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.