Basil Does Hard Time

Yesterday there was much rejoicing in the land: Basil was returned to the bosom of his family after spending the weekend in Kitty Jail. He brought back a dirty nose and a sneeze, but we welcomed him home with much feasting and an orgy of head rubbing. We hope he learned his lesson like Peter Rabbit and doesn't go back to "Mr. McGregor's" garden.

Friday afternoon we thought it was strange when he didn't take his normally scheduled nap in the guest room and Friday night he didn't show up to harass me while I was cooking dinner. When Saturday morning came and he wasn't there to demand a treat while I poured my coffee, it was clear something was very wrong. My husband and I felt horrible. Missing cats usually stay missing and we were depressed at the thought of losing such a valued member of the family.

A conversation with my neighbors across the street gave me some dismay and some hope: several of their cats had gone missing as well and it was rumored that one of the neighbors was trapping cats. I walked over to see for myself if it was true. The Grumpy Old Man who came to the door launched into a spiel about how "It isn't me, it is the city. There are leash laws, you know." I assured him he didn't have to justify his actions, I just wanted to know if a little gray and white cat had been trapped on Friday. He said no cats had been trapped for weeks and he would keep a look out for Basil.

The S.P.C.A. nearest us was closed on the weekend but there were two other animal shelters open on Sunday, so we toured them both. No Basil. Monday afternoon when the shelter opened at 3:00, we were there, chafing at the wait. First, though, we had to watch two families hand over their one-year-old dogs to be jailed for the crime of no longer being cute and puppy-like. It was with a heavy heart I watched my husband being escorted into the depths of animal hell. I was ready to go home empty handed, there to slowly mourn the loss with each passing day.

So I was stunned with the news our boy had been found. He had, in fact, been trapped at G.O.M.'s house and turned over to the city for disposal. Dirty and yowling for all he was worth, Basil was ready to bust out of the joint and return home to his ten square meals a day and his down comforter. In prison, apparently, no one sings songs to you about the joys of chicken, or tells you what a brilliant hunter you are, or rubs your head on demand. When Basil got home he screeched and yowled for a good two hours. It is just as well that I can't speak the language, because I am sure he was dropping the F Bomb with every breath.

So the great looming question is-- where do we go from here? Do we nail up the dog door and tell the bulldog she needs permission to go outside? Do we invest in an electric fence? Do we fatten Basil up until he can't waddle more than a few feet? Do we buy a trap and teach Basil and Eustace, the other cat, they are to be avoided at all cost? It is too bad that one grumpy old man can ruin a whole neighorhood, but we are the ones breaking the law, not him. Now we just have to figure out how to convince Basil and Eustace that they must be on leashes to go outside.

The Mighty Hunters

Last week I was thinking the new cats, Eustace and Basil, just weren't stacking up to the cats of my past in the hunting department. Sure they are handsome boys with good characters, but where are the presents? Where is the "Thanks for all the canned food, here is a small, dead mouse"? That Sister, now she was a hunter! A fresh, new snake brought right to my kitchen every morning: Snake Express, We Deliver! These new kittens don't impress me, the lazy bums. A few moths. A grasshopper or two. Once a month a vole, if I'm lucky. Why I'd certainly have starved to death by now if I had to rely on their feeble hunting skills.

They read my mind. Or else, as my husband pointed out, spring arrived. This week my kitchen has been body part central. So far I have received: a headless snake, a full grown male cardinal, a baby vole, a bird's head, and a squirrel's tail. And the week isn't over yet. Good pickings if you happen to like assorted small, helpless animal parts.

Fanny, the bulldog, however, remains unimpressed. She has bigger, more impressive prey to hunt. There is nothing she likes better than to go for a drive with Dave or me, and come home with tacos, or pizza, or eggrolls. You can see the excitement when she comes through the door. Look! Look what we have done!

From Fanny's Unpublished Memoirs:

It was a good day for a hunt. She did that thing with her voice, that thing that makes me shiver. Do you want to go in the car? I must sit for THE LEASH even though I am trembling.

She is a great hunter. Our pack is never hungry. Every day she hunts and there is food. Every morning there is food in MY DISH. I must sit and wait. I drool. And then she says, Good Dog.

When she makes that chop chop noise, I run to the kitchen. She is standing. She stands and makes a chop chop noise and something flies in the air and lands in my mouth. It is good. It is meaty.

