kw: book reviews, nonfiction, animals, animal behavior, pets, wildlife
It takes extraordinary experiences to set the stage for a wild animal to become bonded to a person. In the case of a bobcat, soon to be named Trooper, these experiences included being the only survivor of his family's massacre by coyotes and getting stuck in a patch of cholla; for Johnson, they included a life that led to particular love for wild places and wildlife, and a temperament that just matched the bob-kitten's need. Basically, Johnson found the dying kitten, extracted him from the cholla (a most dangerous cactus), and took him to a veterinarian who was able to meet his medical needs and, even more, knew just how to prepare the kitten and Johnson for a life together in and around the home Johnson and his wife had created. Thus begins Trooper: The Bobcat Who Came in from the Wild by Forrest Bryant Johnson.
Years later, when a self-styled animal activist accused Johnson of "imprisoning" the cat, he was able to show her that Trooper came and went as he pleased and was never caged except when he needed to be taken to see the vet. Trooper loved the vet, just not the car ride. He also preferred to sleep snuggled against Johnson's arm.
At the risk of spoiling, although Trooper was a gentle companion and friendly to people, he kept enough of his wild nature to kill a coyote that began to stalk him and other animals around the Johnson mini-ranch. It was a collaboration: Johnson and neighbors first killed all the coyotes but one of a small pack that "moved into the neighborhood" and began preying on pets and even stalking children. Trooper finished off the last one.
In the years between, Trooper and Johnson learned from each other. Johnson ruminates, somewhat ruefully, that he knew Trooper thought of him as a rather inept cat. Not for Trooper the notion of being a "person". The book is full of stories of cat and man, and the man's wife, grown daughter and other family members. Of the time his wife good-naturedly tried to hire a "home-call" grooming service to "bathe" Trooper, and the way Trooper so thoroughly intimidated the groomer, without harming him in the slightest, that the groomer simply turned and left. Of the time a great horned owl knocked itself silly against a window, and Trooper brought it inside, not to eat, but perhaps hoping for a new kind of playmate; it was a job and a half getting the irate owl back out the door! Of the time the alarm service kept phoning Johnson that there was an intruder tripping the light beam in the house's hallway, but nobody was ever found. What was found? Trooper and another (ordinary) cat that had come to live there, jumping off furniture and interrupting the beam; the alarm company removed that particular sensor.
There are still many people who say animals are totally instinctual and cannot think, or plan, or feel pain. Such people have never owned a pet, never watched it plan, perhaps for days, how to attack a particular kind of prey or enemy. They've never thought through the fact that animals seem to easily learn a number of our spoken words, but we learn hardly any of theirs, or none at all. Even the most inbred, bred-for-looks-not-for-smarts Pomeranian pup or Persian cat shows these attributes. Johnson found that a bobcat, that must live by its wits, had quite a lot going on in that big, fuzzy head of his.
This book gets my Heart-Warming, Heartstring-Tugging, Drippy-Nose Award for the year!
Showing posts with label pets. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pets. Show all posts
Monday, November 12, 2018
Sunday, January 18, 2015
Owls are cats with wings
kw: book reviews, nonfiction, pets, memoirs, owls
In the early 1980s, on one particular day on the road from London to Kent, a driver who was paying attention might have seen another driver with an owl perched on his shoulder. The owl's name was Mumble, and the driver's, Martin Windrow.
For 15 years, Windrow shared his flat, and later a home in Sussex, with the Tawny Owl he'd obtained with the help of his brother. He writes of those years together in The Owl Who Liked Sitting on Caesar: Living With a Tawny Owl. For this rather lonely young writer and editor, Mumble was a godsend. His brother had persuaded him to try caring for an owl, but a first attempt, with a less congenial species, was humiliating and blessedly brief. If a Tawny Owl is similar to an affectionate tabby, this first owl was more like a fiery Siamese, the kind who either ignores or hates everything you do. Fortunately, he was willing to try again.
When he was introduced to Mumble, egg-raised for the purpose, not wild-caught, it was love at first sight for both. It had to be; as he describes it, living with Mumble was like being a single parent with an infant who never grows beyond a year or two yet becomes an adult in certain ways.
