I’ve been meaning to update you on Jasper for a while. He will have been here three months this coming week. It’s been a riotous three months. He’s a very good boy, but we have had a variety of issues to work out, starting with boundaries, how to keep his huge and very strong front paws to himself, and to stop being selectively deaf when it comes to the word “no.”
He pulls the same look anytime I scold him. He turns on the charm and reminds you that he was once starving and abandoned. I feel like a villain, but remain steadfast in his training. He rewards me by catching on incredibly quickly.
Scout still feels a bit put upon, but she enjoys romping around the yard with him. He insists on full body contact with her when they sleep and while she tolerates it, she throws me those “why me?” looks from across the room.
It’s impossible to get them all looking at me at once…so here are 2 of them
And here we have two of them. Just a different two. Trixie always looks so serious when I take her photo, but she’s a clown when the camera isn’t pointed at her.
Like here, before she realized what I was up to….
Now a word from the feline section of the crew: my prince of darkness, Sully, doing his best I am the night, fear me impression
For those who don’t know…here is how it started with Jasper.
He was about 104 lbs when I picked him up, he’s almost 130 lbs now. We are down from 12 cups of food a day to 6, now that he’s at his target weight. Also, I think we are coming to the conclusion that his back legs, his right leg especially, is a birth defect. The vet has ruled out everything else, and he acts like it’s no big deal, and compensates well for the wonky gait.
John doesn’t make requests often, but tonight he asked for a good news post, and that we end it with you sharing stories of animals you love, past and present in the comments. So to honor Lily, let’s share some fun stories.
I’ll start with Bixby. I’ve had nine Great Danes, and I can’t really pick from them – each is so special. But Bixby was a one-of-a-kind dog, of any breed. He loved everyone, and everyone loved him, but I was his project, and living with him was like living with a 13-year-old who saw the word “no” as a personal challenge. Loved that dog to the moon and back. And sooo many fun stories about him. One of my favorites is when we were on a walk, saw the UPS man, and Bixby mugged him, trying to get the box because he LOVED opening boxes. No Amazon box was safe. Luckily it was our UPS driver, so he was a good sport about it.
Bottom photo is of him with his love, Bailey. Probably one of the most elegant Danes I’ve ever had, but a total goofus personality. I still have a little throw rug she used to “hunt,” I can’t bear to get rid of it.
How about you guys, share some of your favorite animal antics in the comments. I think we could all use a smile this evening.
This is a pet and respite thread
OzarkHillbilly
Thinking of all my own sweet doggies over the years, Lily’s passing hurts.
currawong
Our dog, Juno, came into our lives seven years ago because of a post on BJ extolling the virtues of adopting an older dog.
She is now 14 and living her best life. She loves her early morning and evening walks and is still walking 6-8kms a day and sometimes 10.
So thank you Balloon Juice and RIP to dearest Lily.
FelonyGovt
Remembering my orange tabby Fuzzle (named by my daughter when she was small and cute). Friendly and nosy, always wanted to go with us when we left the house on foot. All the neighbors (including some we didn’t know) as well as the mailman knew him by name. We called him the “Mayor” of our street. Lost him to cancer in 2010 and my grumpy husband doesn’t want any more pets.
Baud
@OzarkHillbilly:
Same.
OzarkHillbilly
I remember Willie chasing after a copperhead across a gravel bar on a float trip, grabbing him and saying something along the lines of, “No, you don’t want to mess with that one.” and Billie finding a copperhead in the driveway island and getting bit on the muzzle and me saying to my wife, “Are you sure it was a snake?” and by the next morning there was no doubt and taking her in. She now has a 3-4 inch souvenir on her muzzle from that encounter and it is one she still hasn’t forgotten.
FastEdD
Thinking of my old dog Asbestos. I named him Asbestos I could. He was a stray who walked up to my door in Minneapolis decades ago. I let him in and he stayed by my side through thick and thin and several states all the way out here to CA. The rock and roll dog who could fall asleep in a bass drum while someone was playing. Just polite and charming and smart, he’d cheer me up when I was down. He finally went to the fire hydrant in the sky at about age 18, chasing cats right up to the day before. I wanna go like that.
TaMara
@OzarkHillbilly: My Greyhound managed to get bit by a rattler, but he was at a full sprint when it happened and got very little venom. The vet ran a couple of liters of saline through him, and it took the swelling (and blue color!) out in a few hours. We got lucky.
Dangerman
I haven’t had many dogs. On further review, really only one that was mine. Australian Shepherd. Seriously smart dog. Karmen. Great dog.
When I worked in the greater Seattle area (hi, Yuts), the office let the workers bring in dogs. Fell in love with labs there. Gorgeous dogs. Especially the chocolate. Well, nothing wrong with anything chocolate by definition. Also had an espresso machine in the office. Hey, it’s Seattle (more correctly, Bellevue).
When I worked at Cal Poly, there was a Professor that had a black lab puppy she was raising to be a service animal. It was with her basically at all times. Great dog. I think I could raise a dog from puppy to whatever age is required and give it up for service. I think. I haven’t tried it yet.
Just got in and heard the news. Condolences on Lilly. I assume cover for calendar is an easy choice now.
Ken
Sadly, despite working from home, I’m still not suitable as a companion for a pet; too much time away from my apartment for one reason or another. However I am still a cat person, mostly because of beauties like your Sully, or this magnificent beast (warning: twitter link, for those who are refraining).
