Memorandum From Libby

TO: Ed (Dog Washer) Hall, MMFIC (Mean, Mean Feller In Charge)

FROM: Libby

SUBJECT: Bath, Obedience and the pending rebellion.

DATE:  13 Sep, 2012

Ed, it has come to my attention that you suddenly feel the overwhelming need to make us dogs do what you want.  What is this obedience thing you speak of? Is it related to this personal space thing you mumble about constantly?

You must understand that you can call Meeko and he will come to you.  Proving the synergistic effect of idiocy; Meeko is an idiot for coming when you call him and you, sir, are an idiot for wanting a wimp like Meeko to come to you.

As for me, you are more than welcome to tie whatever length of rope to my Gentle Leader that you care to and I will, if I care to, get as far away from you as I can. Then you are welcomed to say “Come Libby” in whatever tone, pace, pitch, modulation and variations as you please. In the unlikely event one of them pleases me I might even come to you. Probably you will have to reel me in like a big furry carp.

For the record, I don’t do come. I have been told I do a very nice “sit” though when the mood strikes me.

Now, let us move on to this bathing thing. What is it with you? As you have often said yourself the ability to do something does not imply that doing it would be a GOOD thing. Just because you can lift sixty odd pounds and throw it into water DOES not mean it is good.

I do not like it, not one little bit.

Just because you have this stuff that burns my eyes and can rub it all over me does not mean that is the right thing to do. Maybe Ed, I am going to have to give you a point or two on all that personal space stuff you keep spouting. What gives you the right to violate my personal space and bathe me?

I do not like it, not one little bit.

Now, I know you are going to point out that Meeko has taken to his baths and happily crawls into the water, stands quietly while you bathe him and cooperates in every way. OK, what part of pea brained, conformist, venal, collaborator are you having trouble with Ed?

Moving on from that, lets discuss this Gentle Leader thing. First let me explain how walks worked before the Gentle Leader. Someone attached a lead to my collar, I took off in whatever direction suited me and at whatever speed I chose. That was a walk.

Oh, some people had enough body mass and arm strength to impede my notions but on my side I had a low center of gravity, good muscle tone and a built in duplicity that would shame a pet monkey. All told it was an even match and a darned good game. 

I liked it quite a bit.

Then came the Gentle Leader, I hold you personally responsible for that Ed and there are some torn and ragged clothes in your future. I remember the day so well; you and MOMMA WHO LOVES ME let me and Meeko the Idiot in.  Oh joy of Joy we were going for a walk. There was going to be some dragging done today, I was so happy. Maybe I would get to drag the bald guy with the holes in his tee shirts.

Wait, what is this? This is not my normal collar with which I have dragged many to their doom. Something is going over my nose; something is going around my neck. Why are they fastening the leash below my chin?

Oh well, the door is open and we are OFF!!!! Suddenly I hit the end of the Gentle Leader my nose went down my head went sideways MOMMA WHO LOVES ME was just standing there rather than being dragged away screaming my name.  Even Meeko, dumb as a broke brick, seemed to get the idea that something was new here.

So now I cannot even have the personal joy of causing traumatic shoulder separations and you still call it a walk?

Actually Ed, I have no problem with obedience, bathing or walking docile at someone’s side. There really is only one problem with the whole rather demeaning production.

Could one of you please explain to me WHY?

Are Cats From Outer Space, Or Just Spaced Out

Recently, I saw a cartoon where a cat was seated outside the open Pearly Gates. Saint Peter is saying “Well, are you coming in this time?” The caption read “Why cats have nine lives”. Kind of explains how cats can disappear for days and show up looking like death warmed over doesn’t it?


I grew up with both cats and dogs, and I can say unequivocally that I have never known any cat that would meet the human definition of sane. For the feline species, crazy is normal, so it is no wonder that all of ours exhibit varying degrees of what we call insanity.

Ed is convinced they are space aliens, and has already given a brief introduction to the four who live with us. As for me, I know they are cats and are, therefore, crazy.

As Ed told you, Captain was given to us by a friend. She was probably six months old, and I think she was never properly weaned. She does little things to give it away, like sucking on our clothes and chewing on our hair. Oh, did I mention she will chew through plastic bags to get to the bread?