I was particularly taken when he described pet owls as "like cats with wings". Cats I can relate to. However, where a typical house cat might weigh 5 to 12 lbs (2.2 - 5.4 kg), this species of owl weighs at most 1.8 lbs (0.8 kg). But its talons compare to the claws of an Ocelot, so if you encounter even a small owl and it goes for your face, you're in real trouble!
All Mumble ever did with Windrow's face was nuzzle, and a bit of nibbling of his beard, in a similar fashion to her own feather-preening. In fact, Mumble liked what the author calls "necking" on nearly a daily basis.
A few chapters in the book outline the natural history of Tawny Owls, Strix aluco, but most relate the experiences of owl and man carrying on a life together. Mumble was somewhat sociable with others his first year, just as a human child is. After that, she became a one-man owl, and it was not safe to allow others into her presence. Everyone other than Martin Windrow was an intruder in her territory, and even the comparatively gentle Tawny species defends territory quite fiercely! Fortunately, with proper introduction and assimilation, he was able to persuade Mumble to accept one friend's caretaking while he was away once for more than a week.
Her life ended prematurely when someone, probably a misguided and misinformed "environmentalist", entered her outdoor aviary. From evidence on the scene, she apparently took a fierce whack at the intruder before dying of a heart attack. Windrow found her unmarked body in the open enclosure upon returning home. He sincerely hopes she marked the fool for life, and I heartily agree.
The "Caesar" of the title was a bust of Germanicus Caesar, and her bust-sitting is mentioned once in the text. I suppose it makes for a spiffier title, but her favorite perch was the top of the kitchen door. Not great title material.
I guess I'd describe this as a very comfortable book. Just the right book to read on chilly winter evenings.
In the early 1980s, on one particular day on the road from London to Kent, a driver who was paying attention might have seen another driver with an owl perched on his shoulder. The owl's name was Mumble, and the driver's, Martin Windrow.
For 15 years, Windrow shared his flat, and later a home in Sussex, with the Tawny Owl he'd obtained with the help of his brother. He writes of those years together in The Owl Who Liked Sitting on Caesar: Living With a Tawny Owl. For this rather lonely young writer and editor, Mumble was a godsend. His brother had persuaded him to try caring for an owl, but a first attempt, with a less congenial species, was humiliating and blessedly brief. If a Tawny Owl is similar to an affectionate tabby, this first owl was more like a fiery Siamese, the kind who either ignores or hates everything you do. Fortunately, he was willing to try again.
When he was introduced to Mumble, egg-raised for the purpose, not wild-caught, it was love at first sight for both. It had to be; as he describes it, living with Mumble was like being a single parent with an infant who never grows beyond a year or two yet becomes an adult in certain ways.
I was particularly taken when he described pet owls as "like cats with wings". Cats I can relate to. However, where a typical house cat might weigh 5 to 12 lbs (2.2 - 5.4 kg), this species of owl weighs at most 1.8 lbs (0.8 kg). But its talons compare to the claws of an Ocelot, so if you encounter even a small owl and it goes for your face, you're in real trouble!
All Mumble ever did with Windrow's face was nuzzle, and a bit of nibbling of his beard, in a similar fashion to her own feather-preening. In fact, Mumble liked what the author calls "necking" on nearly a daily basis.
A few chapters in the book outline the natural history of Tawny Owls, Strix aluco, but most relate the experiences of owl and man carrying on a life together. Mumble was somewhat sociable with others his first year, just as a human child is. After that, she became a one-man owl, and it was not safe to allow others into her presence. Everyone other than Martin Windrow was an intruder in her territory, and even the comparatively gentle Tawny species defends territory quite fiercely! Fortunately, with proper introduction and assimilation, he was able to persuade Mumble to accept one friend's caretaking while he was away once for more than a week.
Her life ended prematurely when someone, probably a misguided and misinformed "environmentalist", entered her outdoor aviary. From evidence on the scene, she apparently took a fierce whack at the intruder before dying of a heart attack. Windrow found her unmarked body in the open enclosure upon returning home. He sincerely hopes she marked the fool for life, and I heartily agree.
