Tag: It’s a Dogs Life

By now you know, I am a Hot Dog with ‘The Gift‘. So one day Momma got out the photos and showed me pictures of Tammy and Teddy and their puppies.   Just by looking at the pictures, I know the stories, even before Momma lays them down.

What always strikes me first, is that  in many of the pictures both Teddy and especially Tammy have big grins on their faces, like the cat who swallowed the cream. Meanwhile, Momma tells me I look sanctimonious in most shots, like I feel superior to the Two Footed and definitely the Four Footed. I am and do!

 

I am of two minds when it comes to puppies.  I know, I know, what is not to love, still… are they cuter than me?  Would I look like yesterdays leftovers if I stood beside them?  Would they give me the respect a five-year old Havanese with questionable pedigree deserves?  Would I be expected to share my Toys, my Momma and my Wonder Boy?  If you are a Google  Analytic Graph freak like Momma or just insecure like me, there is a lot to ponder.

When I saw the photos of Miss Tammy’s and Sir Teddy’s puppies, my heart stopped.  They were like little fluffy munchkins from a light cream to white to bright white with black rimmed brown eyes, shoe polish black snouts and  ears trying desperately to stand up straight. Then they develop those beautiful full tails that fan over their backs as they get older.  I tell you, if I had been here when they were born, I would not have been able to resist them.  It just makes me wonder why (okay, maybe I question, when I should listen) Momma decided to buy a Havanese instead of an American Eskimo? Oh, yes, the Havanese have the added bonus of not  shedding. Phew! There are just some things in your DNA that are a blessing, although your own contribution to the cause was non-existent.

In any case, first came Angel Dog Teddy, then Tammy. Next there is Tammy with a baby carriage – not that fast.  About one year, lots of vet visits, Teddy’s contribution and nature took its course.  Tammy, although small, was very capable and had four puppies, in her whelping box, one day, when all the family was away at work and / or school.  No one knows if Teddy contributed much to the process, but let us say this.  When Daddy and Wonder Boy came home that night, Teddy was laying outside the whelping box head between his paws, looking majestically proud, his eye balls following the stumbling puppies as they found a comfortable spot and suckled their Mama.

Within a short while, four very distinct personalities developed and the puppies were named according to what they brought to the table.  There was  Lucky-Plucky, always happy and involved in whatever mischief he could find. A good day was when he could get his siblings to join him. Casper the Friendly Ghost was the runt of the litter.  He had all Teddy’s good looks, with Tammy’s petiteness. Casper went to the family of Momma’s Sister-Who-Taught-Her-Most-the Things-She-Knows. Though small, he was fierce and felt every bit as big as a Dalmatian or a German Shepherd and was quick to get the upper hand (but not bite it).The only female was Ba-Ba-White-Sheep, so named because she followed her Mama Tammy every where she went who followed Momma everywhere she went.  Tammy was always ready to jump in and help out with women’s work, while Teddy, laid in the corner, ignoring that work existed and staying as far as possible from any involvement. Finally came Woolly Bully, a Gentle Giant of a puppy who resembled a Ram without the horns.  At birth he was twice as big as Casper.  His light cream  fur was thick and luxuriant.  RIP Daddy was his chosen Master. It was heart wrenching  for Daddy when Woolly Bully left for his Forever Home.

Once they had all found their new family, a meeting was called in order (blame Momma and her need to analyse past data scientifically, to move forward).  Momma, RIP Daddy and Wonder Boy sat around the kitchen table, Angel Dog Teddy at Momma’s side, Tammy between Wonder Boy and RIP Daddy.  The family cats sat up straight, a couple of feet back, following the conversation carefully. 

Momma said no more puppies, look how tired and skinny Tammy was.  Daddy, said, ‘please’, then he looked in Tammy’s weary eyes.  She had been a good Mama to new-born puppies but when they found their sea legs, they exhausted her, like her male siblings had so many years ago. Teddy had stepped up and set them straight when and if it was the right day, the right time and if he felt like it.  Other times they just were not on his horizon.  He ignored them.  Also Momma could not sleep at night, worrying that the new families would not be able to give Tammy’s puppies the home they deserved.

