I had some Christmas gift returns to make, and had them boxed and ready to go. Perch, who is nothing if not a crass stereotype, decided to get in on the “if it fits, i sits” meme, and live up to his name in the process.
I didn’t name him Percheron because of his habit of perching on things, that was just a happy coincidence, though a number of people’s shoulders over the years might argue otherwise. I named him after the breed of horse because his father was (and actually still is) named Horse, and because it seems I have to have a naming theme for my animals, with the added complication that the cats’ names all have overly complex back stories. Having said that, Perch’s is actually the least complicated.
Anyway, please enjoy this picture of Perchy perching, and have a wonderful Caturday!
The problem with having a small, observant dog in a houseful of cats is that their behaviors sometimes rub off on him. For example, the cats are alone most of the day with the run of the house, so it’s hard to keep them from being places I don’t want them. Which is probably why I came out one morning to find this:
The man hadn’t been over to the house for a few weeks. As far as I could tell, no one had. This would have been a death sentence for Marsha if she hadn’t basically been living with me. It got to be such a long time that I was becoming concerned As I said, he was rather old.
The only relative of his that I’d met was his son who lived about an hour away. We had exchanged phone numbers after the break in, and I’d called him a few times to discuss Marsha. He was unhappy with her situation as well, and he had even tried to discourage his father from getting a dog in the first place.
So I called, asking after his father, and learned a bit of what had happened. It turns out there had been a death, just not the man’s. The woman he had been living with died, suddenly and unexpectedly, from what I understand. I also came to learn that most of the people who I’d seen with him at the house on occasion had been her relatives, not his.
This put him in a predicament. Apparently none of his wife’s (Or maybe girlfriend’s? It never was very clear) family felt like keeping him in the style to which he had become accustomed (If he treats people the same way he treats his animals that isn’t surprising). So it was decided (again, apparently)* to have him live with his son.
So they started to move all of his stuff out of the house next door! Sad, I’m sure, for this man, who had held on to this house for so long, but a great opportunity for Marsha! A clean break! I called the son again and made it clear that I’d keep her. Well, I tried to.
They brought her over to her old yard again, a day or two after I’d talked to the son. There was, perhaps a lack of communication, between the son, father, and others. After that I made it a point to keep her in the house while the man, and the people who were helping him move out. She was mine, she had been mine for a long time, but she was officially mine, and I wasn’t going to give her up!
So he’s an hour away now. I’ve seen him and the son over there a couple of times in the last year. Marsha is officially mine, with shots, tags, and vet appointments, and officially home, with buddies, a warm bed, and someone who give a damn.
She’s so quick! It’s hard to get a clear picture of her!
A few weeks after she was first left next door, I came home one afternoon to find a third dog in my back yard. It hadn’t been a difficult thing for her to do. No one knows when the fence between the two properties was built. Some say there’s a painting of it on the walls of Lascaux. Some say it’s obviously the work of trilobites. Some say the early Earth coalesced around it. Anyway, it’s old, it’s rotting, and it was easy for a determine young pup, or even one that wasn’t trying that hard, to get through.
The process of Marsha becoming (spoiler alert!) my dog was a gradual one. She came over to visit several times. As the man next door realized she was getting out, her escape routes started being patched up. I soon started loosening fence slats at the bottom so that she could have hatches to come through to my side when it was safe. Naturally I had to seal these hatches up during the day in case the man came over.
I gradually learned his schedule: He, and sometimes his family, would come over for an hour or two about three days a week. During that time he would putter around the house and yard, but paid little attention to the little dog who was so desperate for it. When Eris (before she was mine) had her kittens on his property he had had a bag of cheap cat food. My Marsha-To-Be warranted no such expenditures, and greedily ate whatever table scraps were thrown on the ground for her. If anyone HAD broken into that house again, she probably would have shown them where all the good stuff was, and then gone with them.
So visiting my side of the fence regularly became eating regularly, which became coming inside, which became staying the night. Part of the reason she got to stay was selfish. If I hadn’t she would be up all night barking. The other part was sympathy for a cold and lonely little dog who I was getting increasingly attached to.
The first time she came inside she made a beeline for the bed!I texted these pictures to a friend who replied “Looks like you’ve got a dog.”
I kept up this Stealth Fostering for many months, many nerve wracking months. I was worried that I would be found out, and get in legal trouble. I was worried that if I found a forever home for her the guy would just get another dog. I was worried she would be put on a chain, or taken away. Worry, worry, worry.
But there were some joys and milestones in there as well. She quickly became housebroken (yay!)
