charmer, Charm, Beta, Bert, Lego, Dagwood, butterscotch, scotch, Hickory, Pink.

Yep. I like it. That is the winner! I am going to have to print this out to take with me to the vet when I take him in for his shots and their form may not accept this long a name, but that is their problem. I have learned some things about him since I started this that may be included in his name. He is so vocal and uses so many different sounds that “Squeaker in Tongues” or “Blatherskite” are possible. If he keeps eating at the present rate, “Tubby” will be appropriate. He has gained a pound in two weeks. He and Bittle have become friends/brothers and can seen greeting each other nose-to-nose or sleeping with their backs touching. The only precaution seems to be not getting between him and the food.

I seriously want to give a prize to all of you for the interest, love, and thought you put into this. The first is my thanks and my knowledge that so many friends took the time to participate in a silly, fun thing like this. You also all get a haiku in your honor. Please let me know if you would like a link, a special list of meritorious cat namers, or --- what?

Name deciders all

Showed me their love and caring

And it is returned

Peace, Doc

Name-The-Used-Cat-Contest

Thu, 27 Apr 2006 01:54:53 GMT

It is time to launch Doc’s used-cat-naming-contest. I mentioned a prize for this, didn’t I? You realize, I hope, that this prize will have little or no cash value. There is an excellent reason for this. I have little or no cash. Especially since getting el gato. I have several facts and observations about the little person to list that may help in deciding on names (multiple suggestions are welcomed.)

Bittle and I had discussed this issue and the plan was to go to a shelter and let Bittle choose his new sibling. My Number One Son and Significant-Other-in-Law decided to get me a present I would like and surprise me with him. They did.

The two cats are competing for non-Alpha status. Bittle was so used to deferring to Boomer, that he doesn’t really know how to be an Alpha cat, and the little guy may not know how to be a cat yet. They get along well when I am not present, being able to touch noses without getting upset. If I am present, the competitive behavior starts. They may both think I am the Alpha.

The new cat came from the shelter named Buddy, and his personality fits. He is sweet, tolerant, loving, likes to cuddle, loves to eat, and kills mice. Unfortunately, the mice are of the computer kind and he has killed three in three days. He kills optical scroll mice, no less. Yesterday I bought a wireless mouse and have had no problems since. Given the Alpha cat problems and his penchant for computers, Beta has been suggested as a name. Knowing of his color and hunger, and my taste in food, Burrito was also suggested

He is scrawny, has been neutered, is about a year or less old, has had clumps of hair shaved from so many parts of his body that he is quite scruffy looking, and is a dark cream color. He is a longhaired male like Bittle (on the unshaved parts, at least) and, had I gotten both at the same time, Coffee and Cream would have been good name choices.

Finally, all the names suggested have begun with the letter B. I do not know how I feel about that. I get confused and the cats may, too. Boomer, Bittle, Buddy, Beta, Burrito. There is no intentional tradition with B-names, so whatever you like is fine.

The prize could be a link, a haiku in honor of the winner, a post as a guest columnist on Doc’s Place, or something of equal value or lack thereof.

Have a good go at it, in the manner of T. S. Elliot, in naming le chat.

Peace, Doc

Cats and Computers

Wed, 12 Apr 2006 09:23:51 GMT

Cats and computers have a strange, sometimes strained, relationship. I believe that most of these behaviors have something to do with them perceiving the computer as competition for their person’s attention, as simply a thing unworthy of their attention, or occasionally as a toy.

I first noticed this over 10 years ago when Boomer was young, active, curious, and I was using a word processor (remember those) in my basement workshop. I would occasionally find a “9, 0, p, or o” in the text that I knew I had not entered. Look at your keyboard now. They form a cluster. This cluster was where Boomer first stepped on the keyboard when slipping through a space between the stairway and my basement workbench. He always came in from about 2:00 high. Mystery solved. I printed out and kept some of his better works for posterity.

A few years ago, I discovered that cats like to lie on top of CPUs for warmth and to be somewhere relatively high where they can pounce on you if they so choose. To keep my two boys from traveling from that CPU to a printer, to another computer and keyboard, to a scanner, to paperwork, etc., I put up a visual barrier of corrugated white plastic sheet. This worked well with Bittle, but Boomer took one look at it, whacked it aside, and proceeded to get into the very trouble I was trying to prevent. I had to sit down with him in my lap and reason with him. He did not concur. We reached a compromise, though. Each time I intercepted him, he could sit on my lap, between me and the monitor, with occasional petting, as long as he wanted. That worked. To this day, Bittle has not figured out that that the visual barrier can be moved, but meows to sit in my lap after approaching me from the floor. He is also willing to be picked up from the top of the CPU for a lap sitting session.

Surprisingly, they took little interest in optical mice, printers working, the noises of dialup or a fax, or the operation of any other office equipment. Occasionally they might show a startle if a noise was unusually loud and unexpected, but usually they were quite laid back. Very few things irritated them in the office. Their taste in music, however, was not as eclectic as my own. One only had to play Pink Floyd’s Several Species of Small Furry Animals Gathered in a Cave Grooving on a Pict to clear the room.

Catnip distribution presented another problem. It had to be laid out on a slick surface like the cover of American Psychologist and then, just as they began to debate which was whose, the journals were traded such that each believed that they had just won. From that point to the cat crazies, a judicious sprinkle of the evil weed was placed before whichever boy was about to run out and try to get the other’s. Refereeing during the 2.75 minutes of pure cat intoxication was then my duty, after which they would both lie down for a nap.

Now Bittle is relearning a number of behaviors since he has become the only, and therefore the Alpha, cat. He still defers to a cat not present, and continues to call him to dinner, refusing to eat Fancy Feast when he sees me open the can. He does not believe it is his until it becomes “leftovers” in his mind. We adapt. “Do not meddle in the affairs of cats, for they are subtle and will piss on your computer.” – Bruce Graham. Bittle vomits.

Peace, Doc

Cat-atonia

Fri, 30 Dec 2005 20:23:05 GMT

I awoke this morning in pain from my waist down and unable to move. The pain part was nothing new. With the blown discs I have, it only signifies that I should take my meds and I will feel better soon. The inability to move my legs was of somewhat more concern, however. Translate that that to “scared the hell out of me.”

I am fairly certain that I was in an Alpha state because other things were not exactly as I would normally expect. For example, I believed that I saw the Oscar Meyer WienerMobile parked in front of a Ukrainian manufacturing facility on CNN at that same time. As my level of consciousness raised sufficiently to perceive my surroundings a bit more clearly, I discovered that I was merely the unsuspecting victim of cat snuggling. Boomer and Bittle had responded to my turning the heat down to conserve energy and dollars by seeking out the warmest sleeping area in the house. Each had edged in as close as possible to my legs, on opposite sides, thus gaining the most comfort and heat for themselves and pinning me in place very effectively. Bittle was solidly placed, his back to the back of my knees, and unwilling to wake up. Boomer was on his back, feet in the air and paws curled happily in front of my knees. They were so maddeningly cute and happy I ignored the pain for a while and just watched them sleep. I was even able to get a pain pill without waking them. Eventually I had to get up, but opened the Fancy Feast and distributed it as a “cuteness reinforcer.” What can I tell you? Sometimes the reinforcement dispenser does not act in his own best interest. This is leading up to Good News Day, after all, even if my left leg still hurts.

Briefly, and on a much less “fluffy” note, is a disturbing revelation over the past several days about the NSA planting traceable cookies on site visitors’ computers. A column followed this on Wired News from the Associated Press suggesting that Whitehouse dot gov, “unbeknown to the Bush administration,” is doing the same thing. You may view the latter article at the following URL:

http://www.wired.com/news/wireservice/0,69945-0.html?tw=rss.index

“We have met the enemy and he is us.” Pogo

Peace, Doc

Chicken

Fri, 28 Oct 2005 21:44:49 GMT

Once upon a time, long ago during my childhood, it was considered socially acceptable to give live, brightly colored baby chicks as Easter presents. This is a prohibited activity today as it generally resulted in the nearly immediate demise of said chicks and is now considered cruel. Oh, well, that was pretty much what the parents giving the gift had in mind, anyway. Make the child happy for a few days but not have to worry about keeping a permanent pet. They were disposable.

One Easter when I was young, I received four chicks in this manner. Being the thoughtful and original chicken name assigner that I was, they were called, Yellowy, Reddy, Greenie, and Bluey. That also made it much easier to differentiate one from another. As my family somewhat patiently awaited their passing, I was occupied becoming a chicken farmer. The original chicken sellers had made an error (or maybe not) by including a rooster with three hens. I was successful. All four thrived to a healthy adulthood. They produced eggs and descendants unto at least the third generation. Uncle Barney was somewhat displeased when I took over his tool shed for use as a chicken coop, but I was humored and they acquired a home base. This was at least in part due to the fact that I became quite loud and confrontive if my flock was threatened. While the normal course of feeding, egg gathering, and chicken poop removal proceeded, an unusual behavior on Bluey’s part, first noticed when the four were tiny, developed into a full blown imprinted behavior. She considered our dining room her first home and would wander into the house whenever a door was open or when she was deliberately allowed in.

Bluey would cluck and squawk in greeting and, amazingly, had learned bowel and bladder control somewhere in the process. She hardly ever made a mistake. On the rare occurrences that she did, she appeared to know that this was unacceptable and acted as if she knew she had done something wrong. By this time, my family had realized their error and simply accepted a chicken wandering around the house as an acceptable part of life. They laughed about the situation but had undoubtedly also decided never to make the same mistake again. No specific effort was made to teach her any further tricks. The accomplishment of becoming a housetrained, gregarious chicken was enough for all of us. The only problem that arose was the occasional chicken visit while there were adult visitors in the house. Although my family made light of these rare occasions, they were undoubtedly embarrassed when a chicken walked through the house, undermining their desire to be perceived as Lace Curtain Irish rather than Shanty Irish.

When the flock had grown to nearly 20, I infrequently noticed that one was missing. This was infrequent enough that I accepted natural causes or actions by a predator as a reasonable explanation. There came a day, however, when I found that two chickens were missing. My vast experience as a chicken farmer suggested to me that something was amiss. My uncle Barney who had bred everything from worms to mink to chickens was doing what one does with adult chickens, frying them. It also came to my attention that my family was in on the conspiracy because on the same evening that I had earlier noticed two young adults missing, fried chicken was served for dinner. Although a compromise was eventually struck, I refused to eat that night and on any other night that chicken was on the menu and I had not counted the flock recently.

Peace, Doc

Godfrey Daniel

Sun, 25 Sep 2005 00:26:46 GMT

Those of you who have read my earlier posts know that I take animals in rather than buy them from pet shops, breeders, and the like. When we were offered a used parakeet by my then brother- and sister-in-law because he refused to talk, we took him. I have to admit that, at the time, I was less than enthusiastic about the acquisition and referred to our feathered responsibility as the “G*d D*mn Bird.” I was quickly disabused of calling him that because there were two young and impressionable offspring in our home. What should we call him, then?

Those of my generation will remember watching even older comedies starring W. C. Fields. One of his trademark phrases to circumvent the censorship rules then in effect was to substitute “GODfrey DANiel” for G*d D*mn. Godfrey was thus named and I could still refer to him as “G. D. Bird.”

At first, despite our efforts, teaching him to say anything besides “skraak” or “tweet,” were to no avail. In those too-long-ago days, I was not so well versed in training animal behavior and we had no specific program for him. He learned, but not what we wanted him to learn. Anyone who has raised children knows that it is usually a bad sign when one realizes that they have been awake but quiet for more than about five minutes. The most frequently heard question in the house at that time had become “What are you doing?” Due to the sheer number of repetitions of this question, Godfrey passed go, collected 200 bird treats and adopted the most common phrase in the house.

Being asked, “What are you doing?” by a bird was sometimes oddly bothersome because I felt that I owed him some sort of answer.