The "Caesar" of the title was a bust of Germanicus Caesar, and her bust-sitting is mentioned once in the text. I suppose it makes for a spiffier title, but her favorite perch was the top of the kitchen door. Not great title material.
I guess I'd describe this as a very comfortable book. Just the right book to read on chilly winter evenings.
Saturday, January 12, 2013
Owned by cats
kw: book reviews, nonfiction, animals, pets, cats, humor
They are so appealing when they are little. We had a cat for 18 years, but she'd been dead 10 years when our son insisted we get another. He brought home a 2-month-old calico he'd named Dora (for the TV character). Here she is at age 3 months.
Contrary to my childhood, when we typically had 3-15 cats (depending on recent litters born), my wife has insisted on no more than one cat at a time. One cat can be more than enough!
Humorist Bob Torte chronicles how his household cat population grew from two to six in Kitty Cornered: How Frannie and Five Other Incorrigible Cats Seized Control of our House and Made it Their Home. I suspect in his mind, the word "their" is in the boldest font imaginable. In another book (Enslaved by Ducks), we find that the cats are the least of it: fifty or so birds are to be found inside Torte Manor and outside in the yard, barn or coop. So how do you keep a passel of cats from eating your avian stock?
Just luck, in most cases. Bob and wife Linda adopted cats that are either intimidated by parrots, ducks and chickens, or is too lazy to give pursuit. When the star of the book, Frannie, a tiny stray, gradually and ever-so-reluctantly consents to being fed, and even petted (particularly during feeding), she ignores the birds of yard and house as beneath contempt. She's been living off rodents and songbirds, and only little flitty birds are worth the chase and the consuming.
But the book is not just about Frannie. Agnes, Moobie, Tina, Lucy and Mabel round out the group. Their personalities are more than simply different: They could be from different galaxies. One is a cuddler, one meows very loudly the entire time he's not being petted, and one bites every petting hand and often gives a scratch for good measure. Frannie is the most outdoorsy, and Lucy will go outside, but lean against the house while looking around (or sleeping), as though reluctant to part ways with it.
For a chapter or so some of the cats have to get treated for dietary problems and need special food. When it is just one, it is possible to feed the special food to all. But when two cats need different special food, and the whole houseful is accustomed to stealing food from everyone else's bowls, the mere humans on the scene are run ragged.
Midway through the book Frannie is run over or otherwise crushed, and gets a fractured pelvis and leg. She and Bob bond more deeply during her recovery, which is surprisingly fast and complete. We learn that a pelvis doesn't really heal; cats are light and their muscles form a "false joint", getting along without the real one.
I can't pass up the humor. This isn't just a chronicle. The author uses a combination of self-deprecation and studied exaggeration. It took me a little while to get used to it. An example, from the time the lower yard flooded and mice began moving inside: "Ponds filled the low spots in our woods, and I could hear the slam of tiny suitcases as grumbling mice abandoned their holes and headed for our basement." Another, while he is trying to set up an answer phone: "As I squinted at a folded slip of tissue paper that masqueraded as the user's manual…" Cute, and it makes the book more enjoyable. I wasn't ready for it to end. A good author leaves you wanting more.
Kittens don't stay kittens. Here is Dora just a month ago, being fed a treat by my wife. Dora is atop a climbing stand. She's now an 11-pounder, and insists on clawing the carpet. It's getting pretty ragged.
Dora is less affectionate than our former cat, a 5-pound silver tabby that liked laps. Dora has sat on my wife's lap half a dozen times in 2½ years, and never on mine. She usually tolerates petting well as long as she is standing on something. She doesn't like being picked up, but will now lie still in my arms for at least ten seconds before going berserk.
If anything, different cats are more different than different people. They keep you guessing.
Contrary to my childhood, when we typically had 3-15 cats (depending on recent litters born), my wife has insisted on no more than one cat at a time. One cat can be more than enough!
Humorist Bob Torte chronicles how his household cat population grew from two to six in Kitty Cornered: How Frannie and Five Other Incorrigible Cats Seized Control of our House and Made it Their Home. I suspect in his mind, the word "their" is in the boldest font imaginable. In another book (Enslaved by Ducks), we find that the cats are the least of it: fifty or so birds are to be found inside Torte Manor and outside in the yard, barn or coop. So how do you keep a passel of cats from eating your avian stock?
