Two Purty Pet Pictures

Sibling Revelry

I don’t have many pictures of my two cats snuggling together, and the reason for this is simple:  Plum is a perv.  If Posy is lying in a certain way, minding her own business and doing nothing wrong, Plum can’t resist stalking up to her and climbing on, biting and twisting the scruff of her neck, while kicking her tuckus with his hind legs.  Now, nothing is actually going on here, if you get my drift.  Much as he’d like you to think otherwise, Plum is no tom cat.  He’s a eunuch, through and through.  It is all a kind of charade, yet one with a whiff of sexual violence to it.  I can't blame Posy for skedaddling off her spot when Plum tries to get cosy.

Being a dog person, when I first saw Plum doing this to Posy, I figured it was a dominance thing.  After all, dogs do this all the time to work out who’s who in the pack.  But when I asked our vet about it, she said she was pretty sure it was sexual.  So now when I see him sauntering over towards a snoozing Posy, I tend to yell out, “Hey Jim Bob, get off your sister!  Our family tree has branches!”  The result is that now Plum will often look over at me first to see if I am watching, and if he sees that I am, he will continue on by, whistling a little tune, acting like it was fully his intention in the first place to just go for a little patrol around the perimeter of the apartment to make sure all is well.

Often Posy will just lie there and take it—she’s 6 pounds to his 14 after all.  But sometimes she will start to raise a ruckus and voice her displeasure, and when I come to break the fight up, I usually find tufts of Plum’s purple fur floating about, and I give Posy a verbal high-five.

So when the weather gets cold and Plum is in the mood for a cuddle, you can understand why Posy generally will leave after a polite two or so minutes and go find a place in which Plum cannot fit.  Here, however, are a few pictures taken when Posy was too comfortable to move just yet:

Some Pig

I almost hesitate to write this since I don’t want to jinx myself, but my apartment has surprisingly little going on in the way of insect life.  The occasional fly makes its way in and then is promptly dispatched by my stellar bug-hunter, Miss Posy Fern.

Does she look like a killer?  No?  That’s part of her strategy.

I tend to get divebombed by one or two mosquitoes per summer, but that is pretty much it.  No ants, no spiders, and nothing remotely roach-like.  (Again, knock on wood!)

In actuality, I suspect that the lack of bug-life in my apartment is due to the fact that I cohabit with a multi-legged monster.  And I’m not talking about my dog or cats this time.  There is a centipede-ish kind of thing that will appear on my wall about 4 times per year.  And when he appears, I do absolutely nothing, because this “centipede” is the size of a Chihuahua.  No joke.  It is way too big to kill.  It is so large I feel one of these days the city is going to fine me for not giving it a collar with a license.  It’s got to be at least half a foot long with uncountable amounts of legs and feet.  And it is FAST.  But I rarely see the beast.  He makes an appearance a few times a year, and once he leaves I’m never quite sure he was even there.  He’s like the loch ness monster:  let’s call him the apt spruce monster.  I don’t know where he comes from or where he goes to, and I don’t want to know.  But I have a hunch that anything remotely insect-like that comes anywhere near my abode is soon a fine haggis in the belly of Apt Sprucie.

This, however, is all a digression.  I was just thinking about insects, because I was wondering how a wee bug would feel if they climbed up Mount Bedspread and found themselves face to face with this:

Or this:

And if it was a bug who could fly, say, it might make a hasty getaway, only looking back once in horror to see the sight from a different perspective:

It is no wonder that almost nary a spider or insect is making its way hither.

Peace and Quiet and Blue Hydrangeas

Like a reverse commuter, Dorothy traveled out of the city yesterday for some greenery and quiet and singing birds and good times.  But before all the good, she had to weather her second car ride as an older puppy.  It was a little disappointing, in that the last two minutes of the trip involved a pass and review of the kibble and chicken she had eaten a few hours earlier...but on the whole, we give her car-riding skills a B+.  She cried on the way there, but generally did so from a lying-down position, and on the way back she really didn't seem nervous at all.

Dorothy, feeling rather pleasant on the whole:

Dorothy, wondering why we are still in this stupid vehicle:

Our destination was the lovely suburban hamlet of Narberth, PA, and it did not disappoint!  After living in the city for a long time, it is always nice to be reminded that other places are Quiet!  And have tons of beautiful, verdant trees!  And songbirds!  And gardens that are not just a pot on the concrete.  I was treated to specimen after specimen of my tied-for-first-place favorite flower, blue hydrangeas.  Almost every yard seemed to have a spectacular bush that was in perfect bloom--blue, purple, white, and some with multiple colors.  I kept no doubt annoying my companions by making them stop and ooh and ahh over the bluest flowers I ever did see.  Sigh.

But I digress!  I forgot to bring my camera on our walk, so you'll have to take my word for it, but Dorothy -- champion sidewalk sitter she -- walked beautifully on our thirty-minute walk.  She even walked up and down her first hills (Philadelphia is a very flat city), and enjoyed gathering speed as she walked down, culminating in a veritable trot.