Have you tried holding a ham? In my experience that will get any dog’s complete attention.
narya
Zippy weighed about six pounds, but acted like she was the size of a tiger. She ended up with me when she was about 12, when Friend was heading to CA for the Rose Bowl and his mom (who usually watched Zippy) was heading to FL. She came with an old couch cushion, which sat on my (hardwood) living room floor. She’d go screaming down the hallway, flop on her side, and then claw her way around the cushion–we referred to it as “swimming.” She liked to stretch out in my lap when I watched TV (she liked hockey). The last six months or so of her life, she was kind of wobbly, so I put my futon on the floor so she didn’t have to climb anything. If I dared to try to sleep on my side–my preferred position–she’d headbutt me until I rolled onto my back, so she could curl up on my shoulder. She’d “pet” me–she’d lightly stroke my neck, under my ear (claws retracted), much as I’d scritch her. She’s been gone for five years, but I still miss her; Friend will visit with her and Joe (his other cat), because they’re both buried at his deer stand, and he’s clearing lanes this weekend. We buried her with a scrap of the couch cushion. ETA: she lived with me for 5 years, I think, maybe more.
Jackie
Our tuxedo cat, Oreo, was a total dufus. Our *dog* cat. He loved to play fetch with catnip mice. We could make him yawn by yawning ourselves. At times we could see him fighting like hell not to yawn, but it always happened anyway. He wasn’t the smartest of cats. We had spring-loaded kitchen cupboards – and the one under the sink held the trash can. Every once in a while, someone would forget and toss a chicken bone or empty can of tuna in the trash instead of tossing into the garbage can right outside the kitchen door. Oreo could smell the beguiling aroma from the trash can and he’d wait until everyone was asleep, then carefully pull the cupboard door open and sneak inside and find the forbidden treat. BUT he NEVER EVER figured out how to get back out. He pulled the door to get in; why didn’t pulling on the door let him out?
Because spring-loaded, every time he tried opening it, the door would spring back. Over and over. The sound of the repetitive bang would wake me up. Pissed because I’m woken up in the middle of the night AND knowing it was Oreo in the trash, I’d stomp down the bedroom hall to the kitchen and loudly fill a glass with water, yank the cupboard door open and fling the water at his scrunched up face. He knew what was coming (this happened many times) but, I guess he figured it was worth it. The next morning I’d ask who was too damn lazy to walk the extra ten feet to the back door and toss the bone or can. We had him 14 years and he’s been gone 12 years; still miss him. Thinking of him always makes me smile while calling him *that dufus.”
Alison Rose
We had a dog named Charlie, adopted him as a puppy when I was 14, and he passed when I was 29. (Hard to believe it was so long ago). Charlie was a mutt, mostly Australian Shepherd and Cocker Spaniel, and he was…a baby. A big big baby. He was the sweetest boy but he was very nervous, easily upset, scared of a lot of things.
One day, when he was 3 or 4, my mom was taking him on a walk around the neighborhood. At one point, they were passing by a house where a man was working on his car in the driveway. The guy was ex-military (Marine Corps stickers on the car), big buff dude. At that moment, a lady across the street had just left her house with her dog. My mom wasn’t sure of the breed but said it was probably twice Charlie’s size (which was between the two breeds I mentioned). The other dog wasn’t leashed and must have spotted Charlie, and came bounding across the street. My mom said the dog didn’t seem threatening, just wanting to meet and play probably. But Charlie went into full on terror mode, pulled away from my mom so quickly and sharply that he yanked the leash right out of her hand, and then he ran up the guy’s driveway and into his open garage, hiding behind some giant storage tubs.
The lady across the street had run over and grabbed her dog and apologized, and my mom ran up to the dude in the driveway, who was now standing near Charlie and looking down at him as he trembled behind the storage tubs. My mom said sorry a dozen times as she tried to coax him out. The guy told her not to worry about it, and then, this six and a half foot tall dude all covered in muscles with a buzz cut and (according to my mom) at least 50 tattoos, said, “He’s a tender little pup, isn’t he?”
Indeed he was. And for the rest of his life, any single time he got scared over something, we would say to each other, “He’s a tender little pup.”
CliosFanBoy
OH God, I am so very, very to hear about Lily. She was a great dog and enjoyed a lot of love over the years…..
Dan B
I’m remembering my Furr Beast, aka Mr. Peepers because: peeping. And Furr Beast because: big fluffy tuxedo. Huge white whiskers / tusks, a white chest in a perfect chalice shape, huge pure white bunny feet, and a white milkspot. I git him at four weeks and he hung around until almost 20. He was agreeable to any misuse except my female cat who necessitated his being on antidepressants. She passed away when he was ten and he blossomed with the stray male who sneaked into the house starving with a nearly colorless coat. The Beast snuggled with him and then Oscar and Miss Peach. Such a good guy.
KrackenJack
When I was in elementary school, we got a long-haired calico named Samantha and two kittens, I believe, from her litter. One was a short-haired black and white male and a long haired marmalade and white female. They were promptly christened Pepper and Cinnamon. Pepper was an outdoor cat and an avid hunter. One day my friends and I were wandering around the suburban woods and came across a rattlesnake skin. I took the prize home and left it in the mud room. When I went to let Pepper out later that day he stopped halfway through the door and bristled up at the snake skin. Clearly not his first encounter. For the rest of our time in that house, he looked in that corner every time he passed through.
CaseyL
So many cats over the years. Shayna the Siamese, Jazz the Black Panther, Rocco the Tortie, Ariel the grey tabby, Copper the deep red (and male!) tabby, Pamela the orange tabby; and my current crew, Jeannie (silk and silver girl; well, OK, grey girl) and Oscar (half Jeannie, half Siamese) Stories: oh, could I tell you stories.
Like the time, when I was living in the Greenwood neighborhood of Seattle, in the rear apartment of a front-and-back single-story duplex. Ariel, then a wee youngster, would get herself “stranded” on the roof and cry to be rescued. I’d get out there, I’d hold a chair up over my head and tell her to jump on it (which she would absolutely NOT do); or I’d run to my neighbors and ask to borrow a ladder.
This happened frequently until, one day, standing there with a chair over my head (my neighbors not being home at the time) I said to myself, I said, “Wait a GD minute. She got herself up there, didn’t she? She can jolly well get herself down.” Which she did, and wasn’t happy I stopped playing that game.