Just luck, in most cases. Bob and wife Linda adopted cats that are either intimidated by parrots, ducks and chickens, or is too lazy to give pursuit. When the star of the book, Frannie, a tiny stray, gradually and ever-so-reluctantly consents to being fed, and even petted (particularly during feeding), she ignores the birds of yard and house as beneath contempt. She's been living off rodents and songbirds, and only little flitty birds are worth the chase and the consuming.
But the book is not just about Frannie. Agnes, Moobie, Tina, Lucy and Mabel round out the group. Their personalities are more than simply different: They could be from different galaxies. One is a cuddler, one meows very loudly the entire time he's not being petted, and one bites every petting hand and often gives a scratch for good measure. Frannie is the most outdoorsy, and Lucy will go outside, but lean against the house while looking around (or sleeping), as though reluctant to part ways with it.
For a chapter or so some of the cats have to get treated for dietary problems and need special food. When it is just one, it is possible to feed the special food to all. But when two cats need different special food, and the whole houseful is accustomed to stealing food from everyone else's bowls, the mere humans on the scene are run ragged.
Midway through the book Frannie is run over or otherwise crushed, and gets a fractured pelvis and leg. She and Bob bond more deeply during her recovery, which is surprisingly fast and complete. We learn that a pelvis doesn't really heal; cats are light and their muscles form a "false joint", getting along without the real one.
I can't pass up the humor. This isn't just a chronicle. The author uses a combination of self-deprecation and studied exaggeration. It took me a little while to get used to it. An example, from the time the lower yard flooded and mice began moving inside: "Ponds filled the low spots in our woods, and I could hear the slam of tiny suitcases as grumbling mice abandoned their holes and headed for our basement." Another, while he is trying to set up an answer phone: "As I squinted at a folded slip of tissue paper that masqueraded as the user's manual…" Cute, and it makes the book more enjoyable. I wasn't ready for it to end. A good author leaves you wanting more.
Dora is less affectionate than our former cat, a 5-pound silver tabby that liked laps. Dora has sat on my wife's lap half a dozen times in 2½ years, and never on mine. She usually tolerates petting well as long as she is standing on something. She doesn't like being picked up, but will now lie still in my arms for at least ten seconds before going berserk.
If anything, different cats are more different than different people. They keep you guessing.
Friday, December 28, 2012
The cat at my feet
kw: animals, pets
This afternoon our son asked me when we might get a dog. I haven't had a dog since I was 13. I had three dogs in a row, in four years, and each was run over by a car and killed before I'd had it six months. My wife grew up with a dog, but doesn't seem particularly taken with them either. We do like cats, but just one at a time. We presently have (or are the territory and food supply of) a 3-year-old, rather aloof Calico.
I wrote yesterday about pets, triggered by reading the book The $60,000 Dog by Lauren Slater. I remembered all the cats I grew up with. I have to set my mind to it to remember the dogs. I continue to wonder if we can understand animal feelings. Consider this:
When I was ages 7 to 12, we lived on the edge of a suburb, next to rural fields. We had several cats, and seldom had one "fixed". On three occasions, a young female had her kittens in my bed, at my feet. The time in the middle (I was 11), I was sleeping in a sleeping bag in the "tree house" (a play house on 8-foot stilts our father had built). I awoke with warmth at my feet: the mother cat nursing six kittens. When her time came to deliver, she climbed up into the tree house and burrowed to the foot of my sleeping bag, ignoring my brothers who were sleeping nearby. Can a house cat feel trust? I have three reasons to think they can.
This afternoon our son asked me when we might get a dog. I haven't had a dog since I was 13. I had three dogs in a row, in four years, and each was run over by a car and killed before I'd had it six months. My wife grew up with a dog, but doesn't seem particularly taken with them either. We do like cats, but just one at a time. We presently have (or are the territory and food supply of) a 3-year-old, rather aloof Calico.