Godfrey was a healthy young male but appeared lonesome for companionship from other birds. We purchased one of the plastic bird replicas that attached to one of the perch rails in his cage. Godfrey was pleased with this and quickly began to treat the plastic bird as real. All too real, unfortunately. Godfrey developed an intimate relationship with Bird Buddy, which evolved into dozens of attempts per day to mate with it. Probably the offspring should be spared exposure to this also.

I swear the following is true. In the process of trying to extinguish the lewd and lascivious behavior with Bird Buddy, one day I tried a simple intervention. When Godfrey mounted Bird Buddy, I simply grasped his tail feathers and pulled him away. He turned his head, looked directly at me, and asked, “What are you doing?” To this day, I believe that he knew exactly what he was asking.

Peace, Doc

Avian Escapades

Tue, 13 Sep 2005 10:58:13 GMT

When the unit staff and I found that we could get away with having horses, small and large dogs, and other small animals visit, and could have a fish tank on an approved basis, of course we had to push the envelope yet again. The Activity Department is nearly always the most popular department among the patients. It was volunteered to be the test site for our latest subversive critter actions with my promise to keep them personally immune from management repercussions even if it proved necessary for me to symbolically fall upon my desk set in sacrifice. Two agreed somewhat reluctantly and one agreed with great enthusiasm. She was the one that let us “borrow” on a nearly permanent basis one, and later in time, another cockatiel.

When the first bird, a friendly male, was introduced to his cage in the activity room, he seemed to take to it immediately. He made happy sounding bird noises when people came into the room and was very sociable to all. When the AT room door was closed he was allowed to walk or attempt to fly around freely. He quickly learned not to fear staff or patients. The only negative thing that ever happened to him was a time when an overenthusiastic woman wanted to hold him so badly that he lost a few tail feathers. They grew back but he was somewhat unstable in pitch and yaw control while flying until then. He had us trained to let him out during daily staff meetings and would participate in them by perching on shoulders and strutting around the circular table where the treatment team met with the patient to discuss their treatment and discharge plans. When we introduced a female cockatiel in an attempt at matchmaking, she quickly adopted the flying, vocalizing and table walking behaviors, but with an attitude. They did mate but produced no offspring, possibly because she pecked the male frequently and for no apparent reason.

The pair became so used to people, especially to men, that they would often perch on a shoulder throughout an entire staff meeting. They especially liked me. I was quiet, didn’t get up and down or move around much during meetings, had plenty of hair to bite, and when I spoke, it was usually in a relatively quiet voice. I therefore often had at least one on a shoulder. Sometimes they even went to sleep there (I was usually able to stay awake for the whole meeting, but not always.) This sounds idyllic but it had one major drawback, as far as I was concerned. Cockatiels shit. One could gauge the approximate length of the meeting by the amount of cockatiel poop on my shoulders. No poop = short meeting, one dropping = normal length meeting, and two or more, or at least one on both shoulders = meeting was much too long. One completely unexpected and inadvertently learned behavior the male displayed was an attraction to men in suits. Consultants, some male family members, and at one time the interim CEO for the hospital were made to feel welcome by a bird landing on their shoulder and chirping sweet nothings into their ear. As my face and brain were draining of blood as opposed to my more common blushing response, the acting CEO complimented us on having such a good AT department and including the birds as part of the treatment environment. Wow! We got away with it and I didn’t even have to sacrifice myself.

Peace, Doc

The Naming of Cats

Thu, 14 Jul 2005 09:14:10 GMT

T. S. Eliot - The Naming of Cats

The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,

It isn't just one of your holiday games;

You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter

When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.

First of all, there's the name that the family use daily,

Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James,

Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey--

All of them sensible everyday names.

There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,

Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:

Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter--

But all of them sensible everyday names.

But I tell you, a cat needs a name that's particular,

A name that's peculiar, and more dignified,

Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,

Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?

Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,

Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,

Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum-

Names that never belong to more than one cat.

But above and beyond there's still one name left over,

And that is the name that you never will guess;

The name that no human research can discover--

But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.

When you notice a cat in profound meditation,

The reason, I tell you, is always the same:

His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation

Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:

His ineffable effable

Effanineffable

Deep and inscrutable singular NAME.