Or the time – still at the duplex – I was going out of town for a while. My neighbors were happy to take care of the cats, but were concerned about knowing when said cats wanted to come inside. (My cats have always been indoor-outdoor.) We hung a bell on a rope from my front door knob a week or so before I left, to teach the kitties that making the bell ring would summon Debra or Dave out to let them into my apartment. Copper was the first to figure it out, and delighted in ringing the bell even when he didn’t want to come in, just to make someone come out and say “Hi.”
That’s enough for now…
SkyBluePink
Oh the stories I could tell about D. But one of my favorites: From the upstairs window I saw a car pull into the drive and then pull right back out. Shortly after I got a phone call from a neighbor up the road. He had dropped D off. She had attended his son’ s outdoor wedding and entertained all present.
She had all neighbors trained to not only give her a treat but also to let her into their houses to hang out.
Truly a dog of my heart. She crossed the bridge in 2009. Theres a story about that for another day.
OzarkHillbilly
My German Shepard Hoss, I had no idea how much I depended on him for the security of my family. We were living on Keokuk street and shit was always happening. Somebody tried to steal my truck (I confronted them) Somebody broke into my basement, (I thought about confronting them) (called the cops instead), and then there was the guy who shot his wife and blew his brains out in front of me… and I picked up his orphaned children off the street corner. No, I don’t need to ever go thru that again.
But Hoss was always there, all 110 pounds of him and I never worried about mine.
I remember him in the back yard, barking his ass off at a stray dog or a coon, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck to get his attention, and telling him to be quiet and then dropping him. And after that he was limping. A week later he was still limping. Took him to the vet, they did X-rays. Sent me to a specialist. They did cat scans.
Hoss was riddled with bone cancer. They said it was too far gone.
2 weeks later, he wouldn’t come out of the bathroom. We took him out for one last ride in the woods. He got out of my truck and laid down in the road side weeds and refused to move. It was time.
I cried like a baby when we put him down. I hadn’t planned on it but when they asked if we wanted them to take care of the body, I said, “No.” I took him out to a place we had enjoyed many a care free hour at and piled a bunch of rocks on top of his body.
I haven’t been there in a while. I should return.
C Stars
It’s such a rollercoaster, this blog. I feel like I knew Lily (and also Steve!). Feeling nostalgic.
We’ve had our rabbit for about a year and a half now. Found him hopping around in the bramble during my Dad’s birthday picnic and took him home with us, since it was clearly going to be either us or the owls (he’s an English Spot, so basically just a fluffy target for birds of prey).
He’s a house rabbit and roams freely on our top floor, which is where most of our shared spaces are. A couple of nights ago I woke up to the strangest sensation–my foot was out from under the covers and the bun was trying to perch on it, the sole of my foot, and fit all four paws on. He kept slipping off and then trying to get on again, all four. He’s a small creature but not that small! It was one of those moments you have with animals you love where you just say, I love you and I’d like to think I understand you most of the time, but I have no idea what you’re getting at here.
kalakal
I’ve had a lot of cats but one who has a special place in my heart was Clarence, a ginger tabby. He was an average sized cat with a heart as big as a whale. He loved everything & everybody and was well known along the street.
One lovely Sunday Summer afternoon most people were in their backyards, enjoying the sun, eating lunch. The gardens were separated by tall hedges so you hear loud stuff but couldn’t see anything. The cats were happily wombling about and being cats the hedges were no obstacle.
We were sitting out relaxing when from next door we heard the following.
“Oh Grandad, there’s that pretty cat again”
“Aww, isn’t he friendly?”
“Grandad, that cats stolen your dinner!”
5 seconds Clarence came sprinting through the hedge with a huge chunk of chicken in his mouth, he zipped past us and into the house.
We discreetly followed him and pretended to be out
Ruckus
@Dangerman:
I’ll second Lily for the cover photo.
My story is about Bud, the cocker. I met him at a pet store adoption day, nice in a crowd, well behaved on leash, more than smart enough not to be himself on adoption day. Took him about 3 weeks to accept me, before that I was the human that fed, watered, cleaned up after him and that was the extent. Then one night he came over and joined me in bed. Now I couldn’t move because it had become his bed. But he was a great companion who could grow more hair faster than any dog I’ve ever had or seen. I also was never allowed to take him back to any groomer, once was more than enough. So I had to learn – good times.
But best companion I’ve ever had, loyal, protective, ornery. I had to give him up, at the time I was living at a friends place because I had no where else to go and he offered. I really do appreciate GWB’s recession for all it did to me. It lost me a business, a fair bit of money and a great dog. Funny, I wasn’t looking for all or any of that.
Juju
I finally got two dogs a few weeks apart, after being without a dog for over a year. The previous year had been very difficult, with the loss of two dogs within six months of each other and the dementia diagnosis of my mother, which wasn’t a surprise, but a confirmation of what I had been observing. The rescue organization and I had to find the right dogs for a frail 89 year old with dementia. I have gotten my dogs from the same golden retriever rescue organization for a number of years now. They had a non golden mix who came in with a golden, when their human died. When I saw the picture of the non golden, I don’t know why, but I knew she was my dog and I told the rescue people I wanted that dog. Since she wasn’t a golden, there was not the demand for her that there is for all the goldens who come in, and she was mine. I got her in the beginning of July. Her name is Ruby Jean. Her name was something else when she came in, but she didn’t seem to answer to that name, so we changed her name. She answers to Ruby Jean. I have never had a dog like Ruby. She is a smallish dog, with legs that seem too long and lean body. It’s like they put the wrong legs on at the dog factory, and I couldn’t love her more. When she’s curled up to sleep she looks like a small dog, but when she stands she’s a whole lot taller than she should be. I had her for less than a day, and we bonded like we had always been together, and it’s been like that since we’ve been together. Three weeks later a golden girl became available and we got her. The organization gave her a name. She had never had a name before. I chose a new name for her and she is now Lulu. Lulu, from all appearances and behaviors, must have had a hellish existence. She will take a lot of love and care, but she has improved with each day, and has become more trusting and less scared every day. She knows she’s Lulu now. I look forward to the day that all the hell she’s been through will be a small kernel in the back of her memories. This whole long story leads to the end where I have Ruby Jean on the couch with me, and her head resting on my arm, and Lulu is on the floor in her bed near my feet and my mother is on the loveseat watching tv, and in that regard, all is as good as it can be.