Twice she has decided to go on “walkabout” since we moved. I think she was trying to go home. I’ve had cats do that before. The last time, she was gone so long; I had pretty much given up on her. We she did come home; she was disoriented, and skin and bones. She didn’t even go back outside for weeks after she came home. She still doesn’t go out much. She’s gained all her weight back and then some. Now, she kind of resembles a calico Jabba the Hut.

                                                    Captain pouting next to "her" chair

If I’m sitting in my chair in the living room, she will often come out from behind the curtains behind me, and climb on to my shoulder. Remember the Jabba the hut analogy? Then she will start chewing on my hair, and I will have to try to get her off me without hurting her, and without getting scratched myself.

To be fair, I should probably mention that Captain might believe my chair is hers. I often come into the room and find her in it. If she isn’t in the window and I sit down and start reading or writing, she will come up and sit on whatever I’m working on and stare at me as if to say “Why are you in my chair? I think I’ll come over and chew on your hair.” And she does. At least the frontal assault makes for an easier escape.

In her favor, she really is a pretty cat. Her fur is very soft, almost all white, with back and orange markings on her face and tail. She has green eyes. She is sweet natured and she tolerates the dogs well, drawing the line only when Meeko tries to lick her. The only critter on the place that can make her fuzz up and hiss is Marshmallow. She does not like him and the feeling appears to be mutual. Oh, and she’s a great mouser too.

To digress a little, within a few weeks of her coming to us, she was found to be “with kittens”. Katherine was ecstatic. Ed and I, not so much. We were able to find homes for all but one…Bookworm. She is a whole different kind of crazy, but I’ll save that for another time.

Rub-uh-dub-dub Two Dogs In a Tub

It has been an interesting year for pets, pest and people. It has been hotter than a sailor playing craps and dryer than an AA meeting. Most of us hate it, fear it and pray reverently for rain. Fleas are doing the happy, happy flea dance, breeding like Catholics and spreading all over any warm blooded creature they can find. Ah, the idyllic life in the country.

The cats are manageable, little basic hygiene, some of those squirt bottles of flea repellent and they generally do all right. Some advice about flea collars for country pets: I suggest you just cut out the middle man and throw them directly into the high weeds. 

Our dogs, on the other hand, are largely outside dogs. They actually prefer it because we do not have ‘possums running around in the house. We prefer it because we do not like having Libby Holes in our clothing and linens and we also do not relish having to play "find the pee" with Meeko.

Being outside dogs during such a hot dry summer the dogs have turned into caked and nasty flea farms. I looked at Connie, she looked at me and we both said, in low and fearful voices, “It’s time to wash the dogs.”  Katherine, the twelve year old, was ecstatic.  She liked the idea which proves that pre-teens are an alien life form but that is another post.

We live in a little old house with a cistern water system, a shower and water pressure that, on a good day, rises to a trickle. The dogs weigh in at about sixty-five pounds each. Our only container close to large enough to wash the dogs in is a galvanized wash tub like grandma used to wash my flour-sack shirts in. This is going to be more fun than a drive-thru dentist.

After more strategy meetings than a military operation in the Carter Administration we finally devised what we considered to be a plan. We would take the galvanized wash tub into the bathroom, we would stand it in the door of the shower, we would bring the dogs in one at a time and place them in the wash tub and then we would take our long extending shower head and wash them with it.

Murphy’s first law of Combat, “No plan survives initial contact with the enemy.”

Here is the first fault in the plan. Open the back door and let in ONE sixty odd pound dog and keep the other out. After I finish that I will turn back the tides and move a few mountains. I am working on having faith the size of a mustard seed but the dogs have big muscles and low centers of gravity. By the time I regained my balance they were both eating from the scrap bowl. “Oh let them finish eating.” Connie said. As if there were any chance I could stop them.

So we let them finish eating and then I put Meeko back outside so things seemed to be back track. Now we need to get Libby in the bathroom. Normally, Libby is not allowed in the bathroom because she likes to chew tiny holes in the towels, drink from the toilet bowl and eat those yummy little catty bars that are just going to waste in the dirt box.