This is a favorite of mine as it portrays some of the mystery of cats. I have it "somewhere" but was afraid to venture into that particular corner of my home office given that it has strata of papers dating back to 1998 and my general klutziness lately. I found it online at: http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/tseliot/5536 This is an interesting site to view if you want to search for poetry by era, author or site search.

Peace, Doc

Quite Odd Cat Behavior - III

Thu, 07 Jul 2005 03:29:07 GMT

Due to the continued interest in odd feline behaviors I will deal with two more short episodes before moving on to such special features as as "The Avenging Angel of Mental Health," liberating and posting cat pictures, further self-pity and general blathering.

Although I knew cats have a vocabulary of about 100 distinct noises they are capable of making while dogs rely on only about ten, once Bittle truly surprised me. It was Spring and I was working (really) in my home office with the windows open and Bittle was holding down a scanner so it wouldn't magickally rise into the air and disappear while he was watching the world outside. I heard cars go by occasionally, children playing, birds chirping ... in stereo. Bittle was literally mimicking the birds he heard, presumably in hopes of attracting one to have for lunch. At first I could not believe that noise was coming from a cat. While I watched and listened, however, I even heard him change sounds depending on the bird. Amazing. I really didn't know cats could do that. Later on, under the same conditions, I heard Boomer do the came thing so I simply became a believer. I was just glad they couldn't say "Want a Pepsi?" or I would have been in bigtime trouble.

Boomer and the "Roly-Poly."

One morning several years ago I was performing my ADLs, in this particular case, sitting on the commode in the bathroom, thinking gloomy thoughts about psychopaths and testing. Boomer walked into the bathroom and fell over on his side onto my foot. OhMyGod! "Annie! Boomer's having a seizure or a stroke or something!" "What?" "He fell over on my foot!" "Oh. I forgot to tell you about that." "About what?" "He does that. Then you're supposed to scratch him and sing." Clearly there was something I had missed in the past few weeks. As the story unfolded, Boomer had been rubbing against Annie's feet under the same circumstances and it had become a game that I knew nothing about. The First rule was that Boomer could initiate the game whenever and wherever he wanted. The Second rule was that one then had to roll him over and over, scratching his back, belly, sides, head, cheeks, ears and any other anatomical parts that required scratching. The Third rule was the one that took the behavior from unusual to outright bizarre. I had to sing the roly-poly song, to the tune of "Roll Me Over in the Clover" until el gato was satisfied. The words didn't matter that much but the song had to be correct. To this day, nearly ten years later, if I'm away from the house for any period of time, both boys are waiting for me at the garage door after hearing the car pull in. Bittle meows a "hello" and Boomer falls over on his side. As was pointed out by an astute reader, exactly who has who conditioned here? Doesn't matter. I love them.

Peace, Doc

Not Your Average Cats - II

Wed, 06 Jul 2005 10:15:48 GMT

Sorry to change type styles here, but this evening both Spaces and MSN Messenger have decided to misbehave, possibly due to a new critical flaw found in the IE browser. The warning (from elsewhere) is to set internet and intranet security settings to high. I did, and now have no control panel for the blog entry.

Secondly, for dashing an old shrink's fantasies about "sugar shorts" Rick (Carte Blanche) has been added to my list of links so as to associate him with a known nutball.

Thirdly, I have received the most responses to my self-injury report than any other to date. I obviously lived, my knee is going out of joint much more often and the refrigerator quit cooling about that time. Obviously pratfalls are much funnier than actual blood and guts injuries. I was even laughing at myself.

Boomer and the "Flying Bladder Stomp."

When Boomer had recovered from his medical problems, he was quite underweight and was hungry much of the time, often in the middle of the night. At first, he first just meowed loudly, which sometimes I responded to and sometimes not. Being the bright cat that he is, he quickly found that he could get my attention more effectively by crawling under the bed covers and biting me on a foot or buttock. After a few nights of this, I learned to pull the covers around my neck to block his entry. He never bit or bothered Annie, for some reason, possibly because he recognized a sucker when he bit one, and she was definitely not that.

