Barkley, C4 and Bacon - lessons from our pets

Mom, the book is boring.  Can't you go blow up

 a side of bacon or something as an experiment.
If I lived with the Mythbusters people, they'd do it.

Words can do our bidding but sometimes nothing else will.

Especially a cat.

It seems I've always had a dog. But there have been a few cats in my life. During grad school I somehow ended up with caring for an elderly cat who had been dumped one winter night, a cat who I swear had a purr with a British accent. I really got fond of that four legged ball of fur, whom I named Sir Edmund Hillary Cat.

Outside of that, and the guard kitties of Roseholme Cottage, the only cats I've been around are Midwest Chick and Mr. B.'s cats.  Tank, oh, so aptly named, the one that sleeps with me every night when I'm there alone (which is something like Mr. T. sharing covers with Gidget), lovable Bob, the big orange nerf ball with legs, Socks the Bitch and Goldie, the cat in the Quantum box.   I've learned much about cats while visiting them or watching the homestead for a couple days while they travel.

Cat lessons -

(1) Out in the country, no matter how many cats are in the house, mice will still come in when it dips down into the low 30's at night. Even though all four cats are peering out the window at them, the mice would come in, a suicide mission if there ever was one.  I could only assume they were Jihad mice.  Sitting in the living room reading, one such night while house sitting, there was a very faint  "poof" noise from the basement.  Partner was with me and lifted an eyebrow . . "Jihad mouse, blowing himself up apparently" I said, and went back to reading my book.

(2)  Four cats, defying all laws of physics and thermodynamics, can, on a daily basis, turn 36 ounces of basic sustenance into 16 pounds of poop.  Outside of Congress, I've not seen a conversion quite like it.

Cats can be so much fun (except for that morning I had to clean up the stain the size of Vermont where Goldie horked up what appeared to be William Shatner's Toupee.

Still, as much as those critters are family, I still am a "dog person". I love how dogs wait, they long for your return and greet your with an unbridled joy that knows no bounds. On those days that I come home drained from a difficult day, tears in my eyes and the worry of ghosts in my soul, Barkley simply lays his head on my knee and looks up, as if that moment is what he lived for. His tail will wag with a healing that humans can't always give.

If there is a ball to be thrown, he will abandon all restraint and give every fiber of himself, to reach that for which was before, only a dream; unmitigated glory.  His life is not deadlines, or deals or caring about the things that in all reality, will not matter at the end of a life.  His life is simply a joyous run ahead of that avalanche of time that would be his enemy had he any concept of it.

He doesn't care how new or fancy his house is, what he rides in, or what coller he wears.  All he cares about is how to bequeath that for which sustains him, in his too short life, his faith and his love, as he patiently waits, only wanting me to come back into the room where he lay.

But  I admire how that when I am away, he is fine, bonding with friends who care for him, some related by blood, some just related by love and friendship.   Unlike most cats, who just have staff, dogs have their pack and Barkley has his own among my friends.

They care for him as do I.  Once while I was away, he injured a leg, jumping high for a toy,just like he always did, one minute happy, the next, hobbling with pain. My friends were beyond concerned and we hoped it was just a sprain. When I got home, he was a little better, then quit eating, then drinking and my concern turned to panic.

I called Tam and she came over, helping me make a little stretcher out of a rug to get him into the truck and off to the doggie hospital in the city for x-rays. It was a simple soft tissue injury and they kept him overnight for some hydration, some pain and anti-inflammatory meds and he was better. But I was like a parent there, in the waiting room, the male vet tech trying to sooth me as I fought tears. He said "are you by yourself" and I sniffed," no a friend is with me" He said, I'll go find them, what do they look like " I said, "look for the beautiful  6 foot tall, pony-tailed blond in the Blackwater hat and AR15 T-shirt pacing the lobby looking  really worried."

I understand, when I blew my knee out, in a city far away, needing surgery, not even able to drive my own truck home, to my own doc with Barkley, my friends took care of me.

That is what family does and pets are our family.  But although you can own a dog,  he's with you because he wants to be. Short of tying him up, if Barkley was truly unhappy here he could just jump the fence and be gone in a heartbeat, off to the land of unlimited biscuits and Mom's who don't live out of a suitcase part of the year. He's not bound by ring, by vow, by law; he can leave if he wishes.

But he doesn't. Each day, be it rain, shine, or snow,  he is here for me, even if I am not present.  That is his gift to me, one I accept gladly for as long as he lives. For all of you here at Home on the Range, who understand the travel, my need for alone time and privacy, those of you that just accept me as I am, without expectation or obligation, thank you, for you are MY pack.