no more bedhead

"Kramer, you have been a bad boy!!"  Edna, our next-door neighbor exclaimed from her back porch. Ellen and Miriam went over to see as Edna said "Oooh, do I have something to show you".  As they approached the porch, Edna held the lifeless body of a young rabbit over the railing.

As she set it down she said "Oh, it's breathing. It's still alive!"  Not knowing what to do exactly, possession of the rabbit transferred to our family. The box top was brought out and the bunny placed gently in it. It had some greenery in it's mouth, as if it was eating when Kramer the cat got it, so some more was added to the box.

After a couple of minutes it sat up, but it was still pretty dazed and it's breathing was heavy.  As Ellen, Miriam, and I stood over the box, it breathed its last.  RIP little guy.


The bunny was given a nice burial in the backyard. Now all that's left to do is to wipe up the tears.

It's been five years since the dog came home.

I might be warming up to him.

Four years. This dog has been here for four years now. Apparently, he thinks he's staying, and is making himself comfortable - in my bed.

We buried our cat today.

Sixteen years ago, Ellen and I went off to pick out a cat. When we got ready to leave, Ellen had chosen a little yellow furball who we ultimately named Mufasa.  I was drawn to a black and white kitten we ultimately named Neelix.  So, instead of the one cat we had intended, we ended up coming home with two (and dodging the landlord for a couple of years).

Mufasa was always the eager, spry, underfoot cat. On the way home with us that day, he kept peeking his head out of the cardboard box, as if he were eager to jump into this new adventure. The first couple of nights we tried to keep these energetic ones in the kitchen, so that we could get some sleep without them crawling all over us. We didn't have a door in the kitchen, so we propped up a card table to block the opening, and figured we were good to go. Not long after settling into bed, Mufasa came bounding up the stairs and onto our heads.  Seems he had figured out that he could jump to the chair, to the table, and then launch himself over the propped up card table into the living room.

That kind of set the tone there. I don't know how many times I stepped on his tail, or clonked him in the head with the cabinet door because he was trying to insinuate himself in whatever I was doing. Especially if there were food involved (or might be food involved).

Last week, we returned from Thanksgiving at Ellen's folks' house, and Mufasa was listing along on one side, acting very groggy, and dragging himself from place to place. We figured something was up, but it was confirmed when he only ate just a little bit (and the next day when he wouldn't eat at all).  Ellen took him to the vet on Tuesday morning, and asked them to check him out. (He'd had some pretty weird health-related things before.)  The vet called to let us know that Mufasa was suffering from kidney failure, and that the best they could do would be to try intravenous fluids for a few days to see if he responded.  If he did, he could come home and we would be on a maintenance program to keep him comfortable.

After talking it over, we decided that the best thing to do would be to let him go.

We buried him in the backyard today, with many tears.

Sixteen years - a good life - a good cat.



As of this writing, my "About Me" block on this blog says "4 kids, 3 cats, 2 adults, 1 family (and a dog)". Please excuse me if I don't update it for a while.

It's been three years now.

You know what I'm talking about.

It's the dog.  Still here.

Here's my annual nice thing I'll say about the dog:

He is nice and warm when he curls up on the couch with us on those cold winter nights.


But, he drools all over my lap when I take him to the bank drive-through as he almost leaps into the teller window knowing they're going to give him a dog biscuit.  So I guess it's even.

Two years ago today my wife brought home The Dog.  I think my reaction to The Dog have been well documented. But, in the spirit of generosity, and seeing how it is the Christmas season, I would like to say something nice about The Dog.

I like riding around town with the dog in the car.  He sits in the passenger seat and looks out the front window.

There.  That's all you're getting.

The dog is back.

I've had four blissful days, sans dog. Ellen took him to the vet on Thursday morning for "the surgery" (he's now half the dog he used to be). It was a glorious weekend, full of peace, laughter, frivolity, and harmony. Unfortunately, he had to come back home today. He's already started peeing in the living room, tearing trash out of the garbage can, jumping on top of us, and causing general mayhem. Not to mention terrorizing the cats (whether by his actions, or in their minds).

Well, it was fun while it lasted.

Update: Just to clarify, the surgery didn't put the dog out for four days. He was actually done in a matter of hours. But, we had a diocesan conference from Friday night through Saturday, so the vet kept the dog. We were supposed to pick up the dog on Saturday night, but the vet had a concert to go to, so we agreed that we'd pick him up on Sunday. Still, I got all day Thursday and all day Friday, plus a couple of bonus days!

So Ol'Leghumper went to the vet. Doc says he (the dog) might be a Black Lab/Golden Retriever mix. He is currently 30 pounds, and is expected to double in size. And he's 12-16 weeks old. Ellen figures it's closer to 16.

1. They don't use a litter box.


2. They leave poop bombs in the yard.


3. I'm going to have to clean up poop bombs in the yard.


4. They need room to run


5. You can't leave them for the weekend with a big pile of food and know that they'll be fine


6. I'm going to end up taking care of it.


7. We already have 4 kids, 3 cats, and 2 adults crammed into a tiny house


8. I'm going to end up taking care of it.


9. We already had to put a cat on prozac for anxiety disorders, what will this do to her?


10. I'm going to end up taking care of it, I just know it

So the deal is that the dog got dumped by the mother of one of the parents at the school. So the story goes, she took her kid and the dog out in their van, and made the kid open the door and dump the dog out. It made its way to school where it sat in Ellen's room all day. Now it's ours. I'm glad it has a good home, compared to the one it came from, but dammit, I don't want another animal to take care of.

I'm sure that in the long run everything will be fine, and he will be a nice addition to the family, and we'll get all those logistical details worked out, but I don't like change!

So, I guess the dog's okay. The kids are going nuts and everyone wants to play with him and take him out for a walk. I hope that lasts. He's a pretty good dog so far. He likes to play tug-of-war with his rope chew toy, and he is full of energy. He goes, goes, goes, then crashes and sleeps. Then the cycle repeats.


I am resigned to my fate, but I will try to make the best of it. At least he's cute. (And yes, he does open his eyes.)

So, I'm talking with a couple of people one night about a week ago, and I'm telling them about our crazy cat. The cat who likes to pee on the furniture. Yeah. I tell them that I'm at about my wits end, and that Ellen is taking her to the vet the next day. I joke that I'm willing to try anything, but I draw the line at the kitty therapist.

Note to self - be careful what you wish for.

The cat comes home from the vet with a diagnosis of Generalized Anxiety Disorder. The (possible) solution - kitty prozac. Great. In thinking about all we're going to have to do to give the cat her drugs we entertain the possiblity that it would be easier for us to take the Prozac, then we won't care where she pees.

So the prozac (or whatever its name really is) arrived today. Turns out it's a liquid. Even better [can you hear the sarcasm dripping here]. Now we have to hold the cat down and squirt liquid into its mouth. All the while it's scratching and clawing to get away.

How is that for ironic? Giving the cat the medicine for GAD might actually be making the GAD worse. Or maybe it just is making it worse for me.

[Edit: 10/8 - Here's a picture of the cat in question. Pre-prozac (and pre-peeing) ]