This night I have put a leash on her inside the house and am leading her towards the door of the bathroom. She knows something is up. How do you figure the coefficient of friction on a sixty odd pound dog going stiff legged on four pads each about four inches wide? I am back in engineering class and engaged in a tug of war at the same time.

Finally, with much huffing and puffing I get her into the bathroom along with Connie and Katherine who is dancing about repeating, “I want to help!!!” A combination of sights and sounds that is not helping to alleviate Libby’s concerns that something is just not right.

The next step is to get her into the tub. So here is another little engineering problem. Said tub is circular and about thirty inches in diameter. Subject dog is about three feet long not counting tail, thirty inches tall at the shoulders, weighs upwards of sixty-five pounds and really would rather not get in said tub.

My engineering training did not help me with this problem but my mind did dredge up an old mountain saying about the uselessness of trying to put five pounds of fecal matter into a three pound sack. The answer to the problem is you don’t put subject dog into the said tub, you put HALF of subject dog into said tub.

Yeah, this is going to get a tad messy. With Katherine sitting on the sink giving a running commentary that would have done any sports announcer proud her mother and I began a combination dog washing and demon ‘rasslin’ match.

Suffice it to say after my dunking in Hartz Flea and Tick soap WITH OATMEAL I am not only flea proof I have very smooth skin. Connie is busy taking first place in the wet night gown contest, busty division and Katherine is getting her own shower as Libby “shakes it off”.

“You’re a good dog.” Katherine says as I open the door and Libby runs out to see what else she can get wet. When we have dried her we sprinkle her with flea powder and switch dogs. Here is another small hole in our plan.

Libby runs out and Meeko sniffs her. Then he looks at me. The look in his eye says it all. It’s going to be a long trip to the bathroom. Remember the old Cagney movie and the final walk to the Death House where he is, for the good of the youngsters, screaming and begging, scrabbling for one last hand hold on ANYTHING before they strapped him in? Yeah, Meeko put Jimmy to shame.

Ok, we are finally in the bathroom. My trick knee is in first place for random pains but my quick drop ankle and my gimpy back are right behind it. Meeko is a big black dog but he has many of the attributes of a big green tractor. When he doesn’t want to be somewhere he is not like Libby who is a bundle of energy trying to bounce in every direction. Meeko picks a direction and pushes. Picture a bulldozer with black hair.

Now we need a full time holder so Katherine gets tagged in as a washer. To my way of thinking it is a very grim and desperate battle. Connie, me and Katherine on one side with Meeko and FORTY BILLION fleas on the other side while Katherine screams, “This is fun.” Told you, she is an alien life form.

After more grunting, moaning and sweating than a Sumo Match we finally got Meeko washed and out of the water. Well that’s not exactly true Meeko took most of the water with him. Then we let him out where he promptly soaked the kitchen, hall and most of the living room.  Then it was dry him, dust him and put him outside.

So there is my story about washing the dogs and one more motivation to pray for rain.

9 Lives X 4 Cats is Oh Help Us

This blog is specifically about Libby and technically about the two dogs. I say technically about the two dogs not because I think they are not dogs. I am pretty certain Libby is and I will grant you that Meeko looks like a dog. No, I mean technically about the dogs because I do not want to talk about the dogs this time.

I want to talk about the cats. I want to but I am afraid they might find out. You see cats were once worshiped as gods in ancient Egypt. Do not think for a moment that cats have forgotten or that they take kindly to their loss of status.  We have four cats or, possibly, four cats have us; it’s nip and tuck day to day.

The first cat we had was named Captain. It was given to Katherine by a friend of Connie’s to replace a lost pet. The second cat we have Connie and I named Bookworm for her affinity for sitting, sleeping, lounging, creeping and licking herself on my books. She was given to us by an unknown Tom cat that got to Captain before we could get her to the vet. The third cat came with the house. When we moved in Marshmallow was there looking up as if to say, “’bout time Butt Wipe, now where’s the food?” The final cat was a little gift given to us through Bookworm by way of another itinerant mouser. Katherine named this one Adora. I call it Arrhythmia the whys of that will be explained later.

The cat Baby Boom is now over. Once things settled we got everyone “fixed”: a euphemism I never understood. Biologically the problem is that they worked just fine. We got them “busted”.