Once the puppies were older and being fed kibble, come afternoon Tammy would go nap with Angel Dog Teddy on their large pillow.  The Family Cats would take over… grooming and cuddling up with the puppies in the dog cages.  They all would fall to sleep in  a state of bliss, where all mankind recognized the goodwill created in steadfast homes. If only, I could have, I would have, helped Tammy with those precious little balls of fluff. Could poor Tammy have suffered with those postpartum blues some Mom’s get? I’d better investigate if that is possible!

And so it was decided, so it was written, read my lips,  ‘no more puppies’. It was off to the vet for both  Angel Dog Teddy and Miss Tammy, to remove their baby making apparatus.  Now Tammy could look forward to a life of leisure.

 

 

 

So many asked Momma was Tammy upset when her last puppy left.  No, no, no.  To  paraphrase the Great Martin Luther King, Jr., Tammy seemed to be expressing, ‘Free at last, Free at last. Thank God Almighty, free at last!’

 

 

Oh, I am so lucky, no, maybe my Alpha Dog personality has something to do with it, but I am the chosen one to tell tales about dogs we had, long before I was a twinkle in my daddy’s eye.

Earlier I told you about Momma’s Angel Dog Sir Teddy but what I left out was, Sir Teddy had a wife, Little Ms. Tammy who was day and night different from Teddy. Not all dogs come from happy spaces, not all dogs get to ‘live the dream’ but in the end, well Little Ms. Tammy did.

It  was always a yearning of RIP Daddy to breed puppies.  Now that they knew that American Eskimos were such perfect dogs,  (better than me…I doubt that) they would buy a female and have a litter.  Momma agreed half heartedly, worried that once the pups came, it would be hard to part with them.  But Daddy prevailed and back they went to the same puppy mill Sir Teddy came from.  Big mistake.  Daddy told them why he wanted a female…and they had just the girlie for him.  Momma told me, once you looked in to Tammy’s eyes, you were lost and felt you just could not leave her in this life of misery.

Now Ms. Tammy, although the runt of the litter, from a distance certainly was 100% American Eskimo but  her teeth and jaw seemed ever so out of alignment.  Her tail did not feather over her back like Sir Teddy’s because it was somehow curled, like a Piggy’s.  Her fur was creamy rather than the brilliant white of a winter snow.  Yet her sweet nature made up for all of her outward deficiencies. She was six months old and had lived in a barn the first couple of months, then put in an outside run with no shade in the hot sun, and no roof for shelter, when it rained. Her five aggressive male brothers systematically chased and brow beat her, alone, in pairs or together, as a flash mob.  So Tammy tried to hide behind the water trough, the food dish, anywhere to avoid the general pop.  Being in Solitary would have been a dream come true for this frightened puppy.

So even though Tammy was cowed, she also was smart enough to not shy away when Daddy and Momma were taken to the pen.  She rushed over, stood on her hind legs, wagged her tail, licking their fingers through the wire fence.  All of the brothers watched solemnly. They knew in their hearts they would never see Tammy again but this was not a good life for her.  Any loud noise made her fearful, thunder and lightning left her with PTSD. In a way, the brothers were relieved to see any happy ending, even if it would not change their lot in life.

Yes, Momma says, it was in her eyes, pleading, please, please take me.  Somehow Tammy knew at six months old, that finding a Forever Family would take longer and longer.  Everyone wants a cute little puppy, not the full-grown dog. 

As if under a spell Momma and Daddy rescued her, for a life so far removed, Tammy could not even imagine it. But there is more to be told.  Stay tuned.

I remember, I remember that morning because it was my favourite kind of day – it had snowed overnight and the landscape was a carpet of thick, wet white snow.  Momma snapped on my lead and we were off, out the door, for a walk.  With no tracks in the morning snow, the site before me was mine to discover, to carve out, like a romp down the road to visit the Wonderful Wizard of  Oz.

Yet some 6^th sense or premonition stopped me dead in my tracks.  It was like a dark shadow crossed my peripheral vision.  I stopped,  and turned back toward the house. I saw Daddy, standing in the window of the sun porch, wearing his gray-green, unzipped snow parka.  When my eyes met his, he raised his hand and waved, a big smile on his face. It felt like an eclipse,  a big black cloud momentarily  covered the sun. I bolted as if I was being chased by Seven Devils, dragging Momma across the neighbor’s lawn, over our gateway,  up the stairs, through the door where I flung my trembling body at Daddy’s ankles. If I had given Daddy a million dollars cash, he would not have been more pleased.