We also spent time in my boyfriend's apartment, and Dorothy very much enjoyed exploring the place (although she wasn't too sure about those ceiling fans spinning above--they seemed a suspicious sort to her, thank you very much, and kept rudely blowing on her head).

After first exploring all the things she could climb on -- couches, a bed, armchairs! -- she then explored all the things she could go under.  So a lot of the time we spent there, the view of Dorothy was this:

Here is Dorothy enjoying her newfound lair under a couch, and then trying to drag a sock monkey there so she could kill it afresh:

So although we might bring some additional moist towelettes in the car with us the next time, both Dorothy and I very much enjoyed escaping summer in the city.  And we are determined to get Dorothy used to the car, come what may (after all, if she doesn't like to walk and doesn't like to ride in a car, our options will become limited!  She's a bulldogge, not a houseplant, I tell her....)  Stay tuned for a report in weeks to come of our next excursion, which will involve water and perhaps a paddling dogge?!

Pet Rat

This picture just about makes me want to add a pet rat to my menagerie:

Plum Dumbledore

Plum turned 6 on May 23rd and I must admit I forgot all about it until five days later!  Oh the horror.  Not that I would really have done anything to celebrate the day--no gifts or little hats or special meals or anything like that--but I definitely would have called him the birthday boy and given him a few extra scritches.  Oops!  Sorry, Plum!  So here is a mini-pictorial of Plum's first six years, from Kiev to Philly.  What a handsome fellow!  And he knows it.

Bullies: Of Sticks, Dogges, and Men

When I had been living with Dorothy for a week or two, I went to a small local pet store and purchased Dorothy a bouquet of bully sticks.  The owner of the store was working at the register that day, and told me that if it weren’t for bully sticks, she would not have graduated from college.  Apparently, she had a pair of Basset Hounds while going to school and they would only leave her in peace if she gave them each a bully stick to chew upon.

I now very much understand what that woman meant.  Dorothy is housetrained, so I no longer have to worry that she is off somewhere finding creative spots in my apartment in which to toilet, but unless she is sleeping, I pretty much have to keep an eye on her at all times.  A very smart girl in general, Dorothy is an A+ student when it comes to the subjects of cat cornering, say, or domestic object chewing.  She plans to major in shoe destruction, and is clearly considering a minor in furniture gnawing and blanket burrowing.  She also likes to jump, and will attempt Evel Knievel-like maneuvers to heights she has no chance of reaching, like to the high windowsill above my bed, or from the chair in the bedroom to the bed.  The other day I caught her contemplating jumping from the bedroom chair to my high dresser; when I said no, absolutely not, she got a very guilty look on her face, so I know one day I’m going to find her frolicking among my very breakable and rather expensive bottles of perfume.

So if I want a little bit of time to myself—say an hour per night—I bring her bed into my study, and give her a bully stick and let her go at it.  For those of you who are blissfully unaware of exactly what a bully stick is, I shall now burst your bubble with the following two words:  bull penis.  Yep.  My little flower, Dorothy Hyacinth, is sitting behind me as I write this chewing on what was once a bull’s pride and glory, and what he no doubt hoped would stay attached to his person.  But these dried sticks are good for dogs!  Better than rawhide, I’m told.  They have glucosamine in them, and don’t lend themselves to choking or intestine-tangling.

I hope you’re not eating.  I’m certainly not, because the one thing the woman at the pet store failed to mention when she proclaimed her ode to bully sticks, was their odor.  They smell absolutely putrid.  When Dorothy is chewing one near me, I feel like I am sitting in a World War I trench surrounded by lime-strewn body parts.  Think of the worst smell you have experienced and multiply it by 50.  Yep:  bully stick.  I consider it the bull’s revenge.

*****

And now on to bulldogges and those who bully their owners.

To the pocket-sized man who manages the market a few doors down from where I live:

Admittedly, I could have tried to find a better place for my puppy to piddle than on the sidewalk outside of your market.  However, I’m not quite sure how I’m supposed to prevent a 6-month old dog with a urinary tract infection from letting loose a few drops in the out-of-doors.  I suppose I could have picked her up and carried her past your store.  But the sidewalk is a public place, and the dog-walking ordinances in Philadelphia only mention excrement and not urine, precisely because about two minutes after a dog urinates on a sidewalk there is barely a trace of it left.  When you began the conversation with clear venom and a rudely sneered “curb your dog, ma’am” what exactly did you have in mind that I should do?  Pull my dog into the bike path?  Jaywalk her across the street?  And was it really necessary to stand there hosing down the three drops she left as if their very essence would contaminate every single item in the store?

I'm happy to adhere to your request to the best of my ability -- which admittedly won't be 100%.  But whoa there, Napoleon!  If you can't reach polite, can you at least start with civil?!

And go ahead, keep glowering at us from behind your picture window every time we walk by (which, because of Dorothy’s UTI, is every 10 minutes).  I’ve gotten to the point now that I hope, as you shadow us behind the glass, arms crossed, your face a clenched fist, my glorious little bulldogge will reveal to you the infinite capacities of her full bladder.

Dorothy, not feeling very sorry: