Lilah died from hemangiosarcoma in April of 2023, just four months after we lost Jasper from the same horrible disease. As with Jasper, we had just enough time for family to gather and say goodbye. The stories of Lilah and Jasper begin the same way—in life and in writing. I had just lost my terrier Rosie to cancer. She was only four years old, and I was devastated. Pasha, my 13-year-old Keeshond mix, was showing his age and I knew his days on this earth were numbered. I couldn’t imagine a life that had zero dogs and so, still grieving Rosie very hard, I searched on Petfinder, hoping to adopt another pup so I would have at least one dog when it was Pasha’s time to go. I came across a black puppy from the rescue group Husky House. I had heard that black dogs were harder to adopt. That was as good a reason as any in my bereaved state. She was called Beauty, as in Black Beauty. On my visit to meet Beauty, as I came around the corner of the foster’s house, I heard this big Rottweiler-sized bark; I was so surprised to see it come from the mouth of a small black puppy. A bigger dog was galumphing by her side and he let out a little princess bark. I learned quickly that the princess bark dog was named Spike—and I decided both of them needed better names, and with that I realized that both of them were coming home with me. We replaced the name Spike with Jasper, as he was no more a Spike than I was Ernest Hemingway. Lilah had glossy black fur— Border Collie and black lab mix—and a tail that curled like a furry banner over her back. She was a great combination of beauty and brains; I named her Lilah, the Hebrew word for “night.” You can read more about how Jasper and Lilah came into my life in my story “The Sound of Home” in the book Second-Chance Dogs, a collection of stories edited by Callie Smith Grant. Adopting Lilah and Jasper together was the best thing for both of them. Lilah gained confidence in her brother’s presence. And Jasper adored his sister and loved being with her, outside in the yard, just sniffing and watching the world of nature in our back yard. Like any dog bred to herd, nothing escaped Lilah’s notice. At first that was a challenge for her, because it made her hyper vigilant, afraid of new things. I called on my go-to trainer, Anne Macaulay, of On Good Behavior. After we went through some basic training, she recommended that Lilah and Jasper take classes in agility. I couldn’t imagine Lilah being around so many new and scary things on the field. But Ann was right, and, it was exactly as she suggested: Lilah found her confidence on the agility field. You can read an entire story about Lilah becoming brave here on my blog. Lilah learned to trust me; she came to understand that I would never put her in a situation that would make her uncomfortable. While Lilah’s confidence grew over time, there were still a few things that unnerved her. We live near a quarry—near enough that we could hear the warning tones, and feel the blasts rocking the house and rattling the windows when they came. Lilah learned to associate the tone with the blast, and she would shake in anticipation. We got on the call list, so we could be notified when they were going to blast; this enabled us to keep Lilah inside, turn on a noisy fan or music, and distract her from the first tone to the all-clear. Lilah also didn’t like wind; we got her a vest to wrap her in, and that helped on windy days. I would ask her if she wanted to wear her shirt, and she’d wag her tail and walk over to me to put it on her. The only other thing that Lilah didn’t like were flies, buzzy little things that had no business being in in the house. She didn’t mind them outside, but if there was a fly inside, Lilah would hide in one of her safety caves. I made sure there were plenty of places to serve as caves in our house. A bed under my desk. A soft, dark crate in the corner by my desk. A bed tucked in the corner between a bookcase and the wall, behind the cat tree. Lilah was so smart, and always knew how to get what she wanted, and she would most often do so in very gentle and subtle ways. If our terrier, Tucker had a toy that Lilah wanted, she would grab another toy—which she didn’t really want—and play with it, prancing around the room and tossing it in the air like it was the best toy in the universe. Tucker could never help himself in that situation; he would drop Lilah‘s desired toy to grab and play with the one that she had, which looked like ever so much more fun. Lilah would then pick up the toy she really wanted and trot away with it, leaving Tucker a bit puzzled as to why the toy he was now playing with wasn’t quite as much fun as he thought it would be. Lilah was a quirky dog. When we went places in the car, she would lie in the footwell—not the seat, never the seat. We used to say that Lilah was part dog, part cat, and part goat. She loved to hop up on things: that was the goat part. But she had cat-like personality. She liked to be petted, but only on her terms. And if she had enough, she would get up and