THE BIG AND THE SMALL
Warning to those who do not like animal posts. This is one:
Here’s to all the animals I have known and loved. Here’s to
Maggie and Joe and Henri; to Blackeye and Dali, the twins, Moji and Jack-Jack;
to Pumpkin, our orange kitty who was left in a box on our doorstep one soft
October night before Halloween. Here’s to foul-smelling Mr. Gray, who was born with a
deformity that causes the pads of his feet to slip and burst, sending a noxious
odor out wherever he treads, and causing him such pain that he often walks on
the backs of his paws (with his paw turned back at the joint). Here’s to
Dalai, our first cat in California, who is old and maybe on her last legs-- a
seal-point Siamese with an obnoxious meow. And to Tyger, our striped cat, who
freeloaded at every house in the neighborhood, but finally settled down with
us. (Mr. Gray and Dalai have since passed on...Jack-Jack lost, we assume, to coyotes...)
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| Dalai |
Dalai, named after the Dalai Lama, came to us from Sharon’s
house over the hill where, before the coyotes diminished the numbers, many
stray cats resided. Mr. Gray was a feral cat who understandably, nobody
wanted. Tyger was a stray & Pumpkin arrived unbidden. Blackeye and the twin
black cats were born to our Little One, another Seal Point, who was probably
purloined by coyotes. She lived out in the bushes and had several litters
before we could catch her and get her fixed. Blackeye is the older brother and
was born in the same litter with Bob-Bob, who disappeared one day and whom we
still mourn.
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| Bob-Bob & Monster |
In our little pet graveyard on the side of the hill under the
oaks, watched over by a statue of Buddha, are: Brando, the only longhair we
every owned; Pretty-Pretty, a feral/stray who was the father of Monster, buried
beside him. Monster was my wife’s cat and never grew old or big. He went
through and amazingly passed a bout with FIP, but his kidneys were so damaged,
he could not go on. Pretty/Pretty was killed by a speeding car on Christmas day
on our little farm road. If you know where we reside, you’d know that it’s a
narrow pot-marked dusty track through a farmer’s property to get to us. Only
someone with mal-intent would have run him down.
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| Joe |
Brando died of cancer as did Joe, our beloved first pit bull
who is buried on the other side of the house, on the backyard hillside where he
spent most of his day. His passing a year ago left Maggie our Kelpie all alone
and an empty spot in our hearts, so we found Henri, our second pit. We
introduced Maggie to many possible adoptee dogs at several pounds
and the SPCA, but Henri had the most infectious personality. If you are
counting, we presently have seven cats (now four) and two dogs, unless Bucket, a feral cat
I was enticing to join us, comes back. I've lived with animals all my life
and find living with other species a joy.
So here’s to them all, the long and short and tall. To Rufus
and Daniel and Buttercup and Gracie, all dogs I lived with on an 1820 farm in
Upright, Virginia—along with Apricot Rabbit, Simma the Goat, Morgan the duck
and Mud-Slide Slim, a steeplechaser. Here’s to my first dogs as a boy, Laddie
and Sparky—and even to my parakeet Pretty Boy. To my cat George, who followed
me from hole to hole on the golf course when I was a teenager. Here’s to Sarah,
an African barkless Basenji, perhaps the most intelligent dog I have known—she
and Maggie and Gracie all had the same gentleness of spirit that especially
endeared them to me. I still miss bouncy Abby, a Malamute who was my last
dog in Virginia before I moved west. And here’s to all the rest—the ones who
were fostered, or boarded for a while; those who I only knew for a short
while—all too numerous in my memories.
In my mind’s eye and in the dreams of my
heart, nothing is more wonderful and more wished for than a boundless walk on a
crisp, clear day and my dogs, boon companions all, running free through golden
fields.