I wrote yesterday about pets, triggered by reading the book The $60,000 Dog by Lauren Slater. I remembered all the cats I grew up with. I have to set my mind to it to remember the dogs. I continue to wonder if we can understand animal feelings. Consider this:
When I was ages 7 to 12, we lived on the edge of a suburb, next to rural fields. We had several cats, and seldom had one "fixed". On three occasions, a young female had her kittens in my bed, at my feet. The time in the middle (I was 11), I was sleeping in a sleeping bag in the "tree house" (a play house on 8-foot stilts our father had built). I awoke with warmth at my feet: the mother cat nursing six kittens. When her time came to deliver, she climbed up into the tree house and burrowed to the foot of my sleeping bag, ignoring my brothers who were sleeping nearby. Can a house cat feel trust? I have three reasons to think they can.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Lovely tales of loving animals
kw: book reviews, nonfiction, animals, pets, memoirs
I nearly wrote in the title, "…of animal love," but realized that would not be accurate. What do we know of animal emotions? Does a young pet follow a boy because it likes him, or because it is imprinted? Does a cat—or raccoon—rub its chin on your leg out of affection, or to mark you as territory? We had one cat for 18 years, who seemed very affectionate. She liked to climb onto my chest in the bed at night, and fall asleep there. Fortunately, it was only after she died that I had to begin sleeping on my side to mitigate sleep apnea. But our present cat, obtained as a kitten ten years after the other one died, seems not to have the affection organ. She accepts petting a little bit, but steadfastly refuses to sit on a lap, and will only tolerate being picked up and held for about five seconds, before struggling and growling.
So maybe the first cat did feel some affection…unless it was simply that I was the warmest thing in the house on a winter's night! But there is no doubting the love that we feel. My wife is different with our cat than at any other time, talking to her and sitting beside her chosen bed cushion, where the regal cat permits herself to be petted for a time, before slowly rising and striding off, just a few steps. When she has "recovered" from the petting, she may settle back on the cushion for some more petting.
Lauren Slater came to a love of animals slowly, not out of her own nature, but from lack of opportunity. In the seven long stories in her book The $60,000 Dog: My Life With Animals she tells first of her childhood in a dysfunctional family in the Jewish neighborhood in Maine that was called a Golden Ghetto. The gift of a bicycle at age nine allowed her to explore over that summer, further and further from home. She learned to lure fox cubs from their den with nuts and candy, though she didn't get the chance to touch one. She brought home a fallen egg, uncracked, and with her parents' help tried to incubate it, but instead it mummified. Later, she spent a few weeks at a horse ranch "summer camp", learning more about people than about animals, but surprising herself with the intense bond young girls often have for horses, even as she knew inside she would outgrow it (and she did).
The dog of the title, Lila, is one of two she bought early in her marriage to Benjamin, who professed to love animals only in proportion to how good a stew they made. Ever the engineer, at one point he calculated that the dog had cost $60,000, including a factor for Lauren's time spent walking Lila and her brother Musashi. The breed is Shiba Inu (my wife says it is just "Shiba", because Inu is Japanese for "dog".) My doctor would count the time cost in the opposite way. He says, "If your dog is overweight, you need more exercise," and says we must count the extra years of life added by loving a dog, which at the very least can lower blood pressure by 20mm or more. Benjamin apparently knew nothing of this. Yet in time, he came to think of Lila as "our dog", not just "your dog".
Portions of the stories sound like synesthesia, and maybe they are. The author is trying to convey truths that are beyond words. Our animals open us up to different worlds than the one we know. We cannot inhabit that oh-so-different-yet-similar mind, but, somehow, we and they communicate. Pets learn to respond appropriately to quite a few of our words; we learn at least a few of theirs: the particular "Meow!" that means hunger rather than wanting the door opened, or a certain "play face" on a face deemed "unexpressive" by vaunted, yet ignorant, experts.
We all have animal stories, many of which we may marvel at, thinking or saying just how much like us the animal is. The reality is, we are so much like them.