walk to another part of the room or another spot in the house. There was no judgment. She just was done being peopled. That said, Lilah was a phenomenal judge of character. She could tell when someone was a good person, a mensch. A few people who exuded centered calmness earned Lilah’s highest accolade, which was for her to lay at their feet, on their feet. I could count on one hand the few people who earned that honor. Lilah loved her brother as well. We often referred to her as Dr. Lilah, because by watching her, I could always tell when something was wrong with Jasper. When he was in the early stages of an ear infection, Lilah would start sniffing his ears and licking them. I began to trust her instinct and would bring her to the vet whenever she started being interested in his ears; we could catch ear infections before they became a problem. When Tucker joined our family, Lilah learned to love him as well, and accepted him as brother, taking him under her care. With Tucker, Lilah was usually the one to notice if he was injured, a not-uncommon occurrence with my peripatetic terrier. Normally protective of her space, Lilah would let Tucker curl up next to her, and even rest his head on her back. Lilah learned to like the cats as well. There was one moment when we had just adopted Athena and Dawn—our first cats—when Lilah leaned over and gave a kitten a little lick, and gently put her mouth on the tiny head. Then she looked at us as if to say, “I wasn’t going to eat her. I just wanted to taste her.“ And then she wagged her tail. Lilah was a dog with a sense of humor. She would sometimes walk up to one of the cats—usually Athena—and just nose her gently. Athena would let out a disgruntled “Merp!” And Lilah would walk away, wagging softly with a smile on her face. And Lilah did smile. When she was in a particularly happy mood, she would show her teeth in the sweetest expression.
She took care of those teeth too. She loved to play with the stuffed animals—and particularly like the ones that had whiskers. She would gently nibble on them as if she was flossing her teeth. As a black dog, Lilah felt the heat more than Jasper, and later, Tucker. In the summer, she would find a cool, safe spot under a rhododendron. Jasper sometimes joined her there. Unlike her brothers, she did not mind water; the boys didn’t even like getting their paws damp. If they were playing a chase game in the summer when I had the baby pool out, Lilah would jump into the pool, using it as a home base, as she knew that neither Jasper nor Tucker would willingly step foot in that pool, unless there were high-value treats involved.
Lilah loved the pool; the other dogs, not so much
Lilah loved that pool. She would jump in and walk in circles to cool off on hot days. She stuck her snout under the water and blew bubbles out through her nose. When she lifted her face up, water would stream down from her tidy snout. The same thing would happen after she drank from her water bowl; when she was done, Lilah would leave a droobling trail on the floor as she walked away, always, always softly wagging that tail like a flag, like a banner, held high above her. When Lilah felt too warm in the house, she would lie at the bottom of our stairs in the front hallway with her body on the cool tile, and her head resting on the bottom stair. She always looked so comfortable there, and we learned to stop over her so as not to disturb her. Lilah also loved winter, particularly when it snowed. She’d prance outside and revel in the white stuff. It didn’t matter how deep it was; she would pounce her way through it. Just like she’d stick her nose in the pool in the summer, Lilah would shove her snout in the snow, and when she pulled back, her face would be covered with white patches. The only thing she she didn’t like was when snow got caught in between her paw pads, so I would trim the fur between her toes, and she’d wait patiently for me to finish. Lilah loved snow so much that after the snow began to melt away, she would find whatever tiny patch of it was left—no matter how small—and would lie or sit on it, in pure contentment. Lilah was very sweet and very gentle. When she needed to teach either Jasper or Tucker doggy manners, she would chastise them with a sharp bark, and then apologize with little soft chitters, whispered in their ears, accompanied by a low wag of apology. She was the sweetest of pies—and I told her that every night when after I whispered in her ear how much I loved her. I miss Lilah terribly. I miss her deep, soulful eyes. I miss her wag. I miss her drooble face. I miss her smile. I miss her sense of humor. I miss her kindness and her gentleness. I miss her at the bottom of the stairs. I miss her curled up by the couch. I miss her sitting on the ottoman and staring out the window with her snout resting on the windowsill, leaving little doggie nose prints. Because of the love she had for Jasper, I take a small amount of comfort that she died four months after he did, so she didn’t have to miss him for very long.