“Did you see that, Momma?” Daddy bragged. “Jakita never has done that before.” Momma was speechless. She had been dragged over snow banks, like a car hitched on a tow truck, and as for me, I had no clue to what had just happened or why.

In order to regain some semblance of the here and now, I did a long, deep body shake. Somehow, someway, a forewarning of what the day would bring had materialized, leaving a sense of inexplicable foreboding, warning me to not leave Daddy’s side.  But I am just a dog.  I don’t make the rules nor do I interpret feelings… I gave myself a few more total body shakes, a couple of praying dog stretches and followed him to watch the news, resting along side my beaming Daddy.

 

Then the phone rang, breaking the drone of the talking heads on the Sports-Net Channel.  First mistake – Momma answered it.  Second mistake, she told Daddy that one of his customers needed a quick favour. Rule #1 for Daddy was treat the Customer like King or in this case, Queen. At the end of the day, Daddy’s  Second Rule  was NEVER say no to money.

But of course this story does not end here – it never does, for Momma!

 

Ok, I don’t ‘do’ the dog park – far too many tail wagging, slobbering, barking and humping canines for me.  Anyway, my Vet said it is off-limits because I can no longer get vaccines (because of my unstable immune system). However, worse case scenario, if I bit a person or another dog, since I did not have my Rabies Shot, I would be quarantined. So much for my Life of Riley. But forget-about-it, I do not bite and I’m not keen on Dog Parks anyway because well, you know,  I am Superior.

It really doesn’t matter because I live by a huge park, with enormous trees, green grass for kids to romp on, a fenced in baseball diamond, tennis courts, and walking paths. You can stroll for miles.  I am ashamed to say, once Momma took me there a few times and being brilliant and adventuresome, I soon knew the way by myself. When I was young and foolish it was one of the areas that I would do a ‘jack rabbit’ to, with Momma and Daddy in hot pursuit, trying to woo me with treats, coaxing me to come back and well, I always did, once I had my fill of running, just gasping for breath, my tongue hanging on the ground. I know, I know, I am lucky I lived to tell the tale. I could have ended the same fate as Zanny.

What a great place to wander around, sniffing the trees and grass, seeing all the teeny, tiny bugs that scoot around on the ground, the bees and butterflies hovering on the flower petals.  In this Shangri-la, Momma & I meet up with many dogs from around the area and their owners. Some I make friendly with but mostly I just stop and give them my ‘get out of Jakitaville’ stare.  It is not like I cut all dogs dead.  There are a couple of Border Collies on our street. I like them, they like me, we greet by sniffing each others’ noses, there is no power struggle.  However a Husky dog we meet often is kind of freaky – pale green eyes, plops down in front of me and stares straight through me.  Her Momma can not move her. It is like she becomes a frozen statue.  Then there is that little black dog, smaller than me, younger than me and meaner than me. I don’t get it, he was so sweet the first couple years of his life, then his Momma died and over night his personality changed . I mean, Daddy died and I did not turn in to a weirdo. Help him, quick, get the Dog Whisperer.

One day when we went for a walk in the park, Momma and I saw something so sad, I still have nightmares about it.  It was in the winter, very cold, wind chill factor of maybe -30 degrees.  Momma and I could not believe our eyes.  Tied to a bench was a German Sheppard Dog, definitely a candidate for frost bite, probably hungry and so sad and dejected.  We could not go near, Momma said, because the poor dog may attack us, from fear. Momma and I went right home and called the animal shelter and here is the amazing thing. Not only were we the sixth call about this abandoned dog, one of the callers volunteered to take him. Momma said that is the neighborhood we reside in, good souls surround us, looking out for those who cannot look out for themselves.  Don’t you wish you lived here?

But still, I confess. I prefer the Two Footed any day over dogs.  They feed us, walk us, play with us, love us. Sometimes our Masters need training to come around but still, would a Four Footed Dog be able to meet all of our demands, I ask you? Not likely! It doesn’t take a Rocket Scientist to figure this out!

 

 

Email: housekeeping@hotdogcoolcats.com

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So, you have heard lots about my Two Footed family, what about my Four Footed?  Are you kidding, in this family, where everyone has dogs and cats they inherited or rescued? They can not bear to watch those heart wrenching advertisements that SPCA run in their attempt to find forever homes for the unfortunate canine and feline orphans.