She had her first (and only) heat before I had her spayed, probably because she was finally getting enough to eat.
She was (and still is, every day) deliriously happy to see the cats.
She got her own pretty blue collar and leash and quickly learned the joys of taking her person for a drag.
She was a joyous, and playful little dog, and it was increasing awful to have to put her on the other side of the fence to keep up the illusion that she was anyone’s but mine. Then tragedy struck, and with it an opportunity.
Given the rumored El Niño that’s supposed to wash California into the sea (still waiting, Kiddo!) and the satanically hot summers the San Joaquin Valley endures (I’ve witnessed many a squirrel burst into flames*) I thought it would be a good idea to install a dog door to the back yard.
The installation early last year went off fairly well (I still have all my thumbs), and the dogs learned to use it in short order.
I can’t leave it open all the time as the solely indoor cats, who in truth are more like furry filter feeders than mighty, wild hunters, will slip outside and make themselves confused and panicked indoor cats. They have their own access to the outside anyway in the form of the cattery I spent way too much time and money building for them. So the dog door spends most of its time closed and is only open when I’m away and the weather is inclement. It that case the cats get about a third of the house (my bedroom, the work/cat/junk room, and the cattery while the dogs get the rest of the house and the back yard. That is, if Eris cooperates.
Make me cooperate human. Make. Me.
She is a Former Feral (or at least semi-feral) and is highly disinterested in being picked by stinky humans with their spindly, bone paws (and honestly, what would you do if you saw THIS coming at you?!) If she deigns to grace your lap with her presence be honored, but Do. Not. Pick. Up.
So the strategies I have used to get her where I want have been the following:
Wait until she goes there. This is the least traumatic for all involved, but involves waiting for her to go eat in the cattery or lounge on the bed. This often isn’t an option with my complicated “having to be at work on time,” problems.
Coaxing her. This has never worked.
Picking her up suddenly before she knows I’m coming for her and hoping she doesn’t send me to the emergency room. This has never worked. She ALWAYS knows I’m coming for her.
Chasing her around the house until I have her cornered, pick her up, and hope she doesn’t send me to the emergency room. This works occasionally, but is time consuming, and nerve wracking for all involved.
Chase and barricade. This is relatively new, has worked a few times, and is relatively untraumatic. I pursue her into the kitchen, block off the door to the rest of the house and pick up or herd her into the cat room. I’m thinking it will be viable until she realizes that she shouldn’t run into the kitchen. Then I’ll be back to options 1 and 4.
As is often the case, I have what seems like a great idea, spend a good deal of time, effort and dinero on it, only to have the actual operation of said great idea made more complicated by cats.
*This statement is what the French would call “merde du boeuf.”**
**So is this. They’d actually say “C’est des conneries!”
From left to right (and in order of acquisition) Hershey, Graham, and Marsha. (This picture brought to you by a handful of tortellini.)
There’s an old Danish proverb* “Dine vægge og dine kæledyr bør tælle det samme,” “Your walls and your pets should number the same.” If this is the ancient wisdom of my ancestors** then no matter how you count, I have brought shame to my Scandinavian heritage.
If you count only the outer walls of my house I have three too many animals, and should have stopped before the dogs made themselves at home. If you count the inner walls as well then I need to get…..pardon me a moment…(1,2,3,4,5……) 19 more animals to truly make my house a home to make a viking proud, and make a health inspector call in air support.
First were the cats. When I moved into my house 16 years ago I brought with me a cat family: mama Kali, and kittens Ivy, Morph, and Perch. Six years ago came Flick, and about six months later, Hershey, my first dog. Four years ago I lost Kali. Three years, Graham came into the picture. About 2 years ago I got Eris and later that year lost Ivy. And about a year ago came Marsha.
When I say Hershey was my first dog, I don’t mean the first dog in this house, or the first dog of my adult life. I mean my FIRST dog, as in ever.
I know that 181 (dog years, you do the math) is a bit late in life to start hanging out with a new species, but I have a perfectly reasonable explanation, I didn’t like dogs.
But then something happened. I met someone, we started spending a lot of time together, and a lot of that time revolved around dogs. We walked her dog, took her dog to the dog park, signed up to volunteer at the local bully breed rescue, and so on.
Ultimately what I’d hoped for from all this hanging out didn’t happen; she went on to marry a very nice guy. However, I did gain first an appreciation of, then a love for, and finally my very own dog. I’ve never looked back, and never regretted it.
So welcome to my blog about dealing with these wonderful creatures, the cats they share their lives with, and whatever else crosses my mind.
smoredogs 