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My good friend Lonnie Hull DuPont died today. She was a mentor, a cheerleader, an animal-lover, a poet and an inspiration. I met Lonnie several years ago, when she served on a publishing panel I was moderating, back in the days when our conference was held in collaboration with BlogPaws. Me, moderating a panel of accomplished, published writers. I was “merely” a blogger. A blogger who wanted so much to be traditionally published. I wanted a book, on a shelf, in a bookstore with my name as author on the cover. I knew there were so many steps from blogging to book, and I was still just learning to walk in the writing field. Back then, I had the beginnings of a memoir, and Lonnie kindly offered to look at it and to give me advice. At the time, I mostly just wanted to know if I could do it, if I had what it took. She told me then—quite clearly—that I had talent. That I could write, and write well. She sent me a more than 1200-word email filled with advice and guidance and industry savvy. And she asked me if I wanted to submit a story for an anthology she was pulling together under her pen name, Callie Smith Grant. Nervous that I wouldn’t make the cut, I sent her two. And she published both in the book Second-Chance Dogs: True Stories of the Dogs We Rescue and the Dogs Who Rescue Us. That was just the beginning. I have since learned—from Lonnie and many others—that talent is not all you need to be successful as a writer. She was a mentor and guide as I tried to navigate the publishing world. Lonnie encouraged me as I searched for an agent, receiving rejection after rejection, or worse yet, crickets. She kept reminding me that I had talent, and that I will eventually be published. When I finally signed with an agent but was discouraged that it was taking so long to make progress, she reminded me that publishing was most often a slow business. Lonnie was a sounding board for me, for ideas and direction. She was my reality check. She continued to build my confidence as I struggled with Depression. With the success of Second-Chance Dogs, Lonnie asked me to submit for a new anthology: Second-Chance Cats. For this book—and the dog version—Lonnie reached out and connected with many members of the Cat Writers’ Association and Dog Writers Association of America, and she accepted and included their stories, offering some the chance to see their work in books for the first time. She encouraged me to submit for two more books—both Christmas themed—asking this Jewish writer to stretch herself to write for them. She accepted my stories for both The Dog Who Came to Christmas and The Cat in the Christmas Tree. Lonnie subscribed to my blog and always read my entries, often sending me supportive comments via email—many about my haiku. Funny thing: I’ve won several CWA Muse and DWAA Maxwell awards for my poetry, but I never considered myself a poet. Lonnie, she was a real poet, a published poet. My haiku are humorous, and irreverent, and I didn’t think they counted. Lonnie disagreed. She called me a poet, and gave me the confidence to actually own that part of me, to speak it out loud and to describe myself that way. This led to me writing more poems, which were published in Cat Talk magazine. Because of Lonnie’s support, guidance and mentorship, I felt confident enough to try submitting to the Chicken Soup for the Soul series. I now have stories published in four of their books—and not all are cat- or dog-themed. She cheered me on when my stories were accepted—even though she herself had submitted and her stories didn’t get in. Lonnie was more than a mentor, though. She was a caring friend. We’d email now and again, and check in with each other every via phone every few months or so, and we’d talk for hours. When I visited relatives in Michigan, she found a way to travel down to meet me for lunch. We talked, we laughed, we lingered; we never ran out of things to say. We had so much to share; it was never a one-way relationship. We learned from each other, like the time I taught her the meaning of the Yiddish word “kvell”—to be exceedingly pleased or proud, usually about an accomplishment. Two years ago, I nominated Lonnie for the Cat Writers’ Association Shojai Mentor Award. Judged by the CWA Council of Directors, the award recognizes a CWA member who “has offered guidance, encouraging counsel, support, or other help that has had a direct and positive influence on another’s writing/publishing success” and who exemplifies “the highest ideals of the CWA vision, that is, to promote communal support, networking, and mutual respect between colleagues.” Back then I wrote that I could think of nobody more deserving of the title “mentor” than Lonnie Hull DuPont. And when she won, I was so thrilled—particularly because we were both able to kvell together over this well-deserved honor. I went through a difficult time recently, when Jasper died in November of last year, then we adopted and had to re-home a puppy, and then Lilah died just this past April. I was grieving hard. Lonnie and I hadn’t talked recently and I missed her, so in June, when I started to crawl out from the depths of my grief, I sent her an email explaining why I had gone to ground. She replied with condolences. “I cannot imagine,” she wrote. “I felt like I knew them. We’ll plan a call, but I’m sick today. Let’s be in touch in a couple of days, okay?” I had no clue she had been diagnosed with a rare form of cancer back in January. The following day, before I even had a chance to respond, Lonnie sent another email. “Susan, I still can’t believe this loss. I’m so sorry. You are busier than I, so please suggest a time to talk. I’m here.” That was so like her. When I later found out about the CaringBridge site she and her husband Joe set up, I read every post, going back to the beginning of the year. That’s when I realized that at that time of those emails, Lonnie had recently learned that her treatment wasn’t working. Yet she reached out to me to show how much she cared. Twice. We never did get to talk. Lonnie’s illness progressed too fast, and a fall in early July exacerbated the already dire situation. By then Joe was posting on CaringBridge, and reading the entries to Lonnie. I responded to every one, channeling as much love and good energy as I could squeeze through the ether. I read everyone else’s responses too, and I learned how many other people she touched and helped and cared for and loved. That was not a surprise, as often we had to reschedule our calls because there was someone who needed her. Lonnie was one of those people who give so much of themselves, and there was always more to give. Until there wasn’t. And all of us on the CaringBridge site, and all the people who were able to visit her in her last days, tried our best to give back. Now it’s our time to pay it forward, as Lonnie would have us. The world is a little darker today, the heavens a little brighter. I will miss you, Lonnie, my dear friend. The post Lonnie Hull DuPont: May her memory be for a blessing appeared first on Life with Dogs and Cats. Jasper died from hemangiosarcoma in November of 2022. We had just enough time for family to gather and say goodbye. It has taken me until now to be able to write this eulogy. The stories of Lilah and Jasper start the same way—in life and in writing. I had just lost my terrier Rosie to cancer. She was only four years old, and I was devastated. Pasha, my 13-year-old Keeshond mix, was showing his age and I knew his days on this earth were numbered. I couldn’t imagine a life that had zero dogs and so, still grieving Rosie very hard, I searched on Petfinder, hoping to adopt another pup so I would have at least one dog when it was Pasha’s time to go. I came across a black puppy from the rescue group Husky House. I had heard that black dogs were harder to adopt. That was as good a reason as any in my bereaved state. She was called Beauty, as in Black Beauty. On my visit to meet Beauty, as I came around the corner of the foster’s house, I heard this big Rottweiler-sized bark; I was so surprised to see it come from the mouth of a small black puppy. A bigger dog was galumphing by her side and he let out a little princess bark. I learned quickly that the princess bark dog was named Spike. I decided both of them needed better names, and that both of them were coming home with me. We replaced the name Spike with Jasper, as he was no more a Spike than I was Ernest Hemingway. Jasper, the name, represented his color, tan and gold and silver and grey and a touch of black here and there, just like the semi precious stone, picture jasper. The name was also a nod to one of our favorite authors, Jasper Fforde, who writes humorously literate and creative novels. You can read more about how Jasper and Lilah came into my life in my story “The Sound of Home” in the book Second-Chance Dogs, a collection of stories edited by Callie Smith Grant. Jasper had the longest legs. They almost seem to get in his way, like he was not quite sure how to use them. He reminded me of the All Terrain Armored Transport, or AT-AT walker, from the Star Wars movies. When he first came to live with us, Jasper struggled using those long legs to go up the stairs. His sister Lilah would demonstrate for him, and eventually he figured it out, but he always seemed to be extra careful when traversing the steps. Because his legs—and his tail—were so long, Jasper would cast the most interesting shadows. When the sun was low in the sky, Jasper’s shadows would look like a giraffe, a donkey, an anteater, a vacuum cleaner. Shadows would also turn him into a stripey dog, making him look like a friendly tiger. Jasper loved his sister Lilah. Where you found one, you would find the other, particularly if I wasn’t around. But Jasper knew his sister well; she needed her space, and Jasper respected that. He would often lay near her but not too close. He was always respectful of her, almost to a fault. If he wanted to play with a toy and he thought she wanted it, he would immediately stop and let her have it. There wasn’t even a discussion. If Lilah wanted it, he gladly let her have it.