The Pale Scot
Must have some terrier in him
C Stars
@Juju: I love this post, and so glad you all have each other.
Tom Levenson
I’ve had cats since I was a wee nipper, and grew up with dogs, mostly goldens.
A quick cat story. My first feline was a half-siamese mutt named Suki. He slept on my bed at night, but never during the day. He liked the old gas dryer we had, which was mostly our alpha cat, Acorn’s perch. It was the pilot light that made the spot so desirable, of course, that little patch of warm. So, one day–I was maybe eleven–someone left the dryer door open. Suki most have wandered by. He would have noticed a few clothes left behind to make a nice cushion and a fabulous toasty cave in which to nap.
In he went.
I came to the laundry set up some time later (no idea how long he’d been in there), and tossed a few clothes that hadn’t gotten all the way dry back into the still-open dryer, shut the door, and started it up. Nobody waked up.
This is what I heard next: THUMP! Yowl. THUMP!! Yooowwwwll. THUMP!!!…
By the second thump I figured out something was wrong, though it took me to the third to fumble for the latch and get the door open.
Out jumped the single most pissed off cat I’ve ever seen. He was nicely fluffy, though. ;-)
Steeplejack
I’ll throw in a couple of pictures of the housecat that WaterGirl was kind enough to run back in the day.
And an anecdote that her workstation reminds me of: Cats are very sensitive about their dignity. When the aging housecat got to the point that she couldn’t reliably jump up directly from the floor to the desktop to get to her workstation, I moved one of my easy chairs slightly closer so that she could jump on that, get on the padded arm and then jump over to the desk. But there was a transition period where she would give me a long look before doing it. “Honey, of course you can still jump up from the floor. I just moved the chair because it’s a better angle for the TV. Totally for me!”
CarolPW
Buford was a male tortie, Iris was a red husky mixed with something like an airedale. Buford was mentally deficient, to put it mildly, and he and Iris were best buds. We had a great room with a hardwood floor big enough to host a dance with 30 people. Buford would be laying down at one end of the room, and Iris would take a run at him and drag him by his tail partway across the hardwood at speed and let go, spinning him to the other side of the room. He would run back, lie down, and they would do it again.
Kristine
I got King, a GSD-Lab mix, when he was 12 weeks old in 2001; I adopted Mickey, who looked like a lab-pittie mix, from a rescue shelter in 2004 so King would have a buddy. Sometimes they mixed it up–two males each of whom thought they were in charge–but they got along for the most part. One of the funniest things they used to do occurred during bone-chewing time. They’d lie next to one another on the living room rug, chomping away. Then with all the precision of a pair of Radio City Music Hall Rockettes, they’d stand up, switch sides, flop back down, and start in on the other’s bone.
I only had Mickey for 4 1/2 years, and lost him in mid-2008. I’m not sure how old he was–they said at the shelter that he was 3, but the vet felt he was older. He had been abused at his former home, but by the time he passed, he had pretty much figured out that he had nothing to be afraid of. King made it to not quite 12, which was pretty good for a dog his size–115-120lbs–but not long enough.
Steeplejack
Just got this from a friend: cat incident report.
eclare
Someone I follow on Twitter puts a dog treat on her head to get her dogs to look at her for photos.
One of my dogs, Sophie, was a great destroyer. I crated her while I was at work. One day I came home, went to her crate to let her out, and I noticed some weird yellow thing in her crate. Totally confused, I looked around and up. “Oh.” Somehow she had sucked a curtain panel into her crate. I have no idea how.
Still miss her. Working up to getting another. She had a rough start in life but was full of joy.
Chacal Charles Calthrop
Even Superman has a good pet story:
https://imgur.com/gallery/EEQxB
Eljai
The first cat I owned as an adult was a black cat named Willie. I used to love making up details about his life while I was at work:
Occupation: Avant-garde photographer and Zen Spiritualist
Favorite Liqueur: Creme de Banana
Favorite Hobby: Bug-Catching
Favorite Book: The Canterbury Tales
Everybody does this, right?
eclare
@Juju: That sounds perfect!
eclare
@Tom Levenson: That is hilarious!
Scamp Dog
It’s a bit long to copy over, so here’s the link to the story of my Border Collie giving birth a week and a half after I got her: https://scampdog.wordpress.com/2017/09/23/first-vet-visit-puppies/
eclare
@Eljai: I adapt silly rap song lyrics to fit dog’s names.
MelissaM
The dog I had growing up was Greta, a full size dachshund, red with the burnt mark down her back. I was 3 when my family got her and to escape my “love,” she crawled on to the lower shelf of a wrought iron book shelf. Well, we ended up putting a rug on there and that’s where she went when we ate dinner – “Greta, get on your shelf!” and up she would hop.
She was the Best Dog and put up with lots of my nonsense as long as she was being touched, handled and swaddled in a blanket. And when you were sick she was Right There under the blankets with you.
My dad had a serious heart attack when I was 11 and was in and out of the hospital for 9 months before he died. When he was home and on the sofa, Greta was right there. She must have been under foot at one point and he kicked her in his frustration, and I remember her being like “if it helps, do it again.” And she was right there with him.
My current Annie can’t compete with greatness, but she’s a sweetie. RIP Greta. So many more shenanigans I could tell. (She ate a stick of butter and cleaned out the sugar bowl, a pumpkin pie, a large portion of sheet cake, 1# or more of fudge, etc.)