Captain, the first cat, was fine with me. Every once in a while she rubbed my leg, equally as rarely I scratched her chin, her habit of chewing head hair did not bother me (see picture of author’s head) and she never went potty on my personals. Also she had a tendency to take long walks, a month was not uncommon, who can ask more of a cat.

Bookworm seems to like me. We have the same taste in reading. However, as she has gotten older she has been afflicted by a chronic case of the heebie jeebies. Ever seen those cartoons where a cat flies in all different directions at once and looks like somebody attached jumper cables to it? Who knew that was true. Also she finds my taste in music boring.

Marshmallow is….. well… Marshmallow’s breed is…. I think his father was a basset hound and his mother escaped from Area 51. But I am not really certain. One day he is Einstein the next day he can’t figure out how his feet work. One day he is a tiger on the hunt the next day he runs away from a flying leaf. Everyone has baggage, Marshmallow has trunks.

That leaves Arrhythmia, oh I meant Adora. I will say all I have to say about Adora with a question, do they make Kitty Lithium? I would say she is as crazy as a stripped ape but stripped apes would picket me.

So that is our little family of cats and Katherine LOVES everyone one of them. Connie is an avowed animal lover and will see no harm come to any animal except, possibly, this author. So I am stuck with them.

The converse of that problem is (mu ha ha ha) they are stuck with me too.

Possum Hunting

I’m running a little behind. We were in Vacation Bible School all week, and then spent yesterday playing house cleaning catch-up.


Where ever you are, I hope you are getting cool temperatures and rain. We are getting neither. If you are in the midst of a drought/heat wave like we are, and you are reading this blog, I probably don’t need to tell you to look out for the four-legged members of your family. This heat is hard on them too. Three of the four cats usually come in long enough to eat this time of year, and head right back out. This last week they’ve spent more time indoors.

The dogs, however, seem to be having the opposite reaction. Here lately, they’ve barely given us enough time to put out fresh food and water. Particularly Libby, who comes in, checks out the scrap bowl to see if there is something she might be interested in eating, and goes right back out. Meeko, at least, wants to say hello to us too. Of course, if it’s in the scrap bowl, he’ll eat it. We’re not sure what’s going on out there that is so interesting in this heat, but we aren’t going to force them to stay in. They have plenty of shade and fresh water. Libby has dug herself a nice crater to lie in.

A few times a year, some unfortunate, or maybe just intellectually challenged, critter finds itself on the wrong side of the fence. We’ve found at least three raccoons and two ‘possums “treed”. When that happens, there is no doubt as to their interest in being outside. They let us know right away.

Meeko, who is two years old now, has developed a deep, beautiful, big dog voice. When he gets excited however, he still reverts to a puppy yip that travels for miles and has the same effect as nails on chalkboard. A few days last week, he was very interested in something under the dog house, and was yipping quite a bit. Ed went out to look from the outside of the fence, but didn’t see anything. Since Libby wasn’t interested in whatever it was, we really didn’t think much of it.

We’ve decided, after much research and thought, that the part of Libby that is not Lab is probably Husky, or something close to that. Although, she too, has a big dog bark, when she gets excited, the sounds coming from her sound like nothing any dog should make… ever. The first time I heard it, I thought she was dying. Have you ever seen the Husky saying “I love you” on YouTube? It’s kind of like that…at least parts of it is. Because it’s not an all the time thing for her, when she starts making that noise, we investigate. Normally, its buzzards flying too close for her comfort (she REALLY has a thing about birds), or someone riding an ATV (she hates them) or something like that. A few days after Meeko started yipping at the dog house, Libby started making that noise. I went out where I could see the back of the dog house. They were both trying to dig their way in. I went to get Ed.

We made the dogs come inside and then we went out. You have to understand, the navigable space behind the dog house is about five square feet…maybe. Not really enough room to lie down in, which is what we needed to do to see. Neither one of us was crazy about sticking our face in there either. We were both thinking it might be a snake. Anyway, Ed finally managed to get himself where he could see (this is how we found out the electric fence is off…as long as the dogs don’t know), and I got myself where I could hold the flashlight where it would do some good.