I nearly wrote in the title, "…of animal love," but realized that would not be accurate. What do we know of animal emotions? Does a young pet follow a boy because it likes him, or because it is imprinted? Does a cat—or raccoon—rub its chin on your leg out of affection, or to mark you as territory? We had one cat for 18 years, who seemed very affectionate. She liked to climb onto my chest in the bed at night, and fall asleep there. Fortunately, it was only after she died that I had to begin sleeping on my side to mitigate sleep apnea. But our present cat, obtained as a kitten ten years after the other one died, seems not to have the affection organ. She accepts petting a little bit, but steadfastly refuses to sit on a lap, and will only tolerate being picked up and held for about five seconds, before struggling and growling.
So maybe the first cat did feel some affection…unless it was simply that I was the warmest thing in the house on a winter's night! But there is no doubting the love that we feel. My wife is different with our cat than at any other time, talking to her and sitting beside her chosen bed cushion, where the regal cat permits herself to be petted for a time, before slowly rising and striding off, just a few steps. When she has "recovered" from the petting, she may settle back on the cushion for some more petting.
Lauren Slater came to a love of animals slowly, not out of her own nature, but from lack of opportunity. In the seven long stories in her book The $60,000 Dog: My Life With Animals she tells first of her childhood in a dysfunctional family in the Jewish neighborhood in Maine that was called a Golden Ghetto. The gift of a bicycle at age nine allowed her to explore over that summer, further and further from home. She learned to lure fox cubs from their den with nuts and candy, though she didn't get the chance to touch one. She brought home a fallen egg, uncracked, and with her parents' help tried to incubate it, but instead it mummified. Later, she spent a few weeks at a horse ranch "summer camp", learning more about people than about animals, but surprising herself with the intense bond young girls often have for horses, even as she knew inside she would outgrow it (and she did).
The dog of the title, Lila, is one of two she bought early in her marriage to Benjamin, who professed to love animals only in proportion to how good a stew they made. Ever the engineer, at one point he calculated that the dog had cost $60,000, including a factor for Lauren's time spent walking Lila and her brother Musashi. The breed is Shiba Inu (my wife says it is just "Shiba", because Inu is Japanese for "dog".) My doctor would count the time cost in the opposite way. He says, "If your dog is overweight, you need more exercise," and says we must count the extra years of life added by loving a dog, which at the very least can lower blood pressure by 20mm or more. Benjamin apparently knew nothing of this. Yet in time, he came to think of Lila as "our dog", not just "your dog".
Portions of the stories sound like synesthesia, and maybe they are. The author is trying to convey truths that are beyond words. Our animals open us up to different worlds than the one we know. We cannot inhabit that oh-so-different-yet-similar mind, but, somehow, we and they communicate. Pets learn to respond appropriately to quite a few of our words; we learn at least a few of theirs: the particular "Meow!" that means hunger rather than wanting the door opened, or a certain "play face" on a face deemed "unexpressive" by vaunted, yet ignorant, experts.
We all have animal stories, many of which we may marvel at, thinking or saying just how much like us the animal is. The reality is, we are so much like them.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Rolling it the other way
kw: animals, pets
We had the good fortune to have a well-behaved cat for nearly eighteen years, until she died about ten years ago. I am not counting the first half year, when she was learning her good behavior! About five months ago we finally got a kitten to raise, and she is now seven months old. She is a pretty good cat, though still very young, but more active and assertive than her predecessor. We are learning how to cat-proof our house.
One issue that arose once she got big enough, is toilet paper. Now that she can reach the rolls in the dispensers, she delights in rolling out a long tail of the stuff for her to chase and pounce upon and drag about. After discussing what kinds of habits we could re-learn the most easily, we decided to change a long-standing practice and turn the rolls around so they dispense from the back instead of the front. This being a cat of very little brain, she hasn't figured out why she can roll and roll and roll the paper, and none comes off any more. She seems to have given up already.
It is taking us a bit of adjustment to learn a slightly different motion to get paper, but we do think we're smarter than this cat. This is one reason in favor of putting toilet paper rolls so they roll from the back, something I never thought of in the previous five or six decades!
We had the good fortune to have a well-behaved cat for nearly eighteen years, until she died about ten years ago. I am not counting the first half year, when she was learning her good behavior! About five months ago we finally got a kitten to raise, and she is now seven months old. She is a pretty good cat, though still very young, but more active and assertive than her predecessor. We are learning how to cat-proof our house.
