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.

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."