It was a ‘possum. Ok so how are we going to get him out? Ed got a stick and tried to shove him out (remember the maneuverability issue?) After some grunting, groaning, and mild cursing, Ed got the stick in behind the critter, which ran out the other side. It was a baby, probably about the same size as a four month old kitten. If a ‘possum can be cute, this one was!

The little thing scampered up the hill, up a tree, and across the fence to freedom, as Ed and I tried to extricate ourselves from behind the dog house. He had better luck than we did, but we finally managed to get up and out too.

I think the dogs were a little annoyed. About ten minutes after we let them back out, we checked on them. They were both sitting there looking at us, like “What did you do with it? Ed, did you eat our ‘possum?”

At least it’s quiet…for now.

Of Murder and Meeko

I tend to be a long suffering man who can keep a firm grip upon his own angers, frustrations, disappointments and negative feelings. Then, of course, there is Meeko.  There is a rumor that Meeko is a dog. You are welcome to believe that if you wish and I admit he looks like a dog but I am personally convinced he is demonic.

First, how we got Meeko. The neighbors had a Lab mix pup they could not keep. He was, essentially, a black tornado with feet. Kyle, Connie’s 2^nd son, age 18 at the time, said the awful words. “Mom, can I have him?” Connie’s great and wonderful soft heart just melted and she approached me, dog beside her.

I am an old soldier and a pragmatist through and through. We needed another dog like a local Democrat needs an Obama endorsement. There was just no way we could possibly keep another animal. I was going to tell her that. I looked into my lady’s soft, brown loving eyes. “Okay,” I mumbled, “but Kyle has to be responsible for him.” I swear the damned dog winked at me.

We live in a house about the size of a saltine cracker box. At the time there were four humans occupying the dwelling with three cats and, during the evenings, Libby, who like to eat golf-ball sized holes in any piece of my clothing she could get her mouth on. Meeko was one dog too far.

I decided to build a fenced-in yard in the back. Fencing is expensive and putting up fencing is hard work but there was a long fence running parallel to the house in just the right place so all I would have to do is patch it, raise it to the five feet height I desired, move the dog house inside the fence line and close the two ends.

By this time Kyle, being a young man, had moved out. We note he did not take Meeko. So the main part of the job was on me. A word about the dog house. This dog house was a hand-me-down from Connie’s mother who had it built at some expense for a large dog. No matter the expense, I do not believe the builder made any profit. Everything went for materials. The dog house weighs, plus or minus, four hundred pounds. It is built to specifications that would shame a bomb shelter. It is about as easy to move as one of the great pyramids.

Having finished all but the point at which I planned to push, pull, drag and curse the dog house through and having used Connie’s good offices to get Kyle (who I nicknamed Bam Bam after the Flintstone character) over, we began the process of moving the dog house the couple hundred feet to its new home. To finish this job we enlisted David and his four-wheeler but finally got the dog house into place.

All right, dog house is in place and I finish putting up the last of the fence. I am standing outside the fence, observing, and Connie lets Meeko and Libby out the back door into their new yard. Within seconds Libby is standing beside me, outside the fence, looking in at Meeko. Being observant, it looked to me like Libby had ran through the fence at a point twenty feet or so up the hill. The fact was she had went under it in a spot that would confound a rabbit.

That was the start, Libby would be the under-dog. What we did not know is that, sometime in the future, Meeko would distinguish himself as the over, around, through, between, atop and multi-dimensional dog. (Sometimes I had no idea how he had gotten out).

After Libby’s one trip out the tiny place, and our closing it off, the dogs seemed content with their new home. Who wouldn’t be? They had shade, running room, a house, food, water and all the weird stuff they could find to chew up. Then Meeko discovered the roof. Since Connie talked about this, I will not dwell on it. Suffice it to say this was my first inkling that the dog was possibly a demonic spirit. Why would a dog climb a house?

 Once David and I cut off easy access to the top of the house things seemed to settle down. Then the Ankle Biters showed up. We got a new neighbor with two dogs.  Well at least one of them was a dog, the other was possibly a very vocal rat. The neighbor was having trouble keeping his two dogs penned up, they had a knack for slipping their collars and escaping.

