Possum Kingdom

A few mornings ago, at approximately 4:30 AM, just as the dawn was beginning to crack we heard the awful, guttural cry of our cat sitting outside the ledge of our bedroom window. It's "camp-out" time for Quinn, our 12-year-old feline wonder who doesn't care to sleep in the garage with all the exciting nocturnal activity of summer. Needless to say, there's nothing that makes you sit straight up in bed than a growling cat. I went to the window in attempt to pry him inside but he merely swatted me away as if to say he was busy. It took Doug's heavier hand to pull him inside. It was too dark to see what our kitty was sneering at. I wasn't sure I wanted to know anyway,

A Hard Night

Fast forward to 5:30 when my alarm went off. I traipsed through the kitchen and glanced out the patio door. And what appeared before my groggy eyes? A pink-nosed possum planted comfortably near our shade tree. He leisurely glanced at me, then looked away, not terribly concerned. Then, upon close inspection of the yard, I see another pink-nosed snout! Once again, this possum didn't seem to identify me as a threat. No wonder kitty was so grouchy. Critters have invaded his territory! I called out to Doug. Without hesitation,  he offered to get his gun for these easy pickings. "Don't you dare," I said. No matter how ugly these animals are with their wee, beady eyes, the thought of killing a helpless animal tugs at my heart. And I didn't care for the idea of possum guts all over our yard. Doug then pontificated on the "good" that possums bring to the natural world.  I really didn't know. Later, a coworker of mine told me they eat bugs and ticks. I think that might win Doug over. He hates bugs.

I had a dream the other night that we got ourselves a new dog, similar to our beloved Percy who would bark his brains out all night long. We know now that he was merely on possum patrol. Doug and I keep discussing the possibility of getting another dog. Well, discussing might not be the correct term.  I bring it up. He vetoes the idea. With two kids living far away and with plan to travel more, I can't argue that it's a bit impractical to have a dog. But often, the heart isn't practical.

Until we reach a mutual agreement about this dog thing, Doug and I will just need to channel our inner Ace-Ventura: becoming one with nature and welcoming creatures to our possum kingdom, with the cat in charge, of course. Two kids out of the nest. Two possums under the deck. I think I'll name them Digger and Roscoe.  I'm not convinced they will fill that hole in my heart left by kids growing up and dogs passing on. But I'll give it a try.

Well, Hello Roscoe!

The Cat Whisperer

My husband runs a cat house. 

Feral cats come from far and wide to take shelter in Doug's machine shed at the old home place. We don't mind. Unlike most people, we admit to liking cats. We find them funny. We appreciate their killer instincts when it comes to rats and snakes. And while I adore dogs, we've had some tough luck in the last couple of years. It's the type of tough luck that rips your heart out and vow never to get another dog.

So our attention has turned to cats. (Empty nest syndrome? Maybe.)

Anyway, we just completed our first formal adoption. 

In July, Doug came across a small litter of kittens in the shed. One particular kitten, the scrawniest of them, had a certain intrepid sense about him. Rather than hide from the humans, he'd come jaunting out of the weeds to say, "Well hello there!" The rest of the litter stayed more aloof, only inching out whenever Doug dumped out some cat food he lovingly purchased (and still purchases) at the feed store.  As you'd guess, this seemed to solidify our new friendship with scrawny cat. But Doug gave me very specific warning. "Don't you go picking it up. We want them all to stay wild."

I nodded my head. But wondered how I long I could hold out. This kitten was so freaking cute! But I obliged. A week later I learned that someone whom I live with was being a hypocrite. He had done the deed. Doug had picked him up. And he named him. Bob, the Cat.

Bob became increasingly curious as harvest began. He had a keen interest in learning all about the workings of the combine. And apparently, Doug's machinery had some real nice places to nap. Well, you could see where this story might end.

Bob's future was beginning to look precarious. So, we made a simple plea to my parents–– always the bleeding hearts when it comes to saving an animal. Suffice to say, it didn't take any arm-twisting before Mom said, "Okay. Bring him over Sunday." 

After some critical analysis, my parents decided to give Bob a new home and a new identity. Bob became Carl and gained two sisters: June (the dog) and May (the other cat). Mom had argued to name the kitty Gus to stay with the calendar theme (Augustus), but my father is the master of naming pets. So, Carl it was.  (The kids call him Carl-Gus-Bob, which also has a nice ring.)

Carl now lives a life of luxury, no longer having to fight off skunks or other animals for food. He doesn't even need to fight off June or May, because, honestly, they haven't quite taken a liking to the little devil just yet. (Don't worry, he doesn't even recognize this fact.) So, what's the moral of this story? I'm not sure. Except it's a happy ending for an adorable kitten whose future was endangered.

And if the mood happens to strike, and you find yourself wanting to make prey out of yarn, and tell stories of the cute things your new cat did like crawl into a basket, you now know who to call.

Carl Gus Bob!

