Stray Kitty

There is a stray kitty who lives in our yard. Her name is Stray Kitty. Sometimes she lives in the shed, sometimes she lives in the Virginia Creeper, sometimes she lives between the fence and the garage.

Stray Kitty is a little calico with one yellow eye that sees and one pink eye that has been horribly scratched. She comes to our garden room to drink from our water bowl.

The other day she sat on the rug in the garden room, looked up at the back door, and started mewling. She ran away when Mommy took out the recycling.

She doesn't like it when Duncan and I are in the yard. That is when she hides. Duncan likes to chase her and I would like to play with her.

She wants to make friends with Mommy, though. Stray Kitty was in the garden room again this morning. Later, when Duncan and I were in the house and Mommy was gardening, Stray Kitty followed Mommy through the yard. Then, when Mommy was pulling weeds, Stray Kitty walked up to her and started brushing up against her and purring. Apparently, she was a very sweet kitty, because Mommy came in the house and said, "Dogs, we have a responsibility."

Now, the only responsibility I have is to chase things out of the yard, so I was jealous of the milk that Mommy poured into a bowl and brought out to Stray Kitty. Mommy never pours milk into a bowl for me. Neither does Mommy open up a can of tuna and present it to me to eat. But she did both for Stray Kitty, who ate right out of her hand.

I wasn't all that jealous of the crate, though. I didn't begrudge Stray Kitty the time she spent locked up, even if it was for a ride in the car. Stray Kitty was not as devious as I am when Mommy tries to crate me. She didn't even put up a fight, or show her claws. She only uttered a few meows of protest.

She had clearly been in a crate before. She had also clearly been for a ride in a car and for an examination at the vet before, because she didn't protest one bit. Instead, she played and purred and was on her best behavior. At least that is what Mommy said, because I didn't get to go.

When she had been checked over and given her shots and after Mommy made an appointment for an operation to have the bad eye removed, she came home. Mommy let her out of her crate in the back yard and she disappeared into one of her hiding places.

We have not seen her all day. But Mommy and the Big Guy are sure she'll be back for breakfast. As much as she likes to be free, Stray Kitty is not a self-sufficient Kitty.

Do not worry, fans. I, Poppy, have not been demoted to second fiddle to a kitty. The Big Guy is allergic to cats and as he would like to breathe, Stray Kitty can't become part of the family.

Mommy will catch (if that is what you can call it) her again on Tuesday and take her for her operation. Then Stray Kitty will have to stay in our garden room until she's done with her antibiotics. Meanwhile, the kind vets at Planned Pethood Plus will be helping Mommy and the Big Guy find Stray Kitty a home.

Under the Knife

I had an operation yesterday. I have been told that it is supposed to make me feel better. I am not sure how I feel, because now that it’s over, things that usually never weird me out are really, really weirding me out. Like Mommy. She looks like Mommy, and smells like Mommy, but I just look at her with languid eyes. I think, “You are Mommy, but maybe you are also a stranger. How is it that you are all shimmery?” She came home last night and I didn’t move from my perch. She said hello and asked how I was doing. I looked at her and made little whining noises.

Sometimes I don’t want her to touch me, so I run in a circle around Duncan and the Big Guy, who are sitting on the floor. Sometimes I want to sleep near her. Today I lack decision-making skills. I, Poppy, am usually very decisive. I am a pug who knows what she wants and where she wants to sit. But now I sit on the floor and look up at the sofa, like it is a mirage. I want to go to the mirage, but I am not sure that it is real. In my frustration, I sit, staring at the mirage/tangible object. Mommy makes the sofa real by patting on it and saying, “Come up here.”

And then there’s the dryer. Usually it doesn’t bother me. But now I keep my ears perked, listening to the zippers and buttons banging against the drum. Surely we are being attacked. I think it’s the pink squirrels who are attacking. From time to time, I lift my head and stare at them with wide eyes.

We are being attacked, but for some reason all I can do is cry. We are being attacked, no one else knows it, and I am too tired to warn them. I continue to cry very, very softly.

At some point last night, Mommy fed me beef-baby food from a jar. It smelled very yummy, like cat food, and Duncan wanted it, too. Mommy held it on a spoon in front of me and for the first time that evening my little toungue emerged to lap at it. She put the rest of my food in my bowl and I ate it, rather inefficiently. When I finished, there was still a lot left, smeared all over the inside of the bowl. Duncan came over and finished it for me. Mommy and the Big Guy said, “There she is. She’s back to herself.”

I am wearing a t-shirt that says “Snowmass.” I am not wearing this shirt because I like to ski. That would be silly. Pugs don't ski. Pugs don't even like snow. I'm wearing it so I don’t mess with my stitches. I can’t wear a cone, because dogs who have heads smaller than their necks can’t wear cones. I don’t think that the cone situation is funny. Mommy, the Big Guy, and my grandparents think it is funny. They laugh, but I don’t pay them attention because I am still watching the pink squirrels.

Today I am almost back to myself. I could only must one small bark this morning, when I was waiting to be fed. I ate my whole breakfast.

Cheese

I like cheese. The Big Guy started giving me cheese for treats, and Mommy copied him. Whenever the cheese comes out of the fridge, Duncan and I go over to the counter and wait patiently for the cheese ritual. First we get one piece, then another. Just two. We are so happy.