 

Yes I have Cousins.  Auntie No.1 Sister has Ming-Ming, a similar color to me but a Shih Tzu with that round head and kind of pushed in, serious countenance. But boy, she has springs in her back paws, leaping though the air, jumping on furniture, or tables.  Her potty training is still hit and miss but I blame that on her first owner who tired of her and asked Auntie Itty Bitty to pick up the torch and other things Ming-Ming left on the floor, or the bed or the couch. You get it. Still I am amazed and impressed by her ability to fly from the chair to the couch or from the floor to the kitchen table. Our cats are totally puzzled  and disoriented by this flying dog. The kitchen table belongs to them, not some visiting canine cousin with bad ‘table’ manners. Tell me, how could I not like that doggie?

Next comes Misty, a cream-colored Maltese,  Auntie Goodie Two Shoe’s Dog. Like Momma’s former dog Teddy, she is perfect – well except when her Momma walks out the door, leaves the room or is just not in sight  for a moment.  Then like a wailing banshee, the warbling and  whining  commence, climbing to an ear-splitting crescendo. This is just not an acceptable response, especially when you are a guest in someone’s home. I say Misty needs a  few retraining sessions with a stern dog behavior expert. Momma tells me to be understanding because it is separation anxiety. My best advice, ‘ Well, boo-hoo! Get over it, Misty’.  I try to distract her by encouraging her to join me on the back of the couch in the Sun Room so we can do ‘The Neighborhood Watch.’

Anything that moves in the neighborhood outside, be it birds, critters, dogs, cats, people, butterflies, even leaves, we watch. Their sure are some interesting scenarios that we get to see, in our free front seat row vantage point. One particular day, a man went up and down the sidewalk having a fight with himself, swearing like a drunken sailor (no offense meant to sailors). We are not sure who  won, but it was very intense.  Teens walked  three abreast in the middle of the street (as usual) and an angry, stressed out driver stuck his head out their car windows to chastise them.  Suburban Urban Warfare!

We cannot forget Auntie Taught-Momma-Almost-Everything-She-Knows dog, Cousin Cooper, a little black Yorkie-poo who acts like he could be one of the Three Little Rascals. Just maybe he has a tiny devil with pointy ears, a long tail, and a pitch fork, living inside him, the same as me. Whatever! We are compatible and rush around, looking for trouble, followed by reinvigorating nap, so we can think up more mayhem and chaos.

Cooper also  has a beautiful black with white splotches sister, Daisy. She is cut from the same bolt of cloth as Misty, good to the bone except one time  on a walk, marched over to another dog and nipped his master. What is in our doggie DNA that makes us so inscrutably amicable one minute and an ‘unsub’ the next?  Then we hang our heads in shame as our masters rack their brains for a solution that they never thought would be a problem.

So do I have a Doggie Family? Do I???  You could say, I got it covered.

And, just in case you are wondering, I am still the best trained. None of them can do the tricks I can do, (like counting or waving), the brightest, (who else wrote a Policies and Procedure Manual), the most nurturing, (just ask the Tigger and Babbie – more on them on the way).

I am also amazingly gorgeous and of course modest. Just realize, I am the ‘don’t take my word for it’ unquestionably questionable pedigree dog….ever!

 

 

Email: housekeeping@hotdogcoolcats.com

 

Like, I got some things to say. You know that I ♥♥♥ my Momma and she ♥’s ♥’s ♥’s me but I do not understand why she goes so postal, on occasion, like a few days back. I suspect it had something to do with the fact that I did not come when she called me in.

But, whatever (big yawn) I was outside, there was a full moon, with ***’s (or is it planets,) shining brightly in the dark, clear sky, just beckoning me to enjoy the moment. That it was a nice balmy zero degrees only encouraged me to plow through the snow with gusto.  I was no longer  a sable and white dog, I was completely white, with huge snow balls, like a tiny abominable  snowman.  At the same time I managed to attract monster thistles caught in the wiry fur on my legs, my beard, my long silky ears, my tail and ouch, my belly, from slinking under the dead bushes and left over foliage in the flower beds. I felt like a commando, disguised as a snow (wo)man, on a sssshhh, top classified secret mission.

Okay, I get it (a little) that the longer I stayed out, collecting snow balls and thistles, the bigger the job Momma had when I finally came in. Yet at some point, I always bark to say, ‘Hurry, I am cold, let me in, hurry, you’re not here yet, where are you? I am  dying out here. HURRY, HURRY, HURRY!.’