“Escaping,” thought Meeko, “now there is an idea.” If my memory serves, Meeko’s first attempt was over the old portion of the fence. It was successful beyond his wildest dreams. He was so proud of himself he came to the front door of the house to tell us about it. Connie, having a well developed sense of the absurd, which she needs because she lives with me, laughed.

I was not nearly as impressed.

I patched and re-enforced the section of fence that Meeko had pushed down. His next attempt was a little more direct. He chose a square in this welded wire fencing and pushed his head through it. Yes, as a matter of fact, I did say he pushed his head through a six inch section of welded wire fence popping the welds. Next came his shoulders then his paws and out he was. This time Libby, not to be outdone, followed him. This little jaunt cost our long suffering friend David a chicken, and me more exercise than I wanted, but oh was Meeko proud! No ankle bitter mutt was going to out-do him.

I fixed the break. David suggested electric fencing but I was not to be outdone by a dog. Over the next month or so Meeko went over, yes under, he learned from Libby, and through my fence at a dozen places. The fence began to look like the boundary fence for Area 51.

It has barbed wire around the top, a rocks lined along the bottom, heavy duty fencing up to three feet and various wire patches laced through it. Through the whole production David continued mildly suggesting an electric fence. By now it was the principle of the thing, right?

One morning, having came home the night before and fixed the fence in the dark, I went out to find Meeko playing in the side yard, cavorting as proud of himself as only a Lab who broke fence can be.  I have been a soldier and a cop, and I will tell you never has murder entered my heart until that day.

I took the sixty odd pound dog by his collar, picked him up and the intent of my heart of hearts was to break his ornery, recalcitrant, stubborn, unrelenting, devious neck like a pencil. I would kill him and that would be that. I called down on that dog every curse, insult and disparaging phrase twenty-two years of military service and an active imagination could devise. His life span shrunk to milliseconds. I was going to murder him.

Then he looked up at me with that happy-happy lab look and tried to lick my face.

I flung the hound from me and staggered in the house where I flopped in my chair taking great gasping breaths. Murder, once established in your heart, is not an easy thing to let go of. Connie got up and found me like that, shaking like a hippy in a honky-tonk. She put the dog back, and put me down for a nap. She called Kyle and the two of them fixed the latest break in my fence.

Let me say two words to you about Houdini dogs, those dogs that no barrier seems able to dissuade or contain: electric fence. Thanks David.

Long Time, No Write

Wow! I didn't realize I hadn't written here in nearly two years. Time sure does fly!  It would simply take too long to explain "where" I've been so I won't bore you with the details.

I'll do my best to catch up and then keep up.

The current count is two dogs (Libby and Meeko) and four cats (Marshmallow, Captain, Bookworm, and Adora [Bookworm's baby]) Other than the normal flea and tick problems, everyone is doing well.

We enclosed about a half acre at the rear of our house. The dogs stay out there most of the time. Meeko, who now weighs nearly 70 pounds no longer fits in the crate so we had to look at other options, particularly since housebreaking never completely "took" with him. We had to make changes with Libby too. Letting her have the run of the house during the night led her to making her own fun (yes we did have toys for her) like pulling books off the bookshelves and chewing the corners! Eventually, we decided  to just bring them in for a little while every day, so that we could spend time with them, and then we put them back out. We also bought "Gentle Leader" head harnesses for both of them and take them out for long walks when we can.

For nearly a year, the dogs seemed to enjoy their new "kennel". The only problem we had was their roof climbing. Because the dog house is so big, there was only one place to put it where it would be level, and that was right up next to the house.  The dogs discovered they could get on top of the dog house and then get on the roof. From inside, the noise was like the proverbial herd of buffaloes! Neither one of them ever tried to jump off the other side, but they sure looked like they were considering it. For a while, our house was known as the one with the dogs on the roof!

                                               Meeko on the roof!

 Ed and our landlord fixed things finally so that the dogs couldn't get on top of the dog house, and for awhile at least, all was peaceful.

Then people moved into the house up the hill (as the crow flies) from us. They have dogs too, and they get loose on occasion. Seeing other dogs running about when he was confined made Meeko crazy. At least that is what we think happened. In the next blog, I'll let Ed tell you about last fall when Meeko became a canine Houdini!

Connie