But now, the emergency vet said that my tests show that I might have kidney stones, and that I would have to have a special diet. On the way home from the vet, the Big Guy asked Mommy what might cause kidney stones in dogs. She said, "I don't know, but an overabundance of calcium causes them in humans."

Then they Googled "calcium kidney stone dog." Indeed, foods high in calcium are discouraged for dogs who have had kidney stones. There is now an anti-cheese for dogs policy at our house.

Knowledge is a dangerous thing. That is why I, Poppy, am against it.

Sick

Last night I got to go for a ride in the car with Mommy and the Big Guy. Duncan had to stay at home. I am a Very Good Girl when I ride in the car. I lie on the back seat and fall asleep.

When we got out of the car, we went to a place that smelled a lot like dogs and cats and animals of all kinds. At places like that I like to sniff all of the corners.

There was a cat there. I know to steer clear of cats.

A lady took us to a small room, where she talked to Mommy and put me up on the table. I only like being on tables when there is food on them, like the dining table. I like it because I can jump up on the table on my own when nobody is looking. But when somebody puts me on a table, I want to jump off because I know I'm going to get poked and prodded. Mommy held me while the lady poked and prodded me. The lady was nice, but she did some not nice things to me.

The lady left us alone in the room. I sniffed around some more and listened to what was going on outside the door. I barked, just to let everybody know I was there. Mommy and the Big Guy were focused on their phones. I don't get phones. When we used to have a land line and it rang, I would bark to tell Mommy that the phone was ringing. Now phones play music, which is a medium that I don't understand.

While Mommy and the Big Guy were looking at their phones, I went potty. Usually I go potty outside, which is another reason why I am a Very Good Girl. However, yesterday I couldn't help myself. All day I needed to go all the time, and I couldn't wait for somebody to let me out. Apparently, my accidents are why we went for a ride in the car to the place that smells like dogs and cats.

A while later a man came in.* I was very friendly with him. I went over and cautiously sniffed him, my tail down and parallel to my body. He picked me up and put me on the table. I turned to Mommy and the Big Guy and gave them a look that said, "How is it that you are letting this happen to me again?" The man looked in my eyes and ears, then felt my ribs and tummy. Then he looked in some other places that are not so nice to look.

When he was finished, he said a few words to Mommy and the Big Guy, and then took me to another room, without Mommy and the Big Guy. I got poked and prodded some more.

After a while, the lady brought me back to Mommy and the Big Guy. I was very happy to go to them. I was pulling on my leash. When I got to the room, I scolded Mommy with a bark that said, "What do you think you were doing letting me go in there? I was very unhappy." But then we got to go back to the car. This time I was very excited to be in the car, because it was going home. When I'm near home, I like to stand with my forepaws on the center console and look out the front window. I am really too short to see anything, but I feel like I'm part of the action, and, with little excited whines and barks, can encourage the driver to get home more quickly.

When we got home, Mommy stuck a pill down my throat and told me that I'd feel better in the morning.

It's true. It's like I don't even remember being sick.



*Please see my earlier posts on male veterinarians. I am all for them. They need to be supported.

2003 Pug

Last year the Onion, America's finest news source, reported that breeders were issuing a recall of the 2007 model pug. It was a dark day for pugs everywhere. You can read about it here and see a slide show of chronic pug problems:

http://www.theonion.com/content/news/dog_breeders_issue_massive_recall

I, Poppy, am a 2003 pug. I have not been recalled. Unlike the 2007 pug, which apparently is like a car engineered and manufactured in in Detroit in the 70s and 80s, I am more like a fine, Italian race car that demands frequent maintenance and almost obsessive upkeep. My quirks include:

• Frequent ear infections
• Frequent reverse sneezing
• Frequent itching, especially after grooming
• Allergies to all vaccinations, causing me to have preventive cortisone shots
• Pleasant plumpness
• Difficulty breathing without sounding like a distant train engine
• Snoring (see above)
• Compulsive shedding
• Delusions

Liberated

I, Poppy, am a very liberated pug. I do not discriminate on the basis of species, breed, race, creed, gender, or sexual orientation. My choice of veterinarian is an example of this openness and tolerance for all. He is a man.

I know. Male veterinarians are an endangered species. Not only did the number of female veterinarians move past male veterinarians in 2007, it seems that veterinary schools are now 75% female. No one knows why that is. Moreover, most of these ladies are opting to become small animal veterinarians, not large animal veterinarians.

But I am not concerned with why; I am more of a what pug. Dr. K is just like any girl veterinarian. He still lures me with sweet talk, sticks me with needles, sticks the thermometer into my ear, checks out my teeth, feels my sides, gives me a treat because I am a Good Girl. Such actions are no different from the women who have examined me. In fact, Dr. K may be even more sensitive than the ladies. He has never suggested I lose weight. Moreover, he leaves the anal gland expressing to people in the office who have smaller fingers. Such a gentleman.

I am a small animal. In fact, I could be classified with Piglet as a Very Small Animal. This demographic shift in choices of profession affects me personally. I, Poppy, am going on the record as being in favor of veterinary schools doing more to attract men to the profession. They are just as qualified as women. We cannot let sexism rule the day.