Is it my fault Momma can not always see me because the snow is so high and she worries unnecessarily, may I add that:

• I may escape the back yard and will be like Sweet Sophie who has never been seen again (to our knowledge) or
• I may be doggy napped and not able to find my way home (did you not hear about Lassie, Momma?) or                                                                        I
•  I will become stuck in a snow drift and my life force will be sucked out of my body before she even finds me and how would she tell Wonder Boy. It is just to sad. See Momma wipe away a tear from her eye.

I tell you, Momma is just like her father before her, so I understand, worrying needlessly…. But not without cause.  I heard Momma tell Wonder Boy, tears in her voice that a little boy, a few miles from here had been caught in a snow bank during the blizzard Wednesday and died before he could be rescued.  That is why Momma clears the steps of snow, then shovels a pathway for me from the door to the very back of the yard, under the big old evergreen tree I love to hide under, surveying the world at large, while, as I said previously,  the world can not survey me. Winter is so much fun. In my next life, I want to come back as one of those husky sled dogs, in the land of the midnight sun or maybe not…I enjoy being pampered too much and…oh, that’s right, I like people more than frothing, barking, whining dogs.  I am not a team player.

 

This particular night Momma, finally had to put her boots on, and come outside to find me, then chase me in the back door.  Apparently that is unacceptable behavior that falls short of previous training.   Who Knew? She raised her voice so loudly, I thought I’d go deaf or my ear drums would pop.  Usually, with Momma, it is over in a minute but not tonight. All the frustration she felt in past four years spilled  and spewed, making a stew of words I could not understand or fathom. I was served a full plate of her complaints, in a loud, penetrating rant. I felt so ashamed for letting her down, I could not look her in the eye as she melted my snow balls, in warm water, towel dried me, then used her blow dryer on low heat to complete the drying process, brushing or cutting out the  thistles I had managed to collect.  It made me feel so warm and contented and guilty.

But there is more to tell and well, I like you to know that I realize my short comings.  Even though Super Boy has great admiration for me, when he doggie-sat me, he soon realized I was powerful contrary, and dead set on doing what ever I want to do.  I am trying…..  but I am a work-in-process.

 

In the meantime, everyone agrees that I am uncommonly smart, (though not boastful) and mostly sensible so that I know to rein it in when  I get out of line.

And if you see me behaving badly, please feel free to put me in my place.  I need lots of structure.

 

Did I tell you yet about our back yard? There are all kinds of things that catch my attention back there and so many places to hide from Momma’s all seeing blue eyes.  A big dog may consider the yard a postage stamp but when you weigh  twenty pounds, stand about fourteen inches from fluffy paw to upturned top of head, it is a heady jungle to plough through.

Green, green grass, massive flowerbeds chock full of hostas, peonies, rose bushes and flowers that germinate from seeds that float from the neighbor’s garden, all providing a leafy canopy to hide away from the world.

 

 

Yet still I can observe all the activity taking place, a little mouse running, a worm pushing through the damp earth to the surface, some busy ants and butterflies of every color landing daintily on the tip of a cone flower. It is a breathless, ever-changing oasis. A fence line on the East, West and North side of the lawn denies my escape while the house is the barrier on the South side, keeping me in and undesirables from the neighbour hood out.

Then there are all the trees Daddy planted, a silver birch, a red  and  green maple that provide shade with their canopy of leaves filtering and obliterating the hot sun.  Also, a back yard  cherry tree is an invitation to squirrels who zip up the trunk, shake the heavy laden branches with practiced little front paws, raining cherries in the back yard.  But maybe my favourite is the big fir-tree,  with a massive circumference providing shelter in the cold of winter and coolness on scorching day in the summer.

Managing the Indoor – Outdoor cats (Momma calls them the Indoor-Outdoor-Indoor Cats now because they are inside way more than they are out), the Colony Cats, Squirrels, Raccoons, Rabbits, and lonely old possum – oh boy, that keeps me busy.

Take our cats, (p–l–e–a–s–e), all who are older than me and sometimes wiser than me. They mostly treat me with something between respect and indulgence because, well I am street smart and the Baby of the Family.  But what they appreciate the most is that I have a loud, annoying bark and will run off enemies as well as defend them to my last breath. In return, I have carte blanche when they start hissing and growling at each other to pounce on them and bring them back to their senses.  They will stalk away, ears back, tales swaying moodily,  but in no time they are making friendly with each other and me, no grudges allowed or tolerated.

