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...)

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. 

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.

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.