Pet Monologues

Buford was not as dumb as his name might imply. Well, sometimes he wasn’t, anyway. For a while, he ran with a bad crowd – the dogs from down the road that took to killing the sheep across the river. We knew that our dog was just scavenging what the others had killed; we also knew the sheeps’ owner would have every reason and right to rid himself of any canine scourge, even ours.

So we started chaining Buford up when we weren’t home. It was a long chain, but still: cooped up all day in the driveway with only three trees to play with. And one to play in. It was nearly dead, with a hollow at the top of the trunk that filled with rain on a regular basis. Buford would sometimes scramble up, to stand and drool amid the few large, lopped-off branches before skittering down to wave his long feathery tail at us as we cheered. Read the rest of this entry »

Listen, I get that you’re a cat. I’m actually OK with all that. I like not having to take you on 5am walks or to pry a slobbery, grass-caked tennis ball out of your food hole only to throw it again so that you can have a cheap thrill. You’re above all that. But still…gimme a break, shithead!

It’s like, I’m minding my own business, asleep in my bed, totally dreaming about pizza, and you lay down on my face! Hey, ass butt, news flash: I need that to breath and live! Don’t sleep on it! Shit! Also I can smell your butt when you do that, because your idiot moron cat brain makes you think that I might actually WANT to smell it (which I totally don’t) so you deftly position it right in front of my nose. Here’s a shocker, my friend - your butt smells bad! It smells like a butt that just got pooped out of! DIARRHEA pooped out of. I’m no vet, but you should get that checked out. I know the whole barbed johnson thing makes gettin’ some a bit less complicated for you, but I can tell you from personal experience that girls don’t want to be constantly reminded that you have an asshole and poop comes out of it. Read the rest of this entry »

I was out riding my bike one day, with my chocolate lab Hannah, and this woman came running out of nowhere screaming for her dog to come back, which was steadily at least five feet ahead of her. The woman finally caught the dog and snatched it up by the nape of the neck, quite roughly. I was upset by the treatment of the dog, and stopped my bike to talk to the lady. Once I focused on the dog more closely, I could see she was missing her front right leg. The woman informed me the dog’s name was Tripod. She had come out of a litter of three pups, and she was the only one that was hindered with a birth defect. She had many problems as a puppy, and the former owners were not very concerned with vet care.

This woman made the comment that she was surprised the dog had lived past the first few weeks of birth. Without her leg, she could not pull herself around well enough to fight the other pups for milk. She almost died of malnutrition. The lady informed me that she and her husband were moving to Chicago, and they would be dumping the dog at the Humane Society, because even though it was somewhat cute as a puppy, she felt it was an ugly adult, and a pain to deal with. She said the dog would never come when called. She then asked me if I wanted another dog! Read the rest of this entry »

I have had three guide dogs, and they have all been attuned to my moods. If I am depressed, they seem to be; and if I am happy, they will reflect that, too.

My first guide dog moved with me to Memphis, Tennessee. We didn’t get back home to Nashville very often. Once, I remember, it was three years since we had been there. Yet every time we traveled back to Memphis, my dog would sleep until we were almost there. Then she’d wake up when we got near home! Also, she remembered that we used to live in Nashville, and when we’d go downtown, she’d always still stop at some of the places we used to go when we lived there! I found lots of old friends that way. This never ceased to amaze me how she could do that!

Source: paranormal.about.com

This morning, I was assaulted by my cat in a way that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. My kitties and I have a morning routine that involves saying goodbye before I walk out the door. I was suited up, ready to go, and I walked over to my dresser to retrieve my keys. As usual, my male kitty was lounging on the dresser, waiting for him goodbye scratches. He stood up to give me my usual nuzzle goodbye, and then the most unholy of acts took place. The friendly feline stretched, and the force of his stretch caused his anal glands to express….all over my face and in my mouth.

Now, a little biology background for those of you who aren’t in the know. Dogs and cats have these glands in their anus that get expressed, usually when they defecate. The smell is somewhat akin to rotting bodies that have been dry-rubbed with gorgonzola cheese and then spit-roasted over a pile of burning feces. Yum. Plus, like all organic smells, it tends to bind to fabrics, which makes for a pleasant surprise when your cat rubs its butt on your sheets or couch. But, nothing compares to being sprayed full on in the face with this heinous slime. Read the rest of this entry »

I awoke in the gray of dawn, blinking hard to get my bearings. I was in a small nylon tent on a rocky outcrop jutting into Lake Superior. Through the open flap all I could see was black water meeting vast purple sky.

Besides me, snoring peacefully in his sleeping bag, was my college dorm mate Kurt Iverson, whom everyone called Woodstock, a nickname whose origins not even he knew. The two of us had forged a fast friendship the previous year as freshmen, despite all odds. He was a northern Michigan country kid, lean and angular, with an abiding love of hunting and fishing. He tied his own trout flies and could skin a rabbit in two minutes flat. Read the rest of this entry »

Marco, a large brown tabby cat, stately sits on his haunches outside Venice’s Ospedale Civile, welcoming all who come to visit loved ones at this hospital. Is that a smirk on his face, or do I imagine a smug smile when I notice a sign on the door showing a dog in a circle with the slash symbol through it? Marco is the hospital’s official greeter. “It gives people hope when they see him,” says Gabriella Sanna, secretary of Dingo, a non-profit organization that helps care for some 500 stray cats in Venice and its islands. Venice is but one Italian city where numerous gattare (cat ladies) take care of homeless felines and is the first stop on our 12-day “Cats and Culture” tour from Venice to Rome in October’s perfect weather.

Venetians’ affection for cats dates back centuries because of the feline affinity for rodents. Special Venetian cats even were bred in the 13th Century to go after rats carrying the black plague. About 40 cats — gatti, in Italian — live at Venice’s main hospital, which dates from the 15th Century. “The hospital has many mice, so the cats are welcome here,” Sanna says. Read the rest of this entry »

Pet-Food Recall Over 40 brands of cat and dog food have been pulled from the shelves all over the U.S. Read the rest of this entry »

No bunny pets.It is Easter time again. Many parents are tempted to buy one of those cute little Easter bunnies that appear in pet stores. Read the rest of this entry »

When I was eight my parents took me and friends to a Memorial Day fair. It was an hour drive and the third time we went so I was looking forward to all that the fair could offer. I sort of remember the weather being nice enough and one of the fun things was to pitch nickels in plates to win - ducklings! Well of course we went home with one and it was no big deal to get a box, a bowl of water, lettuce.The duck was named Donald and my first experience with an unusual rural type pet as we lived in the city. Throughout the summer Donald played in an inflatable swimming pool in the back yard and followed me and my friends around the yard. Fun!

As Donald matured, going from yellow fuzzy to white feathers he ate more and, crapped more. You would think with all the play time in the pool he would smell better as a young adult. By November Donald was now a duck.

My mother, who was bred and born in the city, did the unexpected that’s for sure. With no warning except to say as we all sat down for our Thanksgiving dinner that she had some news for us. It was about Donald. My dad just stared at her for a full five minutes it seemed. He then slowly got up, rolled up his napkin on the table and said that he was going out for dinner and would like company. I really don’t remember the details that followed except my dad was not very hungry. I do remember going to the first McDonald’s in the neighborhood and eating in silence.

This is just one of my many pet stories with my mom. This photo is not of Donald but the story seems to pop up every year in late November.