On Wednesday, we rented a boat at a place called Summerville lakes. Once we were sure no police were around we let our visitor, Cindy, take the wheel. Don’t tell anyone but she’s not old enough to get a permit.
My stepson, Nick, and his fiancée, Chandra, arrived late yesterday for a week-long visit. They brought along their French bulldog, Cindy. As I was helping bring their stuff in from the car, I witnessed a meeting between Frankie and Cindy. Cindy was on our catio, and Frankie was in the laundry room. The door was open, and they were both face-to-face, seemingly smelling each other.
I thought to myself, Oh, that meeting went better than I envisioned it. Just then, all hell broke loose. Frankie started whacking Cindy relentlessly. He chased her onto the catio and under the table, where he continued his assault. I tried to get Frankie while Rose and Chandra tried to get Cindy. We were delayed because it was difficult getting them from under the table. When we finally did pick them up, we had to remove Frankie’s claw from Cindy’s back. During the scuffle, Frankie got me. too.
We kept them separated for a while, with Frankie outside while Cindy was inside, and then with Cindy outside while Frankie was inside. One time, Frankie was on the Catio while Cindy was in the yard.
I did bring Frankie in on a leash at one point, hoping to introduce them in a more controlled environment. That went okay, but certainly no friendship developed.
Later, Frankie was outside when our neighbor’s dog went crazy, trying to bust through the fence to get at Frankie. I decided he needed to come in at that point.
Once inside, Frankie and Floki met to plan their next move.
I don’t remember exactly what happened next, but a few minutes later another one-sided fight occurred, this time under the dining room table, and again, my hand got in the way.
Later, we sat in the living room for a while with Cindy on Chandra’s lap with a pillow over her for protection while Frankie lay in a chair giving her the evil eye.
I don’t know how we are going to last a week.
Yesterday, I heard barking outside that reminded me of the barking I heard outside years ago when a Pit Bull was in our backyard trying to get our neighbor’s cat, Casper. You can read that story here.
The barking sounded close, and I knew our cats were on the back porch, so I hurried outside to see what was going on. Sure enough, our next-door neighbor’s dog was outside in their yard. The dog had no supervision, which was okay since it was in a fenced-in yard, but it had pulled one of the fence slats off and also pulled away the chicken wire attached to the other side.
I tried talking to the dog calmly, but it would not stop barking. It wanted our cats just as much as the pit bull wanted Frankie a couple of weeks ago. It tried crawling under the fence a couple of times, but the chicken wire was just enough in the way to prevent it. I’m sure that if the dog kept trying, it would have made it under the fence. It then surely would have taken no time to rip through the screens.
I took a less-than-great photo just before the neighbor’s door opened, and the sound of a whistle caused the dog to go inside.
The funny, or not-so-funny thing about the incident is that both cats were standing near the screen closest to the dog. This makes me worry that if a dog does get into our backyard, the cats won’t have enough sense to run into the house.
This morning, I put a couple of nails in the fence slat. Hopefully, that will hold the dog back.
I started helping out last week with painting at the apartment complex my wife oversees. That means Frankie has not been going for a walk everyday. Because of that, Rose insisted I take Frankie for a walk before work on Friday.
We live on a corner lot. The main road going into town runs along the side of our house. Frankie crossed the main road right away and we continued walking away from the main road.
After a block and a half it became clear Frankie had no intention of turning around. He might be the cat version of Lewis and Clark. I had to pick him up and change his direction.
When we were about four houses from home, we heard a dog barking near the corner house on the right, which is kitty-corner to our house. When we got a little closer, a Pitbull came trotting toward us, barking the whole time. I looked but no people were around.
When he got closer, Frankie hissed at him. I knew he was after Frankie so I picked him up and held him out of reach. The dog jumped on me, putting his paws my back and arms, while barking and trying to get at Frankie. I turned and yelled, “Stop,” but that just seemed to anger him more.
I walked faster toward home with the dog jumping on me and biting my calves. Fortunately I was wearing blue jeans instead of the shorts I normally wear in Florida. That, and the fact that I was moving made it hard for him to sink his teeth into my legs.
I was getting worried and called out for the dog’s owner but no response. If the dog started taking chunks out of my leg, I was going to have to do something drastic, like kick it in the face, and I didn’t want to have to hurt the animal.
When I reached the main street I heard cars coming. I hoped they would be a distraction. I quickly crossed the street. When I looked back the dog was lingering on the other side. I didn’t know if he would cross but I didn’t wait around to find out.
When I got inside I told Rose what happened and then put soap on my bleeding elbow. I think the dog got me with his nails. We still haven’t seen our moving truck so we had no antiseptic.
I then grabbed my lunch and went to the car. As I was backing out of the driveway, I saw Frankie walking down the sidewalk toward me. Really? I have no idea how he got out but it was very lucky I saw him.
I jumped out of the car and he gladly followed me to the back door. Once he was back in the house and I again tried to leave for work, I saw a man walking down the sidewalk toward me. He was one house down and across the side street. The dog crossed the main road because he was now harassing the man. He was barking and jumping on the man. The man tried to get the dog to stop to no avail. After fifteen seconds the dog moved on.
I got in my car and drove to where the dog was and snapped a couple of pictures.
When I got to work the manager there said she knew someone at the city that she would talk to. Later she said the guy told her talking to the police would be a waste of time. He also said the woman in charge of animal control was a POS and would do nothing about the dog.
Now I have to worry about taking Frankie for a walk and I especially have to worry about him escaping.
I found this video from Christmas Eve, two days before we moved into our current house. We saw a small dog wandering around with no owner in sight.
Frankie was remarkably calm and didn’t try to whack the dog.
On our walk Monday afternoon, we encountered a woman walking her little Yorkie. That dog was very interested in getting close to Frankie, but the woman held him back. She told me he had lived with cats and really liked them but was not a fan of other dogs.
I wish I had thought to take a video of the encounter because as the dog got closer, Frankie’s paw slowly rose. I told the woman a whacking was about to occur. Sure enough, three seconds later Frankie gave him a warning whacking. He didn’t make contact, but he let the dog know that he was not a dog-loving cat.
When my Mom came to visit she brought a treasure trove of old photographs. I have been scanning them but I left my good scanner in Florida and even with the good scanner it is time consuming. With my current scanner I have to be very selective about which pictures I choose to scan. I chose this picture because I have very fond memories of our dog, Tascha, and I have very few photos of her. This brings back good memories.
This is a photo of Tascha, Me, and my brother Matt, taken in May, 1976. My dad brought Tascha home in April after she was found wandering near a home of one of his friends. She was the best dog I ever had and passed away in April of 1985, almost exactly ten years after we got her.
Today is World Pet Memorial Day. It is a holiday supposedly created by the American Veterinary Medical Association but it is very difficult to find any mention of it on their website. It is also strange that an American organization would create a world event. Just as strange is the fact that the “National” Pet Memorial Day, in September, was created by the “International” Association of Pet Cemeteries and Crematories.
Regardless of who started it, I thought it would be a good time to talk about my dog Tasha. This does not diminish the memory of all the other pets we have lost but since I have not written much about Tasha on this blog I figured you might want to read more about her.
I believe it was April, 1976. I was twelve years old when my dad brought home a full grown female Doberman Pincher. Her name was “Natasha” but I don’t know who gave her that name considering where she came from.
The story I remember was that Tasha was a stray that was wondering around the neighborhood of a friend of my dad. Apparently, the two of them caught her and my dad brought her home. She had her tail docked and her ears cropped (although one ear flopped over a bit) so she must have belonged to someone. If someone dumped her it would be surprising.
She took to me right away. Back then I would watch television while lying on the floor. I don’t know why I wouldn’t have preferred the sofa. Perhaps the uncarpeted floor was cooler or perhaps other family members had taken the prime viewing locations. Whatever the reason, I would lie there and Tasha would lie next to me with her head on my pillow.