One issue that arose once she got big enough, is toilet paper. Now that she can reach the rolls in the dispensers, she delights in rolling out a long tail of the stuff for her to chase and pounce upon and drag about. After discussing what kinds of habits we could re-learn the most easily, we decided to change a long-standing practice and turn the rolls around so they dispense from the back instead of the front. This being a cat of very little brain, she hasn't figured out why she can roll and roll and roll the paper, and none comes off any more. She seems to have given up already.
It is taking us a bit of adjustment to learn a slightly different motion to get paper, but we do think we're smarter than this cat. This is one reason in favor of putting toilet paper rolls so they roll from the back, something I never thought of in the previous five or six decades!
Monday, August 02, 2010
Cat strike
kw: pets
I had a couple ideas that rattled around in my head all day, but none jelled into a usable post. Then at home this evening, we gave up trying to get the cat to use the scratching post. She seems to prefer the carpet. We bought one of those cardboard thingies from the pet store. They come with some catnip in them.
So far, not one scratch. She likes the smell, and will roll on it, but nothing we've done so far has induced her to scratch it. Some days are like that.
I had a couple ideas that rattled around in my head all day, but none jelled into a usable post. Then at home this evening, we gave up trying to get the cat to use the scratching post. She seems to prefer the carpet. We bought one of those cardboard thingies from the pet store. They come with some catnip in them.
So far, not one scratch. She likes the smell, and will roll on it, but nothing we've done so far has induced her to scratch it. Some days are like that.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Learnings from a compressed life
kw: book reviews, nonfiction, pets
It's a little book, even in the large print edition, and one-third pictures, so it was about a two-hour read. But Good Dog. Stay. by Anna Quindlen is worth more than a couple hours' thought. Ms Quindlen's books belong in the "help yourself be better" category. This book is a more personal reflection on her own growth over the fifteen years of her Labrador Retriever's life, and particularly his aging and death.
Fifteen years is about 20% longer than most Labs live, so by the time old Beau (for Beauregard) was ready to go, he was an elder of elders, a centenarian in dog years. The short lesson of the book is simple: dogs are still dogs, and much of what we think about what they think is projection. For people, I understand that hearing usually persists the longest. For a dog, it is the nose.
In clear-headed love, the author and the family didn't delay too long when it was time. I, too have observed a few animal deaths, and it is true that they know when it is time, and resent being "held over". The Quindlens set a date, had the veterinarian present, and praised the old dog into a triumphant passing.
Dogs are dogs, and people are people. I think our fear of death is because we know way, way too much. When God said, "The day you eat of it [the tree of knowledge of good and evil] you shall surely die", more than anything, He was saying that the knowledge of death results in a fear of death, which can make life into a living death. Now we need God to help us escape such fear, to live life while it may be lived, and, like our faithful and less knowledgeable friends, embrace the end when, as it must, it comes.
It's a little book, even in the large print edition, and one-third pictures, so it was about a two-hour read. But Good Dog. Stay. by Anna Quindlen is worth more than a couple hours' thought. Ms Quindlen's books belong in the "help yourself be better" category. This book is a more personal reflection on her own growth over the fifteen years of her Labrador Retriever's life, and particularly his aging and death.
Fifteen years is about 20% longer than most Labs live, so by the time old Beau (for Beauregard) was ready to go, he was an elder of elders, a centenarian in dog years. The short lesson of the book is simple: dogs are still dogs, and much of what we think about what they think is projection. For people, I understand that hearing usually persists the longest. For a dog, it is the nose.
In clear-headed love, the author and the family didn't delay too long when it was time. I, too have observed a few animal deaths, and it is true that they know when it is time, and resent being "held over". The Quindlens set a date, had the veterinarian present, and praised the old dog into a triumphant passing.
Dogs are dogs, and people are people. I think our fear of death is because we know way, way too much. When God said, "The day you eat of it [the tree of knowledge of good and evil] you shall surely die", more than anything, He was saying that the knowledge of death results in a fear of death, which can make life into a living death. Now we need God to help us escape such fear, to live life while it may be lived, and, like our faithful and less knowledgeable friends, embrace the end when, as it must, it comes.
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