Boomer explored other methods of waking me, from walking on me to leaping from the floor or a cedar chest onto the bed. (You can see this coming, I'm sure.) Boomer randomly jumped on various parts of my anatomy until he found "the one" that is guaranteed to wake a sleeping, aging male who has already passed the point where one gets up once during the night to use the facilities. Once he discovered the location of my bladder, he never forgot. Thus, the name "the flying bladder stomp" which was almost 100 percent effective.

OK. I'm the shrink and he's the cat. We could have simply have shut the bedroom door and closed him out, assuming that we and the rest of the family were willing to tolerate a nightlong protest of loud meows from the upstairs hallway. Simple solution gone. Enter operant conditioning, stage left. Cats rub your ankle, or wherever, with their cheeks to leave their scent on you and claim you as theirs. I have a beard (since 1968) which Boomer accepted as the equivalent of his cheek fur. Knowing that cheek-rubbing was within his behavioral abilities, I started rubbing cheeks with him, rewarding with treats when appropriate, to teach him to to rub my cheek when he wanted something. Taking this a step farther, once he learned that I responded to this and not to other "requests," he quickly changed his behavior. Once that behavior was established, I changed the conditions somewhat. He frequently used his paws to do anything from petting us to cleaning himself. Again, a behavior already available so all I had to do was switch him from cheek-to-beard to left-paw-to beard as the behavior required to get a treat, then finally, to get dinner.

If that were all, it would be enough, I had taught him to be left-handed, as I am, and was being awakened in a much more comfortable manner. I couldn't let it go at that, however. He had another forepaw left over with nothing trained. Cats really do have about 100 sounds that they can make and a loud "Mow!" was his demand for food, so his left paw became his "mow paw." Annie suggested that, though he loved us and frequently expressed it in various ways, we could give him an unmistakeable way. In the same manner of eliciting the behavior, rewarding it every time with a treat then fading out the treats to a much thinner reinforcement schedule, he quickly learned that his right paw was the "love-paw," and has used it that way ever since. If he ever made mistakes, it was usually my fault for rewarding the wrong behavior because I was doing something and wanted to feed him and have him happy so I could continue.

It really is nice to be rubbed on the cheek with his right paw , especially when you know that he knows what it means.

"Roly-Poly" will be the next episode.

Peace, Doc

Not Your Ordinary Cats - I

Mon, 04 Jul 2005 06:55:15 GMT

I am allowed by Boomer (Boomerang) and Bittle (Little Bit) to live with and serve them in a far too large and much too underpopulated house about forty miles west of Chicago. They are both neutered males, much like myself, with a wide divergence of intelligence and personality. Boomer is the elder and much wiser of the two and is the white with grey "eyebrows" shorthair in the pictures. He has been heavier but now weighs in at about 15.5 pounds and is around 13 years old. Bittle is the younger, at about 5 years old and weighs just a bit under 20 pounds. He is a sweet and shy but loving, bubble-brained individual. Both are rescued and both are indoor cats. Boomer sometimes likes to "escape" just to prove he can do it but if one waits a few minutes, he rethinks his decision and wants back into the house STAT. Bittle simply "doesn't do" outside.

Boomer had been abandoned by neighbors that moved and he decided that we were quite acceptable as his new servant staff when he meowed at Annie as she was coming home from a midnight half-shift at 4:30 a.m. Of course she meowed back, he came out of the bushes to her and the negotiation phase of the adoption process began. The "young persons" in the family (six, including Annie) had been letting him sleep in the garage, occasionally feeding him and had already begun preparations. The husband is always the last to know! He was named Boomerang because he initially "escaped" a few times but apparently couldn't find a better group of suckers than us and came back each time. When he really wanted out, he waited until Nick, a Samoyed, needed to go out and blended in by simply walking out the back door under him. Once we discovered the "ruse of the eight legged beast" we implemented an airlock system with the two doors in the laundry room, making sure that only the four larger legs went out alone.