When I hear the crinkle crinkle sound, I am sleeping. I run to the bedroom. Crinkle crinkle from the bedroom at night is good. Sometimes it is cheesy things, they are crunchy and small. Sometimes it is POPCORN. Sometimes it is things I cannot have. NO. NO. They make me sad.

When I smell that special smell from the kitchen, I know good things are coming. It is RIB time. This is good. I sit ON THE CARPET. GOOD DOG. This is BONES. I get many bones. This is a good night.

Today, now, she does that thing with her voice. You want to go in the car? We go OUTSIDE. The air is good. The air smells like excitement. We go in THE CAR. The car is like the house but smaller. I go in THE BACKSEAT. We sit and we wait. I know she is a good hunter. She is good at sitting and waiting. She will wait and the prey will come. She goes outside the car, but she always hunts alone. Wait in the car. I am in the car and roam around trying to see her. She does not go too far. She is coming back. And this place smells like the small, soft things. I can smell it. It will be good.

Get in the backseat She has brought that smell with her. The small, soft parts are inside the skin. She carries the skin. It is not good, that skin, it is tough. I make a soft cry. She hears my cry. My cry is, "Can we eat the small, soft things now?" She says Do you want a DOUGHNUT? She tears the skin. Inside is the good things. A piece flies through the air. Oh. It is the good, small, soft thing. I swallow it. We should eat all the soft, small things now. I can smell more. There are more. But she sits and waits. She will find home. She will find our pack and share. She is a good hunter.

She goes outside the car with the small, soft things. She comes to get me. I sniff the air. This is HOME. We go INSIDE. The small, soft things go ON THE TABLE. When I was a puppy, I went ON THE TABLE. I ate many small, soft things. I ate the skin. It was BAD DOG. I do not do that now. I do not go ON THE TABLE. I sit. The man comes. "Look at what we found!" I tell him. I show him I am happy. He is happy. Our pack will not be hungry. She is a good hunter.

Yo Ho Ho and a Merry (Pirate) Christmas

Some people might look at our Christmas tree and say it is half empty. Other people might look at our Christmas tree and say, "Why in heck are all your ornaments on the top half of your tree?" The answer is: new kittens. Well, to be perfectly honest it is the work of just one kitten, Eustace, but for all we know, Basil might be helping out after hours.

Meet Basil and Eustace, the New Kits on The Block. Last summer we found an ad in the newspaper for free kittens, and when we called for directions the lady with four litters(!) told us we couldn’t miss the house because they were flying a pirate flag. And she was telling the truth. Naturally the two boys we picked out had to have pirate names, so the big black and white one was dubbed Eustace, The Black Monk, and the smaller grey and white one was christened Basil Ring Nose.

As it turns out Basil’s secret name is Danger Mouse– one look and you just know there was a mouse in the woodpile. His coat is matte grey and his face is small and pinched with a pink nose. But unlike any mouse I've ever known he has a big voice, a voice like a fishwife competing with a force 10 hurricane. Basil’s favorite activity is sitting in the middle of the kitchen and relating to everyone (within a ten block radius) the pitiful saga of "The Kitten Who Only Had Dry Food In His Bowl." He is thin and frail looking– which belies his mandatory 10 meals-a-day schedule. His most endearing habit is following me around like a puppy– napping when I nap, eating when I am eating, and climbing right up inside to see what might be available every time I open the refrigerator door.

Eustace, on the other hand, must have an otter somewhere in his ancestry and looks like he spends his evenings giving himself VO5 hot oil treatments. He is also a chunk; solid as a cement block describes both body and mind. Once Eustace seizes on an idea, there is no way on earth of changing it. He decided shortly after moving in that people were a nuisance, the kitchen counter was his private lounge, and Fanny the bulldog’s chest hid the nipple of glory. All of us, including Fanny, have spent a lot of time trying to change his mind about these matters. Fanny thinks of kittens as more of wind-up toys than babies to be cuddled but after 5 months of persistence by Eustace, she has come to accept his nursing for up to 10 minutes at a time. Sometimes I come across them inflagranto delecto and the look on her face is priceless.

Eustace has now gotten it into his head that Christmas tree ornaments are shiny vermin that need to be destroyed. Although we keep moving them higher, he responds by standing on his tip toes and leaping higher to capture them. Once he has his prize in his mouth, he sneaks off to the kitchen to bat it around until it is broken. It takes him only a few minutes to break one before he is back harassing the tree. I’m beginning to suspect that it is his job and he is paid for each (smashed) ornament. Only 10 more days til Christmas. Just how bare will our tree be by then? Only Eustace knows.