Kirby

Yeah, we took the cat in. The vet pronounced him clear of dread diseases, we flea-dipped him and he has been wormed, vaccinated and otherwise violated by the feline medical establishment. Little mutton-head purred through the whole thing.

Come to think of it, the little mutton-head purrs constantly. It's rather unnerving, to tell the truth.

He also eats. Constantly.

When we got the Russian Blue, we named him "Hoover" because he used to suck up anything that hit the floor. In Hoover's late middle-age, his appetite has abated somewhat. However, he's still the one who will, literally, toss his food bowl across the laundry room floor to signal his displeasure at its emptiness and who will climb on top of the freezer to push the big bag of cat food onto the floor and thereby garner the admiration of his fellow kitty friends.

But Hoover doesn't hold a candle to this cat. This one will muscle all the other cats out of the laundry room and will guard the door with tooth and claw, until he eats every morsel in all four bowls. He tried to crawl into the refrigerator to get at the leftover lasagna. He licks the spoon rest on the stove. While I'm cooking. He will eat until his little kitty belly sticks out on both sides.

And then, this morning, I came downstairs to find him, face in the kitchen sink. He had an empty soup can wedged in the drain, and was dipping his front paw in to get at the suet and bacon grease I had poured into it after yesterday's cooking spree.

He paused as I entered the room, paw midway between the can and his mouth.

I regarded him with a mixture of pity and disgust, "Dude, you're sick. You need help. I mean, just look at you!"

He said nothing, but jumped out of the sink and under the table, leaving little bacon-scented splots of grease on my kitchen floor.

S entered the room. I held up the remains of the soup can grease catcher. "I'm starting to understand why they dumped him."

"I say we name this one Shop-Vac," he said, laughing.

K's face appeared around S's waist. "Nope. Kirby." she said, "We'll name him Kirby."

Welcome Kirby. I hope you don't eat us out of house and home!

Conundrum

I am allergic to cats.


Nevertheless, I have three of them.

Two are long-time friends. Mudge is a 16-year old calico, a tiny cat who takes crap from exactly no one, be they human, feline or canine. Hoover is a 12-year old Russian Blue, who loved me with mindless devotion...at least until my daughter started reaching a size and temperament that reminded him of me. Now he's just as likely to run to her.

Gigi is a stray who found his way to our house after husband and daughter discovered him under the car at K's swimming lessons last summer. 18 months old, 14 pounds...he's strong like bull, smart like tractor.

We also have three dogs. You met the goobers last May, when they arrived here after being abandoned by their prior owners. There's also Angus, A/K/A The Moron, a 7-year-old Kerry Blue Terrier who believes he's solely responsible for our continued safety.

In short, I live in a menagerie. I didn't plan this. It just happened.

So tonight, as we're cleaning up from dinner, Mr. Bean hears a plaintive meow from the back porch. We start counting noses; all our cats are de-clawed, so we don't let them out. He opens the door and in walks a grey male kitten, perhaps 6 months old. He immediately rubs on everything in the house; Mr. Bean, Me, K. He hasn't eaten in a few days, and puts down a week's ration of food in 10 minutes. He then jumps into K's lap, purrs his little kitty brains out and curls up.

He's wonderful. Seems to get along with the other cats. Not terribly afraid of the dogs. We live in a cul-de-sac; chances are that he was dumped here. He clearly has no clue whatsoever how to live on his own. And he's just adorable.

So I find myself wondering, at what point is my quality of life suffiently decreased by the critters I bring into my house to enhance my quality of life, that I should start cutting back? I can only sneeze so much.

And who the hell is going to clean that extra litter box?

Why I haven't had time to post in awhile

Some of you know that for years, I had a retired racing greyhound named Tango. He was my first dog, and I loved him dearly. He died in my arms, of respiratory failure, a little over six years ago. I still miss him.

Go ahead. Get a tissue. I'll wait.

Mr. Bean contends that a first dog is like a first boyfriend -- nobody else quite measures up to your first. I'm not so sure about the boyfriend thing, actually. My first boyfriend was Dan Duffy, who dated me in high school because he was trying to make my friend, Sandy, jealous. She had broken up with him. He was a pretty good kisser, actually, but it was still a really crappy reason to ask a gal out, you know?

Anyway, the fact is that Tango was the best, most wonderful dog in the world. I'd swear to it before a judge. I know this, because our next dog was a Kerry Blue Terrier, which I think we bought because Kerrys were the talk of Westminster for a few years in there. He's a total moron. And he barks pretty much all the time. So no; as sweet as he is, in his moronic way, he totally lacks the poetic soul and self-conscious gawkiness of my greyhound.

Where am I going with this? Well, here you go: When I had Tango, I encountered, at the local Highland Games, a Scottish Deerhound. Deerhounds are large, fuzzy greyhounds. Just as gawky. Just as quietly poetic. Just as gentle and sweet. I fell in love. I wanted one. Trouble is, there are only about 1000 Deerhounds in the whole freakin country. A puppy will run you about $3000. My chances of ever having one were pretty slim.

So about three years ago, unbeknownst to me, Mr. Bean signed us up for the National Scottish Deerhound Rescue.

And about two weeks ago, they called us. They had not one, but two deerhounds who had been orphaned as a result of a nasty divorce. They were raised together, very dependent on each other, and very traumatized by losing their family. They wanted to place them together. They were six years old -- almost geriatric by large dog standards.

Did we want them?

Of course we did.

So here are our newest "kids":


Meet Max. He'll be seven in September.










and Blue. She'll be six in a couple weeks. That's also the lower half of Mr. Bean. He's 6'4" tall and wears a 34" inseam. See how tall Blue is? She's the little one, by almost 40 pounds.


Together, they are 195 pounds of fuzzy love.

A few challenges: They'd never seen cats before. (I should learn to ask these questions). Cats are VERY interesting. Like, VERY. They might be tasty too, but Mom won't let us taste them.

They have seen deer before. They're even more interesting. And by a weird cosmic coincidence, a small herd of whitetail moved into our woods the day they moved in. Yes, 6 am walks are a VERY special time now.

Walking them is rather like driving a team of draft horses. Except draft horses don't head off in two different directions at once.

But on the positive side, the Moron Kerry is much more relaxed than he was before we got the bigger dogs. I actually like him better than before.

And they are big sweethearts. Even if they can clear the coffee table with their tails.

I'm a happy girl. It's like being in love all over again.