Let’s talk about the rabbits who I believe, over the years have learned their lesson and no longer invade our flowerbeds because, well, the cats will perpetuate the cycle of life and death, on these poor, witless creatures.  Better to listen to Mama Rabbit and stay the heck out of Dodge.  I love the cats but not for a second do I understand their predatory nature, given that they get the same soft and hard food, treats and toys from Momma, as I do. I mean, I make a lot of noise but I would never take a life, as pointless as it may be.

And tell me, what is wrong with a Mama Bird that she thinks her baby should be pushed out its nest, the only home it knew, into our back yard where the cats are prowling and salivating? I bark to warn Mama Bird. I try to protect those poor little peepers by inserting my body between them and the cats, as they valiantly practice using their little wings.

Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, it is all in the game, says Momma, who is as perplexed as I am at both Mama Bird, and our cats’ behaviour.

Now the raccoons, they have it together.  They know the rules, they obey the rules.  They do not come in our back yard.  There is a time and place for everything and they learned it is best to come out and pick cherries from the tree at the side door under the mindful supervision of Momma or Wonder Boy.

Sometimes on a clear summer night you will see the cats, raccoons and squirrels all together, cherry picking, like in Revelations, where the lamb lays down with the lion. Of course the cats don’t have any use for cherries, except to bat them around or to steal them from under their opponent’s nose.

As for me, I am a voyeur. I just sit on the steps with Wonder Boy, monitoring the cherry picking, watching the June bugs buzz around the outside light, and the awesome fire flies, just marveling about sweet is my very own kingdom come!

 

Out of the cemetery and down the street Momma and I march. We meet up with that friendly couple who have cats (I won’t hold that against them) but always have time to discuss me.

Next we pass the big red Canada Post Box that Momma drops envelopes in. I am not sure what that is all about. She explained its use one time but I was eying a brilliant yellow buttercup patch with a white Butterfly hovering over it – should I lunge and snap? Uh, nah, bad Karma, especially around Momma.  ‘Let nature run its inevitable course’, she says, she does.

Finally we are at the corner and turn left, where a little Mom and Pop Store sell all those lottery tickets, as well as baskets of flowers every summer and odds and sods that are going no where fast.  I wonder about this enterprise because I heard Momma speculate, that maybe it is a front for some illicit den of iniquity because they do not seem to sell enough to stay in business. The store opens when the owner shows up and closes when he feels like calling it a day. It is not a very reliable schedule for the customers, least those who are just trying to buy milk for their kiddies’ cereal.   Even the homeless are perplexed about how it stays in business since it never seems to be open when they pass by. I know this because one day, a customer, new to Brampton asked Momma, what gives, what time does the owner show up?  All she could do was shrug apologetically (she is Canadian, after all) and say, ‘You got me on that one. No one has a clue….least of all the owner.’

As we mosey on down the street I see The Hat Lady coming, long before Momma recognizes her.  My tail starts wagging, a Friendly, Momma will stop to chat.  The Hat Lady’s property also backs on to the cemetery. As a matter of fact, she can go outside and wave at RIP Daddy, she is that close to his gravestone. She lives in the old homestead, built by her father, over sixty years ago.  The Hat Lady is a devoted Presbyterian. ‘What’s that, Momma? Oh, yeah, a do-gooder with a different umbrella, hers being under the Presbyterian banner. Didn’t some of our ancestors march under that, till they broke away and  merged with another Church?’  Water under the bridge, water way under the bridge.

Although The Hat Lady seems to approve of me,  she doesn’t have time for a pet, in her life.  As they chat, I tire of the wait, and start complaining in a mournful warble, to Momma who, understands and chooses to ignore me.

Finally we are on our way, and  cross the road. ‘Oh, there is Ms. Portugal, you know, her property backs on to ours – let’s talk to her, for just a minute, Jakita, I promise’, says Momma.  ‘Mr. Portugal (her husband) is fine’, says Ms. Portugal,  ‘But he still drives me crazy, wanders all over, someday, he will get himself killed in the traffic’,  she says, she does. So true, we have seen him absolutely totter across four lanes of traffic, cars changing lanes on the fly, to avoid  hitting him, horns blaring, no one stopping, least of all Mr. Portugal who apparently is on auto pilot and angel wings. I am so glad I have not been assigned to be his protectee.