Eljai
@eclare: I bet they love that!
eclare
A funny photo that I have on my fridge has this caption: There are no one night stands with a dog. Once you let your pet into your bed, it’s hard to get him out.
So true.
Jackie
Another memory involving Oreo, his mother Cinder, Garth, and my son’s cat, Leo.
My kids had paper routes, and as you know, that’s a seven days a week, every day of the year job. Every Sat I would do a route, rotating so each kiddo could have a day off every other Sat, for sleepovers or just sleeping in. About six months into subbing, I was about a third of the way through my son’s route (5a.m. and dark) I heard a meeyawl!!! behind me. Before I turned around, I recognized Leo’s distinct voice. I turned around to see Leo sitting on the sidewalk. He’d been following me and decided we’d gone far enough. I’m figuring out if I can stuff him in the route bag and I see movement further behind. Garth. And Cinder. And Oreo. Damn cats always followed me in our neighborhood when visiting one neighbor or another, but I never thought they’d take it upon themselves to follow me OUT of our neighborhood. So I had to backtrack back home and shut them in the house and finish that route. Every Sat from that time on I had to make sure they were ALL shut in the house before heading out. I felt like the pied piper of cats!
eclare
@Steeplejack: Wow!
middlelee
I’ve had many cats in my life and for a few years even had my own personal Trap Neuter Release program in my front yard out in the country after a neighbor moved, leaving 16 unspayed, unneutered cats behind. Many of them moved down to my house, noticing that I left a window open so my cats could go in and out. In a three year period I had more than sixty cats spayed or neutered, made sure they had their shots, then brought them home. They lived on my acre and a half and I made sure they were well fed. As the numbers went down over the years I still took in strays. Friends in an adjoining town ran a similar program for ferals and would occasionally bring me cats that didn’t do well in feral colonies.
One rainy November evening I got a call asking if I could take in two cats, a white female cat that looked a lot like Tunch (who I didn’t know yet), and an orange tabby who may have been her sibling and was very protective of her.
I named her Puff and the orange guy Jake. She is the only cat I’ve ever known who could not control her eating. She was about 12 or 13 pounds when she moved in and within a year was up to 20 pounds and maxed out at 23. She spent the rest of her life on a diet. After about a year I renamed her The Muffin. At this time I had maybe 20 cats about half indoor-outdoor and the rest outdoor. The Muffin became intensely attached to me, sleeping with me, joining me in the bathroom when I showered, following me into whatever room I was in, making it clear I was her person. When I was away from the house she was always at the door to meet me when I came back.
Eventually I put a bed with a princess pillow in the bath so she could be comfortable. I soon was feeding her in there so that the other cats could not get her food. She was too fat to jump up on anything so I fed the others on the kitchen island (Yes, I know, don’t judge). I never feed my cats people food and never feed them from the table. At dinner parties The Muffin would circle the table and some of my friends would sneaks bits down to her. Once I was just sitting down to dinner by myself, about to enjoy two small fillet mignon steaks. The phone rang and I went into another room to answer it. A couple of minutes later I heard a noise and looked around the corner just in time to see her jump down from my chair with a small steak in her mouth.
Kitchen and bath towels all had to be hung out of her reach because for some reason she enjoyed pulling them down and chewing holes in them. When she could get up on anything she would knock anything onto the floor that happened to be there. Soon there were no tchotchkes left in my house. She was always full of mischief but rarely yelled at (I’m a yeller).
When she was 12 she got a lump which turned out to be lymphoma. I was told she could live three months or ten years. It turned out we got ten months more together. She died 10 years ago and I still miss her. She was one of the exceptional cats in my life and one of the most loved.
eclare
@middlelee: Muffin sounds adorable! And kudos to you for taking in so many kitties.
cckids
In 2000, on a brutally hot July day in Vegas, I was getting something out of my car & felt a pat on my calf. Turned around & there was a red Pomeranian, dancing on his hind legs. No owner in sight, so I took him into the house, he bounced in smiling, said hi to my younger two kids, then jumped up onto my oldest son’s lap, who was in his wheelchair. The pup turned around twice, then laid down on Mike’s lap with a sigh. And he was home.
(yes, of course we looked for an owner, but nobody called, in spite of flyers and ads)
Made the mistake of letting the 6 & 8 year old kids name him, so he was officially Vulpix (a Pokemon), but that morphed into Pixie, and stayed there. He was just the most loving, goofy little guy; he obviously hadn’t been treated well – was terrified of men, especially, and the first time I brought out a broom when he was in the room, he almost passed out in terror. But he learned that not only was he safe now, but that life could be fun and full of treats and love. He liked hiking, peanut butter, aaallllll the girl scouts he met, and believed all his life that if he got onto Mike’s lap and sat very, very still, he’d be allowed to go out with us. The fact that it never worked didn’t deter him at all. He gave us his whole heart for the next 17 1/2 years, and I’m not sure any other dog will be so special to us.
The day my oldest son passed away (he was in hospice at home), Pixie was winding his way around our feet, clearly in distress, till I put him up in bed with Mike; he tucked himself in tight next to him and stayed till Mike was gone, then spent the next few days crying with the rest of us. I don’t think he ever quite got over losing Mike – Pixie left us just a bit over 6 months later, in a very similar way to Lily – happy and content one day, gone the next.
He brought so, so much love and laughter to us all, I’ll miss him forever.
EarthWindFire
Buddy was my best boy, my pomeranian mix surfer dude. A more mellow dog never lived. Until one night I had gotten home later than expected and hadn’t called my spousal unit because he was at a gig. Well, spousal unit made it home before me and was scared shitless that I hadn’t been home. And in the weird way that life partners sometimes do, we fought about it. Loudly.
Until our little surfer dude decided he had had enough. He ran to the middle of our living room rug, squatted, and peed an ocean worth. Then he looked at both of us with an I’m so disappointed in you two glare. We laughed hysterically. We also never fought in front of Buddy again.
Cjcat
Boo was a Jack Russell/ Pekingese/ Chihuahua mix. We called her the Jalapeño Jackanese. She was bow legged short muzzled, weighed about 15 pounds and had 30 pounds of attitude.
She came to us from a bad situation, neglected and abused. She hated and feared men. She would hide under whatever I was sitting on and refuse to interact with my husband or my son beyond growling at them. My son was a dog trainer at the time and took his inability to make friends with her personally. He would flip her off whenever she growled at him. So I trained her to “attack” whenever some one gave her the bird. My son was really surprised the first time she came out from under the chair and barked furiously at him when he shot her the finger.
The funny thing, besides the expression on my son’s face, was after that she was no longer afraid of men. Knowing she could talk back without getting hurt cured her of her fear. If you gave her the finger though, she would hold a grudge and just dare you to do it again. One of my brother in laws could never resist and she chased him all her days.
eclare
@EarthWindFire: Hahaha…
EarthWindFire
@cckids: Sweet Pixie boy. Thank you for saving him.
Torrey
I’ve had quite a few dogs, but I think the one I’ll talk about is Torrey (um, yeah), a scruffy (broken coat is the term, I think) Jack Russell or JRT mix, who was 8 when I got him. I’ll skip the details, but suffice to say, he didn’t know how to walk on a leash or ride in a car, and all he knew about humans is that they weren’t to be trusted, especially women with long blonde hair. (There’s a country and western song in there somewhere.) For my part, I didn’t know anything about JRTs. (Go ahead. Laugh. I’ll wait.) There followed obedience class, at which Torrey discovered to his surprise that he could be a GOOD DOG!!! He loved obedience because, I think, it gave him some control over how people treated him. He tied for first but lost in the walk-off to a most excellent and attentive Cocker Spaniel. He then proceeded to try to trip everyone in the house, since any time we tried to walk somewhere, if we paused, even slightly, he’d suddenly appear in front of us and do a perfect sit, nose to kneecap, looking up at us expectantly. Because he was being a GOOD DOG!!! He eventually qualified as a therapy dog and visited nursing homes and the occasional school or library. He loved getting petted, and he was incredibly gentle with old folks and kids. Eventually, his many health issues were just too much, and he left me at about age 13. It took me two years to fix the door jamb, where he’d dug at it whenever he heard the key in the lock, assuming that the human was trying to dig their way into the house and trying hard to be a good dog and help from his end.
WaterGirl
Several people have written to ask about donating to Walter’s Fund in honor of Lily, so I have added the thermometer in the sidebar.
A Good Woman
Definitely a catwoman here.
My first one was named Tulip, one of 2 survivors of a litter (sister was Buttercup) had by a stray (Tequila) rescued by my apartment manager. She was 1 when she came to me. After about 3 days I was her person and she felt free to do whatever she wanted.
That included racing up behind me in the hallway as I exited the bathroom after my shower, leaping up, smacking my bare backside with her paws and then zooming into the living room. She looked back to make sure I notcied, and I swear she snickered every time.
mrmoshpotato
@kalakal: LOL!
dww44
@OzarkHillbilly: I’m teary again. Wonderful tribute
Sorryforlaughing
My dear departed orange shorthair Honey mellowed into a placid elder, but was a little maniac when young–her favorite hobbies were barreling up and down the hallway at 3 am like a bat out of hell and getting so excited when other people came to the house she inevitably threw up on someone’s shoes. Once when I was having the water heater serviced she saw the pilot light sputtering to life, went OH BOY! FIRE! and was barreling toward it at top speed when I caught her and wrestled her up the stairs. Her old-age hobbies were watching movies with me, napping on her back in the sunroom with her paws in the air, and running all over the house from window to window, bristling with indignation, if another cat dared show their face in the yard. For some reason the tiny, ratty little postage-stamp bathmat in the downstairs bathroom became her binky–whenever I washed it she’d search everywhere for it and then sit there looking utterly bereft until it was restored to the floor.
Casey, her equally beloved calico predecessor, was quieter and a little neurotic–she’d had a traumatic parting from her previous family, and I suspect also suffered some abuse–but we loved each other to pieces. She rejected all beds and cushions in favor of curling up on top of a favorite cardboard box (she got instant heart-eyes for it and mewed until I put it in the corner for her), and her favorite treat in the world was cereal milk. Once when I returned from vacation she stood in the hallway, yelled at me for three minutes straight for having dared abandon her, and though she usually hated being picked up then let me carry her all over the house purring like crazy for hours. The only time I really screwed up in her eyes was when I tried playing laser pointer with her–she was intrigued until she looked at my hand, realized I was making the light dance around and stalked away with a “well, NOW you’ve ruined it” look of disgust. She lived to be nearly 19 years old and I miss her and Honey every day.
Boots, my big round gray girl, sadly died of cancer when she was only 4, but she was a pile of sweetness whose favorite thing was to get into a tunnel in the cat tree I called her “crazy tube,” because she’d spin herself around and around like a little maniac clawing at imaginary mice. The smallest pinch of catnip sent her into a stoned frenzy and her chunkiness didn’t stop her from leaping onto kitchen counters, the table and the top of the refrigerator every time my back was turned. Unlike my other cats she was also a stone cold killer when she got the chance, but that one poor mouse in the bathroom probably had it coming. I like to imagine that when I’m asleep her spirit is still in the kitchen, trotting all over the counters she wasn’t allowed on in life.
PatrickG
We adopted Eliza from the local shelter just before the pandemic (three days before shutdown in fact). Because of the need to get animals OUT she wasn’t spayed; we were asked to bring her back two weeks later.
At that time, everything was so uncertain: we knew so little about risk, spread, etc. I expressed that uncertainty to the shelter rep when she called to confirm the appointment. It went like this:
Me: “are we sure this is a good idea?”
Her: “You have two choices here. Potentially die of a novel virus in horrible ways, or live with a dog in heat.”
Me: “Um, ok”
Her: “Choose death.”
Fortunately, nobody died because of the spaying! And we’ve had so many wonderful times with our loving, cuddling pit mix Eliza. Though I’ll always remember the night she learned how to unlatch and open the sliding glass doors so she could play with the raccoons. (Eek. What a clever, if not particularly SMART dog she is!)
Hitchhiker
My dog, Utah, is about 12 yrs old now, and he’s been with us for the last 10. I’ve walked him through so many neighborhoods over the years, and every time — not exaggerating, every single time — we go out he finds someone to love him. A typical encounter goes like this.
Ohhhh, what a beauty, can I say hello?
Of course.
Ohhhh, aren’t you lovely? Look at your eyes! You can smell my dog on me, can’t you?
(I think but don’t say, no, he’s like this with everyone.)
What’s your name, sweetheart?
Utah.
Utah! That’s a wonderful name. You’re such an old soul, aren’t you?
This goes on for as long as I want to stand there. He always, always acts as if whoever is petting him is someone he’s been looking for forever. Sometimes I think about how the world would be if we all treated each other the way people treat my dog. I love him so much.
Leslie
So many beloved fur babies. I’m remembering Pollo, the final pup from our childhood dog. His mother was a big, shaggy golden / shepherd / collie mix, and his father was the biggest German shepherd I’ve ever seen.
Pollo was a sweet, giant fluffball. I took him to the vet one time, and this 150-pound dog tried to climb in my lap, when he could stretch across it a foot or two on either side. It was such a funny sight.
Here’s to all the animals who enrich our lives.
Professor Bigfoot
Here’s a little– the 80 pound mastiff that we rescued is integrating into the household, even though the Yorkies remain suspicious.
She’s been to her first training class, and she’s *quick* to catch on.
She’s a big ol’ happy dawg, now.
eclare
@Professor Bigfoot: Yay! I was hoping for a progress report!
beth
Don’t know if this will work because I’m tech challenged but here’s my two goofballs. Miss that dog every day. Her patience with our new kitty was worth all the trouble, including the time she dug up the sprinkler system in the back yard – she was running with a piece of PVC pipe in her mouth and I thought “where in the world did she get that?”.
https://imgur.com/gallery/arWwAli
eclare
@beth: Worked for me! What cuties. Dug up your sprinkler system, ouch!
Carol Van Natta
I love all these stories, and wish Lily the best life while she waits across the rainbow bridge.
Some 30+ years ago, I talked my late partner into getting a cat, and we never looked back.
I had a few rough years of losses, including the partner, so now I’m down to two precious companions. Lije is a 15-year-old brown tabby with cream colored feet and chest. He has decided I’m his person and am in constant need of supervision, and regularly reminds me that all the books I write would benefit from adding Moar Cats. The Princess of Quite A Lot is a 13-year-old Tonkinese who was bred as a show cat. Unfortunately, she is both cross-eyed and asthmatic, which is why the breeder gave her up. Without her disabilities, I’d have to build floor-to-ceiling towers and traverses for her to proclaim her ownership of all she surveys.
I am quietly on the lookout for an adult bonded pair of cats to add to my little autonomous collective while we’re all still able to enjoy them.
eclare
@Carol Van Natta: What loving descriptions.
WaterGirl
@beth: Hi beth, I don’t know if you caught my comment the other night that there are now two commenters named “beth”, both lower case. That can get a little confusing. Wondering if you might be up for adding something to “beth” so the two nyms aren’t identical?
If you do that, we’ll have to manually approve the first comment where you use a slightly different nym, but I am closing the laptop so right now wouldn’t be the best time to do that. :-)
Maybe send me an email watergirl at balloon-juice.com? thanks.
zeecube
I am enjoying everyone’s stories.
I had a chocolate point Siamese, Toranga Fang, who loved to suck and knead wool sweaters. He was an 8 week old stray found by my neighbor. Fang attached to me immediately.
Mrs. ZC had a Birmin, Leo, who had expensive taste. Leo enjoyed eating angora wool. Other wool he left alone, but if there was an angora sweater at the bottom of a pile of clothes, he’d find it and eat it.
Auntie Anne
The much loved Ms. Kisses was a Siamese. I was HER person, and truly, she was happiest perching on my shoulder, making biscuits. Other people were not really part of her world, and she would deign to notice them with a hiss.
I married my husband, and he was very ill for most of our marriage. Kisses didn’t really like him, but at least she didn’t hiss at him. One day he called me at work saying we had a mouse – he’d felt it crawling beside him on the bed. I went home that night to find Kisses curled up with him to keep him warm and protect him. And she continued to sleep with him every day until he went to the hospital and didn’t come home. She left big paw prints on my heart – not least because she took care of Rog when I was working. I still miss her.
Anne Marie
I’m reading this thread in the waiting room at the emergency vet right now because Douggie found a pack of gum that I had forgotten I had in my bag. He’s my nephew’s dog, but I spend a lot of time at my sister’s house and am the designated dogsitter. So I get to be the cool aunt who takes him bushwhacking through the woods on the hunt for deer and who has the best hands for ear-scratching, but I (usually) don’t have to pay the bills.
Douggie is a handsome beagle/hound mix of some sort, and he has a new crazy JRT (but I repeat myself) adopted sister. The two of them encourage each other’s worst tendencies, especially in the realm of finding every scrap of potentially edible items in reach. They dig out whatever they can from any unattended shelf, counter, table, bag, etc, and scatter the contents and the packaging to all corners of the first floor. The most recent and most dramatic examples were 4 packs of dried chili peppers, and an unopened box of hot cocoa mix packets, both all over multiple rugs. I would never have left my purse in reach if I had remembered the pack of gum that I bought weeks ago on a road trip, but we are all still getting used to the new level of canine banditry. Eventually we will be better-trained. 🤣 He is fine, btw, just waiting for the release paperwork. But I enjoyed reading all of your stories while waiting!
beth
@WaterGirl: yes I did see your comment too late to respond and completely forgot to change my number this time. I’ll take care of it next time – thanks for the reminder!