For Pet's Sake: A Story of Percy and Quinn

This weekend we took off for the Iowa Games to catch our boy play just a little more soccer. No, we really don't get tired of it. You might hear my husband sigh and complain about going, but don't believe it for one second. That's all pretend. We both love it. Watching talented youth with all of their energy is uplifting as heck. And, there's beer to be had after those games.

Whenever we leave for a short weekend away, we need to decide what to do with our pets. I'm usually all for boarding. Doug, the true-blue farm kid, doesn't believe in this philosophy. He's of the camp that animals can stay at home and be checked by the neighbor. I usually fret over this decision. On one hand, the animals like staying at home. On the other hand, what if a storm comes up? On one hand, there's less hair in the car when we don't transport them. On the other hand, Quinn might get eaten by a coyote. It usually comes down to whether there's rain in the forecast and how long we decide to stay away. Since we were only going to be gone one night and the weather appeared amenable, we decided to let them stay home and sleep under the stars... on their honor. We made implicit instructions: no parties while we're gone. Grandpa Ron will be checking on you!

Well. As usual, we left in a flurry – running in and out of the house seventeen times to ensure we had everything. Sunscreen. Allergy pills. Beer. Water. Snacks. Beer. And, oh yes, soccer gear. Finally, we were off to Ames. I always have this bit of anxiety when we leave for trips. I'm certain we've forgotten something. And that something is so unique that it could never, ever be purchased at a Target store. #irrational #neurotic_mom

Waiting for an ear-scratching.

By the time evening came, we had our first pet report:

Percy is good. Can't find cat. 

A good report! Our cat only appears when its hungry or needs its belly scratched. It's the dog I mostly worry about. On top of his over-domestication (guilty!), you see, our dog was just recently diagnosed with diabetes. It seemed overnight, our chubby terrier gained new nicknames: Slimdawg and Skeletor. The poor thing receives insulin shots twice a day and can no longer partake in ice cream. Thus, the worry over our dog rivals the worry over our kids. Just kidding. Sort of.

The next day as we were getting ready for the games, we received a call from Grandpa Ron. No Percy. No Quinn. He called out to them and looked everywhere. We told him not to worry. He was probably under the deck. His hearing was failing too, after all. But after I hung up with my father, I had a pit in my stomach. Maybe his time had come. And I hadn't really said a proper good-bye to him... all those stupid trips in and out of the house!

But we had some games to watch. I said a prayer that our animals were not suffering and flipped to soccer mom mode. But it wasn't far from my mind.When the weather switched and the clouds grew dark during the last game, I began to internally berate myself. Even if our pets were safe and sound, now they'd be caught in a storm. I should've boarded them.

The last game was finally called due to lightning. Our boys got second place. (They should've gotten first, but that's a story for another time.) I was ready to get on the road. We took off in the rain. I buried my head in a book and tried to push back the dread that perhaps we had lost our beloved little barker.

Two and a half hours later, we pulled into our driveway. The rain had stopped by then. But there was no one to greet us. My heart was sinking just as Cole said, "There he is!"

Our little Percy came prancing out, bright-eyed and muddy as hell. Hallelujah! The pang zipped out of my heart. I hopped out of the truck to hug the rain-soaked dog, not caring about the stink he was gifting my hands. I glanced around for the cat whose usual ploy was to lurk on the ledge. But there was no Quinn. I began a futile call for the cat who doesn't like to be commanded to come. And then the most amazing thing happened. Doug opened the door to the house. And the cat rushed outside. Quinn had decided to stay at the Hotel Kramer for the night. I had to laugh. I couldn't even be upset. Our cat and dog were alive! That's all that mattered... for the next couple of minutes, at least. Then I realized something. The cat most certainly had a party in our house. We'd have mess. Kitty mess.

Messes. Schmesses. My joy over our pets made up for any poop or pee left to clean. Besides, we have Cole for that duty. Good boy, Cole.

It's always naptime for these ole dogs.

Christmas Miracle, Part Two

For those of you following this blog, last time I boasted of a Christmas miracle. Remember the kitty on the church steps? Well. Here's the rest of the story.

"Skye" seemed a bit off since his homecoming. Had he forgotten how much he loved the shenanigans of our crazy terrier? How I cradled him like a baby? He certainly was more exuberant. Not the lazy pile of hair who would only glance at a mouse if it was within reach. And of course there was the eye. Either the cat was in a knarly fight, had LASIK surgery, or maybe, just maybe, he wasn't Skye.

So we took him to the doctor to have him checked, much to my hubby's dismay. But he had been on his own for four months. What else could we do?

The vet's findings:

In addition to being three pounds lighter, Skye reversed his age and gender. He's a she and only approximately one year of age.

Sometimes you see what you want to see. I really missed Skye when he went missing. And when we "found" him on Christmas morning, I was ecstatic.  So, maybe it wasn't a miracle. But I have no doubt it was a gift.

Meet Bernadette. Our newest addition.

Cole and Bernie the Cat