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From Fanny's Unpublished Memoirs: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.

Mick

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Our home has suddenly become catless. Our friend Mick has not been seen for three weeks, and we are sure that he is gone for good. We can only hope he has gone on to a paradise with fewer and gentler bulldogs.

His name was not always Mick. Five years ago, we decided it was time to do something about the mice who were punch drunk with freedom and carousing in all corners of the house. Luckily some friends of ours had just had a litter of kittens born in their barn. It was easy to tell which kitten would be our choice, the fearless one with the friendly manner. But we decided he should have a playmate as well so we brought along his sister. We named them Mick and Sister. It became obvious a few months later that we had made a mistake, two mistakes in fact, and the names were switched around pronto. Sister would always be the alpha male, however, even if she wasn't technically a male. She would climb the highest, bring home the biggest snakes, and be the most aggressive lap hog. Sadly, her fearlessness was her undoing and before she celebrated her first birthday, we found her dead by the mailbox. Probably the victim of a car accident.

Mick was always shy and without Sister to help him out, he seemed even more withdrawn. Eventually he bonded with Otis the old bloodhound-- by this time more furniture than pet-- and the two of them spent their days napping together. Otis seemed impervious to Mick's claws as he went about the serious business of trying to nurse from Otis’ stomach. Life was pretty tranquil for this sleepy pair and then we got Fanny.

We thought a bulldog puppy might liven things up. We were right about that, but we were wrong when we imagined that Mick, who weighed twice as much as Fanny, would teach her to be respectful. He never had it in him to be the aggressor. Instead Mick became Fanny’s endlessly fascinating wind-up toy. Fanny and Mick played the same game over and over: Fanny would appear to be fast asleep, Mick would sit and calculate his odds before attempting to cross the room, and then, just before Mick reached safety, Fanny would pounce. Fanny never did anything worse then pin Mick to the floor with one paw, but that was bad enough. Mick never fought back, he just waited patiently until either Fanny got bored or one of us humans got involved. But perhaps that was the best strategy after all– no one ever got injured and frequently the two of them would reconcile with a mutual face-washing orgy. Perhaps Mick’s docility was the only possible way their friendship could flourish.

I’ll miss Mick. I’ll miss seeing his silhouette in the bedroom door assessing his chances of making it to the bed. I’ll miss his loud cries of impatience as he waits for us to join him in taking a nap. I’ll miss his games of hiding behind the newspaper and reaching underneath to attack my hands. I’ll miss the sound of his pretend baby kitten voice as he tries to convince me he needs to nurse on
my stomach. Farewell, dear friend, you will live on in our memories. As my daughter says, "You were the best cheese head-rubber, ever."

Fanny on the Bench

As you may know, Fanny recently graduated from Big Sal’s House ‘O Meat and Dog School and she has been considering her options for a future career, so she was quite excited to hear that there is a vacancy on the Supreme Court. Fanny likes the idea of wearing judicial robes, she thinks she would look quite regal. I pointed out that she has not been trained in the law, but Fanny reminded me that President Bush has said he may look for someone who does not have a law degree. And besides, she thinks there are too few females and too few dogs on the bench. By nominating her, President Bush can plug two minority holes with one bulldog. I suggested that perhaps her age would be considered a liability but Fanny says Grover Norquist, a powerful Republican with close ties to the White House was quoted in The New York Times, “My only recommendation is that they nominate someone who is 12 or 13 years old, “ to ensure as long a conservative legacy as possible. Fanny is 4, so that would be even better.

I sat down with her recently to discover her stance on some of the hot button issues that any nominated Justice will be questioned about by the Senate.

LJ: What is your stance on abortion?

Fanny: When I was young, I was neutered. That has solved a lot of problems.

LJ: But that does not address the problem of abortion for others.

Fanny: Obviously, if more people were neutered, there would be fewer abortions.

LJ: Hmmm. OK, where do you stand on same-sex marriages?

Fanny: Again I have to say more neutering is the answer. My solution would be to neuter 9 out of 10 children born in America. Think of how many problems that would solve! Instead of worrying about everybody’s sex life we could concentrate on the big issues: Global Warming, Famine, Disease, War, and why there isn’t a decent Jewish Delicatessen in Raleigh.