When we first adopted Boomer, we had him declawed, then wormed when we discovered that problem. Some while after this, however, we both noticed that he was becoming quite lethargic. Annie, being a nurse, noticed the serious problem. Everything that should be pink (nose, inside ears, etc.) were completely pale indicating very low red blood cell level. We took him to the overnight emergency vet service and were told that "his signs were not consistent with life." There wasn't a question in either of our minds - lets do everything possible immediately. Boomer was in a kitty oxygen chamber, on heavy duty IV antibiotics and received a blood transfusion from a donor cat. As Annie helped the vet (previously a nurse) and her assistant, I got to contribute to the process by holding an Irish Setter with a pneumothorax still, calmed him and made sure he didn't pull out the line to the space outside the collapsed lung. Oh what a night that was. We had a bit of a problem getting medication into Boomer when he could come home, using three tablets to get one in and turning his face orange in the process from the resistance he put up. I discovered a device, Dr. Hanson's Miracle Pill Gun, which held the pill with rounded plastic prongs on the end of a hypodermic. Getting the right depth into his mouth so the pill went into his esophagus and not his lung was a bit tricky but, without the fight and fuss, Boomer soon became cooperative and I could medicate him in about 2 seconds. We all were very lucky. He had hemobartonella, a lethal bacterial infection almost always found comorbid with feline leukemia, but in Boomer's case, alone. And now those of you who have asked, know how Boomer became the $1000 free cat.

Bittle was rescued by my son who found him hiding in a shoe from a dog that was in the process of killing his mother and siblings. Pete is brave to a fault when it comes to saving animals. He went out flying with the SOAR club one day when he was maybe 10 or 11 years old and rescued a family of mice from a farmer's pit bull. All of the men in the club were ready to jump in but Pete had a way about him that no help was needed, though we did have a talk about the amount of damage a pit bull could do and that, though he had been very brave, to be really careful of that kind of dog. He made a mint for the rest of the day because he would chase down the launch line chutes from the winches and each time the flier gave him a quarter. Thirteen or 14 years later when he brought Bittle home, he was living with Annie, me, Sophie (his significant other,) two or three dogs and Boomer, who promptly took on the role of Mother and Protecter. Bittle was a tiny lost soul who is still shy but has never had a reason to be afraid here and the only times he gets upset are when Boomer licks him to groom him or I comb him to get his undercoat cleaned out. Before Pete and Sophie moved to an apartment of their own, he gave me Bittle because he could clearly tell my feelings for the little guy. Bittle was an odd looking kitten, with a fluffy boa of a tail at least twice as long as his body. I hypothesized that it might help guide him like an aircraft rudder or a flying squirrel when he jumped (which he frequently did.) Little did I know that, in this case, it was like being able to guess the size a dog would be by seeing the puppy's feet.

So. Annie and I ended up living alone with about 35 pounds (combined weight) of cats who would only accept the finest brands of food; Fancy Feast, Iams, Eukanuba, and Science Diet. We all lived in a yellow submarine.

Probably the best example of their differences is an episode I watched occur while playing Sol....working on the computer in the kitchen two or three years ago. It was Fall and the field mice were making their annual move into the garage for the winter. (Fine with me, The Thing, a mouse I'm sure but never met in person, wintered in the glove compartment of my old Ford Ranger truck three different years.) Only when Thing's friends or relatives tried to get into the kitchen did the little boys object. One evening both cats were being very attentive to an opening in the floor molding very near the stove (closely adjoining the garage.) As I sat there I heard, "scratchety, scratchety - BAM." Bittle had charged and run into the stove trying to catch the mouse and Boomer was poised, watching. Back to the computer. Ten minutes pass. "Scritchety, scritchety - BAM." Exact repeat of the previous attempt. Back to the computer again. Maybe 15 minutes pass and, "scritchety, scratchety - BAM." Then Boomer came around the corner of the center counter with the mouse in his mouth. He had simply waited while Bittle knocked himself silly and then caught the mouse when the conditions were right. Of course I praised them both for being the brave warriors and defenders of hearth and home but at least Boomer noticed that I was speaking oddly (stifling as much laughter as I could.)

My two forefingers are getting tired so I will continue the story later, explaining the "flying bladder stomp" and how I, as a trained professional, dealt with it. Also, if you are all nice to me, I will tell the story of "Roly-Polys."

Peace, Doc