Torrey
@beth: What a great video! It gave me the laugh I needed this evening. They’re both beautiful, and the cat is most definitely being the essence of catitude. Thank you for sharing that.
NutmegAgain
That first photo of Jasper seems to emanate “You are so not the boss of me!” vibes… such a cutie. I always have had the hardest time with cute troublemaking dogs; I just start laughing and it can be hard to stop.
People would say, “why (how, etc) do you have two Newfoundlands??? I’d say, “because they make me laugh every day.”
“what do they eat?” my response, because duh, “small children”
“Oh my gawd what’s this on my hand/arm/jacket?!? (Pro tip: skeins of slobber.) I tell the folks to rub it in, that it’s very good for the skin.
How did I get caught by the Newf bug? Hmmm. I always had a shelter pup or two, from the time I had my own household. I even volunteered in a local shelter and ended up with 4 cats who were a foster fail. Hughie, the talker, was the most wonderful apricot tabby. He used to wind his way around the house calling out for someone.
Anyway, I was lucky to adopt my dog Jack from a local no-kill shelter. He was a Newf/Golden mix. Such a dog!! Ever since I’ve called him my gateway drug. People who work at shelters will tell you that black dogs, especially bigger ones, are the last to go. Not with me around! Anyhow I adopted my one and only AKC Big Deal lots of fancy breeding and papers Newfer. The poor thing was an orthopedic mess from the get-go, alas. Water therapy (Newf!) and acupuncture were terrific. Then, back to the same shelter and there I found Duncan, who would have been better named Dennis the Menace. I had to put a steel shackle & clip on the trash (after many less robust attempts at trash guardianship). I came home one day and found him standing on the kitchen island trying to snack on a bowl of clementines. He would sink his teeth into one, and delicately spit it to the side, the dive back in the bowl… like I said hard not to laugh. He was also the dog who opened cabinets, took out jars of spaghetti sauce or similar, carried it into the dining room and unscrewed the lid. He’d have a little snacky under the table…
Last month I went to a reunion/fundraiser for the Newf charity. Estimates were about 200 people, so easily 75 Newfoundlands over the 3 hours. Bliss!
And sometime soon I will welcome a 5+/- year old male who was rescued from a puppy mill. Can’t wait! Technically I’m his foster, but ya know..
Argiope
When Mr. Argiope and I were newly engaged we lived on the second floor of a tall Victorian house we rented with Farley the cat. Farles enjoyed undivided human attention and skritches, and soon realized the place where we were an assured captive audience was while sitting down in the bathroom. There was a convenient window right next to the john filled with a screen that worked really nicely as a backstop, so he could jump into it and rebound neatly onto the sill for petting. The system worked great for him for some time. A year after we moved in we got married and left for a honeymoon. Right around then, our landlords decided to have the house painted, and so for a while all the wooden-framed screens were removed for the trim work. The day we were all reunited–us from a 10-hour flight, and Farley from boarding–I set down my suitcase and went to answer a call of nature. Farles jumped up as usual and due to the lack of screen, sailed right out the window–a window that was about 20 feet off the ground. I learned then what hysteria really was: I began laughing and crying simultaneously. I stood up and with trepidation, looked out the window. Farley seemed unharmed but very surprised. He began a sort of marine crawl–low to the ground, determined path–to the back door, where we immediately let him in, checked him over to be sure our original impressions were correct and nothing had been hurt but his pride, and gave him much love and sympathy. Eventually he even learned to trust that window again.
sab
@Argiope: Shadow, our skittish semi-feral used to love to hang out in our new sunroom, added on to the original house, which has a window and a door connecting the old house to the new room.
One day she decided to jump back into the kitchen through the newly cleaned window. She didn’t realize it was shut, and bonked her face on the glass.
Now we have a prominent decal. I still don’t think she will ever try that window again, but the decal protects the other cats.
S Cerevisiae
My German Shepherd Bella is the most wonderful dog, I rescued her and she rescued me. We have been together more than a decade now and I try to cherish every moment with her. I submitted a photo for next year’s calendar of her standing in her bucket, she loves her bucket.
Barbara
Way late here, but it took me a while to think of the story I most like telling. My sister’s departing gift to my parents as she went off to college was to adopt a Collie-Shepherd — my mom was horrified when she realized how big she would be. Well, she turned into the best dog ever. Her size made it possible for her to open the screen door by standing up and pushing on it. Once, I took her for a long walk up to a nearby park — at least a mile and a half from my house. She went and stood under the water fountain, and obviously, everyone knew her, because a couple asked her by name if she needed a drink, and turned on the fountain so she could — yep — stand up and drink from it.
It turned out that if my dad wasn’t paying attention, which he usually wasn’t because he was napping on the sofa, she would let herself out at 2:30 in the afternoon and cross a major road as she made her way to that park — which was close to a school — in time for the kids to get out and play with her before heading home. Many times, apparently, someone would intercept her on her way and call my dad to come and get her, but she went any time she could get away with it. She loved everyone, other dogs, all people, but especially kids. My mom cried and cried when she died.
Barbara
@NutmegAgain: I remember the shock I felt the first time I saw a Newfie. He was sitting on the porch of a general store in a very small town in Ontario and it took me a moment to realize that, no, it wasn’t a bear, it was a dog.
Bg
Used to have a dog named Cinnamon. On road trips in my husband’s little sports car, she would sit at my feet. I would feed her Cheetos for snacks and she would drool orange colored drool all over my shins. RIP Lily. John, I hope some day your memories that make you smile outweigh the ones that make you sad.
dearmaizie
Thanks for this.
Juju
@S Cerevisiae: I will look for that picture when I get my calendar.