LJ: Well let us leave the issue of sex for a moment and turn to religion. What is your stance on God in Government?

Fanny: We need to go back and take a look at history. I believe that what the founders originally said was “In Dog We Trust” but the secretary at the meeting was a little dyslexic, so it was mistakenly transcribed as “In God We Trust.” I feel certain this is not what our Forefathers would have wanted. They knew that a closer relationship between Dog and Man will lead to happiness. Those old Foundering Fathers were smart guys.

LJ: That is certainly food for thought. Where do you stand on affirmative action?

Fanny: I’m all for it– in fact I think we need to encourage affirmative action. I look around me and I see that Chihuahuas are being barred from police duty, St. Bernards are losing out on lap dog positions, and Pekinese can’t get jobs as sled dogs. I would uphold any laws that would make the entrance exams for Guide Dog School easier for Great Danes. They are notoriously bad at taking tests, but I refuse to believe that as a class they are all too stupid to be good guide dogs.

LJ: I never realized this was such a problem. One final question. The recent Supreme Court decision on eminent domain was seen as controversial. What are your views?

Fanny: It all depends on what is meant by “for the public good.” To me that should be defined by one question: Will we, the public, get more bacon out of the deal? I will support any legislation that razes shopping malls, condos, hotels, and the like in order to allow for more hog farms. This clearly will be of greatest benefit to the public.

LJ: Thank you for your time. It has been interesting.

Fanny: You are welcome. I’ll just sit here next to the phone and wait for my President to call me. Could you bring me some wieners?

LJ: No.

Gloves, Sweat: Tears

It was with a great deal of relief that I looked into the bathtub this morning and saw that my husband had washed his biking gloves and left them to air dry, thereby sparing mankind for a few more weeks. You see I am convinced that the destruction of life as we know it will come about not as a result of alien invasion from outer space or the accidental release of nanobots from the lab or even the unleashing of giant, mutant, killer bombadier beetles. No, life as we know it will end when my husband's bike gloves become imbued with the life force and begin roaming the earth slaying all in their path.

In a general way, I approve of mountain biking. It gets my husband out into the fresh air and gives him a good cardiovascular workout. Plus if you compare it to yachting, it isn't that expensive. The problem lies with the accessories. Better living through Chemistry has resulted in apparel that not only wicks the sweat away from the body it transforms this sweat into a crime against nature, an Unholy Alliance if you will, between perspiration and man-made fibers.

Normally, my husband's sweat is like all the perfumes of Arabia to me. One whiff and every cell of my being instantly decides that it is time to procreate, NOW. But that is in its natural state. What happens when it comes into contact with his biking gloves is something very unnatural.

Lest you think I am some shrinking violet, let me remind you that I live with Fanny whose back-end aromas are no joke. They are enough to make grown men cry "Uncle." But my olfactory organs have been toughened up by constant exposure, and I am proud to say I can survive in a closed room with Fanny for almost an hour without fainting. But the thought of spending more than 10 seconds in close proximity to Dave's biking gloves makes me reel in horror. Which gives me an idea.

I believe I know of a way to regain our national honor while at the same time punishing our enemies. As far as I know there is no Geneva Convention Rule concerning my husband's gloves as yet. So I suggest that the soldiers at Guantanamo Bay should leave off the use of conventional torture. They should put away the dog leashes and the electric cattle prods. They should stop flushing the Koran and stop forcing the prisoners to strip naked. Instead, I suggest that our enemies spend a little quality time with Dave's gloves. It would mean that he would have to ship the gloves off to the prison, but I, being the good citizen that I am, would be willing to make this sacrifice.

Official Title: Official Title

Apparently legislators in North Carolina have a lot of time on their hands because we have more state symbols than you can shake a stick at. Just like other states we have an Official State Tree (the Pine) and an Official State Wild Flower (the Carolina Lily) but we also have an Official State International Festival (Folkmoot USA). Sure, just like other states we have an Official Fruit (the Scuppernong grape) but we also have an Official Blue Berry (the Blueberry) as well as an Official Red Berry (the Strawberry). Imagine the chagrin of the raspberry growers.