When Tucker joined our family, Jasper was a little unsure. From the first moment, Tucker adored Jasper. He would try to snuggle next to him, and Jasper would let him lay on top of him, even though he was puzzled because his experience with Lilah told him not to snuggle too close. But he was a good pal to Tucker.
When Halley joined us after Tucker died, Jasper was just as kind to her. Halley was the smallest dog in our family, and if Jasper was in the way, she would simply walk under him.
And she wasn’t the only one to do that. Many of the cats seemed to treat Jasper like friendly furniture, and would rub his legs or stand by him as if he was protecting them. When we were fostering our daughter’s cat, she used to walk in circles and figure eights around Jasper‘s legs. He was compuzzled about it but he took it all in stride. It was okay. Everything was okay with Jasper. Particularly if there were snacks involved. But he was such an easygoing dog; all was good as long as his people and his pack were around. When people asked me what kind of dog Jasper was I would tell them that he was a Comfort Hound. He just loved to be comfortable. If there was a pillow, he would put his head on it. We never got a DNA test on him because I never saw a reason for it. He had this beautiful silver coloring when we first got him, which made him look like an old man even as a puppy. In fact, before he was Spike, he was called Silver Boy. That silver coloration and his hound appearance made several people think he might have been a Catahoula cur. This fits with the fact that both he and Lilah came from Louisiana. Jasper never met a bed he didn’t like. He just loved to curl up in a dog bed, on a people bed, on a chaise lounge in the yard. Sometimes at night if we stayed up too late, he would sigh and walk upstairs toward our bedroom, as if to say, “It’s bedtime, guys. Why are you still downstairs?”
His favorite spot outside was between two of our silver maple trees, where he could lie peacefully and keep a watch out for birds and squirrels and chipmunks and groundhogs. Or deer, because sometimes those shifty creatures would hang out in the woods behind our fence. When his people were on the deck, Jasper had a special bed that he loved, and he would lie there with his paws hanging off the edge. But Jasper’s most favorite place to lie was in a pile of leaves. Every fall when we were raking the leaves in our yard, we would make a big pile as we could, and then let Jasper outside. He would trot over to the leaves wagging his tail and march through them until he found the best spot to lie down. He wore the most contented look on his face when he was in his leafy bed, and we would keep that pile of leaves out as long as we could, even as it destroyed the grass underneath. It was worth it because of how much Jasper enjoyed just lying in the leaves.
In the winter, Jasper was our trailblazer. When the snow got too deep for the other dogs, Jasper would trump through it, creating a path for the other dogs to follow behind him. I think he took pride in that role, offering the service to the rest of his canine dog family.
Even though Jasper loved to run around in the snow, he did not like to get his paws wet. After a rainstorm, or when there was morning dew, he would walk along the edge of the garden where the grass was short, or station himself in the area under the trees where there was no grass. When it was hot out, he would retreat to a cave that he and Lilah dug under the rhododendron. If I couldn’t find him, I knew where to look. Jasper was a happy, friendly, big huggable soul. He exuded the essence of dog. He was a special mix of kind and sweet goofiness. He towered over Lilah, and then Tucker and Halley. We liked to say that he was kind of a moose compared to our other dogs. My daughter said he was such a friendly moose, she christened him a “moosefellow.“ That fit him well. Jasper was also wonderful with our grandson. He would share his bed when the little boy crawled into it. And he would allow this small human to pat and touch him and lean on him. Having rarely met small children, it was very sweet to see Jasper intuitively know how to be gentle and accepting of this newer member of our family. Jasper was my shadow. He was always in whatever room I was in. When I pulled in the driveway, I would see his face in the dining room window watching me and I could see his tail wagging ever so fast as he ran from the window to go greet me at the garage door. When we watched TV at night, he lay on my right side. It was Jasper‘s spot. If any of the cats were there, his brow would furrow with concern, but he was too polite to ask them to move. When the offending cat eventually decided my lap was an improvement over the couch, Jasper would climb up into his spot and settle down next to me with a big contented sigh. Oh, and Jasper had the best sighs and the best moans and the best mumbles and grumbles. You knew how Jasper felt by the sounds that came from that dog. He eventually deepened his princess bark, but even though it didn’t seem to match his size, it matched his personality. My big, sweet mush of a dog loved attention. He loved hugs. He loved to be petted. Anyone could pet him, and if you stopped, he would look at you and tap you with his paw: “More.“ If you stopped, again, the paw: “More.” He never tired of getting attention. And he was such a soft, huggable creature that it was easy to keep petting him.
Jasper was the epitome of a very good boy. He was my very good boy. He followed me around like a shadow, all 74 plus pounds of him. I miss Jasper so much.
I miss being able to hug his big moose body. I miss him by my side when I watch TV. I miss his sighs and his moans. I miss his love for his sister. I miss his long legs that used to hang off dog beds. I miss his excitement at any possibility of a treat. I miss his paw requests for more pets. I miss my moosefellow. He died in November, and he had his bed of leaves right until the end. The post A tribute to Jasper 2009 – 2022 appeared first on Life with Dogs and Cats. I’ll probably be reported to the feline authorities for sharing this, but I have discovered what I believe is a section from The Cat Codex, the top-secret resource that documents all things Cat. To my knowledge, no human has ever had access to this. This is the section on Doors. From the Cat Codex:Chapter 17, Section 3, Paragraph 4 DoorsClosed doorsSituation: Closed doors are forbidden. Obviously there’s something desired or essential on the other side of a closed door that a human / thumbed creature is attempting to prevent a cat from accessing. Action: Use all resources to demand the opening of the door, including but not limited to:
Note: This applies in all situations, i.e.:
Open doorsSituation: Open doors are an invitation. If a door is open, that means whatever is on the other side belongs to the cat. Action: Enter the room and perform the appropriate action, according to the circumstances, including but not limited to:
A. Laptop B. Keyboard C. Lap D. Any human reading material (particularly if human is currently reading it), including but not limited to: a. Newspapers b. Magazines c. Books d. Electronic readers Alternate Action: Stand in the doorway, so all traffic must flow around you.