We say farewell for today, see ya tomorrow, and move on, turn right at the corner, past our neighbour to our left, who are always in

transition. We can not figure out who the owners are, who is in and who is out.  It seem to be a never-ending parade of unfortunates.  But it is all good because now we are, home again, home again – and there is no place like home.

Get out of my way kitties. I am on a mission to find a place for some water and some downtime.

Just give the dawg  a bone!

Email: housekeeping@hotdogcoolcats.com

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So truth be told, it being stranger than fiction, but all was well with a daily romp in the cemetery, until, Daddy, well, you know, died.  Then all bets were off the table. I think just last winter, I taught Momma a lesson.  Remember, how I complained that she dragged me down to his grave, deafening me as she punched holes in the crust, sinking in to thick snow, because she had to fix the flowers and windmills she so lovingly left. She is so proud (isn’t that one of seven deadly sins) of the amazing silk bouquet of tulips and roses and then that Christmas Bough with cream lilies, adorned with silver ornaments on an evergreen branch because:

1) There were no other footprints in the snow so Momma must love Daddy better than other people who never visited their loved ones (at least not in the Arctic Vortex Season),

2) Momma’s bouquet with windmills that spun merrily, and stood out so succinctly, would ensure everyone knew that you must be Dutch, Daddy.  As you used to say – ‘You’re not much, it you’re not Dutch‘ – uh, where does that leave our Momma, Daddy?

The ice storm had left the grave yard like a war zone, branches falling 150 feet from two hundred year old trees, which up to this point in history had stood the test of time.  It must have been frightful in the cemetery that night as trees and branches crackled, laden with ice, falling heavily to the ground, uprooting the tributes, such as bouquets and Christmas boughs.  At Daddy’s site, the Christmas Evergreen, thick with ice, was left lying horizontal in front of the gravestone.

So on this day.  Momma became distracted, trying to manipulate the Evergreen Branch upright again. I saw my opportunity and, I disappeared. She can lead the cow to water but she can not make her drink.

Who knows how many minutes had passed before she looked around for me?  At first she called my name, in a relaxed manner.  I never go far, I must just be behind a gravestone or a monument or maybe crawled under a bush. Momma laughs and says I walk like I got my mosey on more often than running these days. (What is my mosey Momma?).  She says it is when I walk like Stockard Channing  in  Grease,  with a slow-moving hip swivel, to gain the attention of the John Travoltas’ of the world). Huh?

Then from my vantage point I could see Momma move to where kids were playing with a big dog on the other side of the cemetery fence. Had they seen me, she asked? Like I would hang around where kids were screaming and another dog was barking. Give your head a shake Momma. You should know me better than that.

I saw as Momma  went one way, then another, like the cemetery is a huge place that a little dog like me could stay hidden for a long time.  As I have said, I have those bionic ears, I can hear the butterflies in Africa and could easily read the panic and desperation as Momma  plowed  her way through the snow, dreading the thought of going home,  and telling Wonder Boy that she had managed to lose me, her Jakita-Boo-Boo.

I was not lost.  I was waiting.  I know Momma like the back of my paw.  I made my way back to the paved driveway where I knew Momma would exit,  I laid down on the road, head resting  on outstretched paws, waiting for her. Because of my size in comparison to the high snowbanks, I was hidden from her line of vision.  I may never understand the level of relief Momma felt when she saw me there waiting, waiting patiently for her to return.  It was a good life lesson, my eyes told her. I would never desert her but there comes a time in life, when No-Means-No, Momma.

It was a somber march home.  We exited on Church Street, hung a left, greeted the couple whose property back on to the cemetery. They are so fine and polite. He is a Union  Man, Momma tells me, with his work boots, blue jeans, plaid shirt and lunch box while she teaches pet grooming at a local college. I don’t believe she teaches manners (at least to her dogs) because her little Jack Russell mix  barks, snarls and growls his way through life. Oh, and  don’t get close, he bites as well, admit the embarrassed owners. Now what possible use is a dog like that?

I must bring him a copy of my Policies and Procedures between the Doggies and All Other Creatures That Inhabit Earth Plane.

Email: housekeeping@hotdogcoolcats.com

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