Recently, efforts to name a state cat and a state carnivorous plant did not go well, but I have no doubt at all that soon we will have an Official State Poultry (the chicken), an Official State Gender (male), and an Official State Shoe (the left).

So since I have too much time on my hands today-- it is raining outside--I decided to run this idea into the ground. Here then is my Official List of Official Laura Jane Symbols:

Official Dog: Fanny

Official Cat: Mick

Official Husband: Dave

Official Daughter: Gwen

Official Pillow: "Lumpy"

Official Movie That Scared The Bejebus Out of Me as a Child: The Crawling Eye

Official Furniture Most in Need of Replacement: the couch inherited from my husband's grandparents and eaten by Fanny, the bulldog

Official Electronic I Recently Discovered and Now Cannot Live Without: TiVo

Official Best Reason For Having a TiVo: So I can rewind the almost indecipherable dialog in "Deadwood."

Official Activity Between 4pm and 5pm: the nap

Official Activity Most Looked Forward To By a Dog: Popcorn Night

Official Most Worthless Activity: Giving Fanny taste tests such as bacon vs. cheese or steak vs. baked potato

Official Pirate Beverage Most Likely to be Consumed Before Conducting Taste Tests: Rum

Official OTC Medicine Most Needed in This House: "Curtail" for doggie gas

Official Insect Most Likely to Disappear Once I am Named Queen of the Universe: the mosquito

Official Reason Why I Have Not Been Named Queen of the Universe Yet: Those bad marks on my permanent record from Elementary school, specifically that note from my kindergarten teacher about the playdough and a boy named Billy

Official Favorite Enigmatic Description From "The Contender": "He's no can of tomatoes."

Official Activity Least Likely to Occur in My Lifetime: Patching up the squirrel-catching holes in the laundry room ceiling.

Official Most Irritating Activity by an Animal Known to Me Personally: Mick's insane desire to rub his head on everything including the book I am trying to read and the cheese I am trying to eat

Official Favorite Gilligan's Island Episode: The one guest starring The Harlem Globetrotters

Official Favorite Shakespearean Play: The one guest starring The Harlem Globetrotters

Et Tu, Meadowlark?

Fanny's Healing Butt

because we could all use a little healing

Almost two weeks since the election and we are all still reeling and writhing in pain. Some of the citizens living in a bright blue spot in the red state of North Carolina, are having such a hard time with their loss that restaurants in Durham are reporting a run on comfort food and group therapy is becoming de rigueur.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the nation, a tiny red dot in the vast blue state of California-- my mother--is receiving hate email accusing her of being one of those crazy evangelical Christians who re-elected The Bad Man. My mother can hardly be called an "evangelic" since she doesn't even believe in the immaculate conception-- she thinks Joseph and Mary were probably fooling around before marriage. But since she voted for Bush and she attends a church, she must be one of those nasty, power-crazed, Apocalypse-anticipating nuts who are just waiting for Jeezus to come down and start ripping the arms and legs off non-believers. My mom thinks the Apocalypse is just a dream, and the story of Adam & Eve is just a story, and by the way, she voted for Bush because she is scared of the Terrorists.

So the whole country is hurting and I have a suggestion.

My bulldog, Fanny, apparently thinks her butt has the Power To Heal, and she very generously applies it to all who might be in pain. She does this by backing up slowly and then gently sitting down on your foot, or your stomach, or whatever she senses needs some glorious Healing Power. This used to include the head of our Basset Hound, Otis, but he recently passed away, and she seldom gets a chance to sit on Mick, the cat. He, after all, got an A Plus on his last visit to the vet and rightly considers himself in tip top shape.

So here is my solution to our nation's distress: All of us-- all the blues, all the reds, and all the purples-- bunch in really close and let Fanny sit on our heads. And maybe at last we can begin to heal as a nation; America the Whole once more.

It's no more crazy an idea than that the pro-Bushies and the anti-Bushites will ever be able to have a Coke and sing in harmony.