A. Sitting in the doorway B. Bathing in the doorway C. Sleeping in the doorway Doors that are ajarSituation: Doors that are ajar require thoughtful consideration, since they are neither completely open or closed.. There are several possible actions. Action option 1: Even though there is theoretically enough space for you to walk between the door and the jamb, you may act as if the door is closed. (See: Closed Doors.) Action option 2: Walk through the open space. It’s possible that a human meant to close the door, but an open door of any kind is an invitation (See: Open Doors) so you may enter and take additional actions as indicated. Action option 3: Push door open. The most desired form of this action results in the door slamming open. This takes a little strength, and is best performed with an understanding of the physics involved. Recent feline research shows that standing on the hind legs and leaning heavily on the door creates the best leverage for this action. Action option 4: Wait just outside the door. Rarely used, this option requires a subtle touch to pull off. It is recommended that only experts attempt it. The key to the success of this action is optimal placement, causing the the maximum amount of consternation as humans aren’t expecting a cat immediately upon egress, and the startle factor can instigate the always entertaining Try Not To Trip Over The Cat Maneuver. An added touch post-Maneuver is to shoot a look at the human, including but not limited to: A. Fear (Requires acting talent) B. Disappointment C. Disgust NOTE: Experts who have achieved their Level 5 CAT can further leverage the situation, by leveraging hunger mode (See Chapter 4, Section 7, Paragraph 3: Modes (Hunger): How to Look Like You’re Starving). Do your pets have rules about doors? You may also like:
The post Haiku by Cat: Hope appeared first on Life with Dogs and Cats. First the nor’easter swept through, taking its sweet time, and dropping about twenty inches of snow. Then a few days later, we were blessed with another eight inches or so. Now the dogs have to travel on paths that I tamp down with my snowshoes, and do their business in areas I trampled just for the purpose. In the early mornings, if it’s cold enough (and it usually is), the pups can walk on top of the snow, like canine Legolases (see: Lord of the Rings, and the abilities of elves.) As for me, the only way I can walk in our back yard is with snowshoes. Which, when I’m wearing them, make me waddle like a drunken bear, and if I step even slightly the wrong way, or turn to look at what the dogs are barking at, I fall down. So, while I generally like snow, I prefer it to hang around for just a few days, and then politely disappear before the next layer arrives. Otherwise, if we don’t get the snow off the driveway and the front path and the deck (and we didn’t this time; it was too overwhelming), it stays there, melting just enough each day to spill a thin layer of water across the surface, ensuring that someone, at some time, is going down. (Hint: me.) The forecast for the week ahead looks something like this:
In between the snow days, it’s mostly just cold, with the highest temperature on any of those days a quite frigid 37 degrees. So that means we’re not going to see much of the white stuff melting away. I don’t want to do the math. I really don’t. And I wish I could be the god that Lilah thinks I am, because I would melt it all with a nice 40 or 45-degree day respite. That ain’t happenin’ in the near future. But that’s the thing. Spring will come. It always does. And while Lilah will happily climb on top of the last vestige of snow just before it’s completely gone (she really does love the stuff), I will applaud it’s demise, and look for my yard to change color from the white of snow to the brown of mud to the green of growth. What do your pets think of snow? You may also like:
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Some dogs like to play fetch. Some like to chase creatures. Or herd them. Some are at their best when hot on a scent trail. And some are best on a couch. When anybody asks what breed Jasper is, I tell them he’s a Comfort Hound. This dog is the living embodiment of creature comforts. He loves to lie on couches, on people beds, even dog beds on occasion. He likes a pillow—or two—to rest his head on. And when he’s resting ever so comfortably, I dare any human with an ounce of heart to ask him to move. It’s impossible. He’s just. Too. Happy. He reaches an epitome of relaxation. He’s one with the sofa. To observe a being so in the moment, so true, and so dedicated to the craft of comfort, that one begins to wish it were possible for a human to take lessons from a Master. If only I could attain that kind of Zen presence, that canine mindfulness, where everything is centered on giving oneself up to relaxation, to softness, to the body—and head—supported just so, all secure in the knowledge that the choice to move is one’s own. So we always make room for Jasper. Even if he takes up an entire sofa. Wouldn’t you? Where do your pets sleep? You may also like:
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A few years ago, I wrote a post that included a not-so-scientific “study” I called Box Proclivity in Cats: Testing the IGNORE (Intention Gratification Negation Of Realization and Expense) Theory. My hypothesis was that the more you paid for an item (toy, box, bed) or the more it was intended for cats, the more likely they would ignore it. For example, my grandkitty Echo, would rather drink water out of a human-designed glass than a cat bowl. Another one: my Athena was once so enamored of hair ties that we referred to them as her “Precious.” And I can’t tell you how many times my cats enjoyed the box a toy came in more than the toy itself. From the “‘study:” It has been hypothesized that a cat’s box attraction — using the familiar Scratch, Claw and Tooth (SCAT) scale — is inversely proportional to the cost. In addition, there may be a similar behavior pattern relating to the intention of the containment unit. In other words, the more a human paid for the box or the more the box was intended to be used for cats, the less likely the cat would use it. This is known as the Intention Gratifcation Negation Of Realization and Expense (IGNORE) Theory. (Willett, 2015) Unfortunately, the study was flawed in that I didn’t actually pay for the box I used to test my theory, though it was one that a person could buy. Which brings us to today. I noticed that my cats thought my collapsable laundry basket was the coolest thing to play in and pounce on. (Note: not intended for use by cats.) At first it was amusing, but kitty claws began to wreak havoc with the sides, and then one cat (looking at you, Elsa Clair) got herself tangled in a handle and went careening around the house in terror, so I went looking for a cat-friendly alternative. I found a pop-up cat cube, which looked like it fill the bill, particularly since it wasn’t that expensive, and you could add tunnels and other cubes to create a feline version of a habitrail. (Note: I may get a small commission if you click on the link or purchase one for you cat.) I bought several. And a tunnel. Instead of introducing them with great fanfare, though, I simply placed them in my living room (which is barely used by humans these days) for my cats to discover—as if they were casually left there, forgotten “boxes.” Elsa Clair, our laundry-basket-loving kitty, wasn’t the first to discover them. But when she did, she decided these cubes were the cat’s meow. Literally. Now all local felines acknowledge her ownership; none would dare enter one in her presence. Every day, Elsa Clair and I play in and around and with them. Every. Single. Morning. She hides inside one of the cubes, waiting for me to bring out a cat fishing toy, and off we go. I have not informed Elsa Clair that these cubes are meant for cats. (Though I imagined the result in the Text from Cat above.) I think it’s better that way. What do you think of the IGNORE theory? Do your cats support the hypothesis? You may also like:
The post Text from Cat: The new box appeared first on Life with Dogs and Cats. “I would never let anything come between us, especially a closed door.” — Calvin T. Katz, The Most Interesting Cat In The World. Stay comfy, my friends. You may also like:
The post I Don’t Always Come Into the Bathroom With You #MostInterestingCatInTheWorld appeared first on Life with Dogs and Cats. We keep our Cat TV (otherwise known as the the picture window in our family room) permanently tuned to The Bird Channel. The eight bird feeders in our shade garden ensure that there is always something good to watch—at least when it’s light out. Add a plush bench, and there’s seating for everyone—including the dogs. Sometimes the programming includes squirrels—and in the warmer months, chipmunks—but the resident felines spend quite a bit of time watching whatever is on at the moment. They have quite a list of favorite shows, including:
What do your pets like to watch? Let us know in the comments. You may also like:
The post Haiku by Cat: Lunch appeared first on Life with Dogs and Cats. At first, I didn’t realize she was in there. The inside of my Sleepypod mobile pet bed is a very fashionable (and quite comfy) black fleecy faux fur material. But somehow, the fur looked a little… scruffy. Suddenly an ear flicked. And then Halley lifted her head, yawned, and looked at me as if to say, “What?” And she tucked her head back into the bed, a puppy ball who fit inside the circular bed almost to overflowing—and went back to sleep. I had just washed and dried and zipped back into place the interior plush, something I always do after I use the carrier to take one of the cats to the vet, which was why it was in the middle of the kitchen floor, and more accessible than usual. Halley stayed tucked inside the bed for quite a while. She seemed comfortable, sometimes lifting her head to rest it on the side, or curling back up with her snout stuffed in among her legs. It occured to me that all the dog beds in our house are more Lilah and Jaspe-sized. As in… big. All of my pups like to rest their heads on pillows, or the raised sides of dogs beds, but maybe they also like that enclosed feeling as well. So now we have a smaller dog bed, one that’s not too big, and not too small. One that is Halley sized, just right. We’ll see if she uses it. But based on past experience, I’m not taking any bets. Where do you pets like to sleep? You may also like:
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