My memory is a little foggy so I don’t remember if this happened once or if it was a regular occurrence but one day Tasha started with her head on a little corner of my pillow. She then gradually took over more and more of that pillow. When I tried to retrieve some of that precious real estate I got growled at. I then got up and left her with the pillow.
Dobermans had a bad reputation back then. I heard they were used as guard dogs and many owners would beat them as puppies to deliberately make them more aggressive. Of course, they were bred to be personal protection dogs so they needed to be aggressive but also obedient. A trained Doberman would never attack without command.
I have read that today’s Dobermans are bred to be less aggressive and more of a companion dog but Tasha was already a great companion dog. I will admit, though that she did have some aggressive tendencies.
Shortly after we got Tasha one of my dad’s friends, Jack, came to the house for a visit. Jack was older than my dad and a bit of a hillbilly even though we lived in northern Illinois. He thought he would have a little fun with Tasha and started to pretend to harass me. He would slowly reach out his hand like he was going to grab me. While he was doing that Tasha was growling at him but he continued because that’s what Illinois hillbillies do. After about 30 seconds of warnings Tasha lunged forward and bit Jack in the hand. She didn’t hurt him badly but she did draw blood and put an end to his game.
When we got Tasha she wasn’t fixed and my parents didn’t get her fixed right away. That was a mistake because she loved to go outside and run and would sometimes escape, run around the neighborhood, and then slink back home an hour later. On one of those outings she got pregnant.
My younger brother and I shared a room. We had bunk beds and Tasha decided to give birth under the bed. I think we were away at school at the time. When we found her there it was a huge pain because we had to take the bed apart to get to her.
By then we had moved to a bigger house and had a partially finished basement that we used as a TV room. We put some blankets down and moved the puppies there. There were seven puppies if my memory is correct. One of the puppies had deformed front legs and I worred it wouldn’t make it. Tascha accepted the new location for a short time but wasn’t exactly happy with it.
My parents both worked and us kids went to school so Tasha was alone for a good part of the day. The first day we were gone after the puppies were born, Tasha decided that she wasn’t happy with the location we chose for her so she moved all her puppies to the sofa. When we got home we discovered that two puppies had fallen between the cushions and suffocated, including the one with the bad legs. It was very sad.
That evening, determined to keep her off the sofa, we layed three or four kitchen chairs on it. It didn’t work. She somehow managed to get herself and her puppies on the sofa between the chairs. We lost another puppy that day. I don’t remember what we did then but she was not able to get on the sofa after that.
One day a friend of my brother came through the basement door from the garage quite quickly which startled Tasha and she jumped up and bit him in the arm. Even though she drew blood it wasn’t an attack. It was more like a stern warning to stay away.
When the pups were old enough, my parents put an ad in the paper for free Doberman mix puppies but they didn’t tell me they did that. I came home from school and the phone was ringing off the hook. Dad’s friend, Jack, took one of the puppies and the other three were gone that evening. It seems people were interested in Dobermans and didn’t care that they were half-breeds.
Tasha also had a weird habit of suddenly getting agitated every once in awhile when people she didn’t know very well left the house. Occasionally, she would even nip them a bit. I was surprised to hear Richard Pryor talk about that in one of his skits. He said Dobermans will let you in the house with no problem. They’ll even show you where all the valuables are, but when you try to leave they turn into the Exorcist. “You can’t leave yet! I want to play!”
When my sister moved out, my brother took her room and I no longer had to sleep at the top of the bunk bed. Tasha then slept in my bed every night. That lasted until I was seventeen and bought a waterbed which was way more common back then. Tasha did not like getting on the waterbed and ended up sleeping on the floor. I felt bad about that but I didn’t anticipate that being a problem when I bought it.
Tasha loved food and would eat just about anything. The only requirement was that she had to see me eating it first. I could offer her a grape and she would refuse it but once I started eating them grapes suddenly became a great treat.
She also developed many styles of begging. If the puppy dog eyes didn’t work she would extend her paw. Surely shaking deserved a treat. If that didn’t work she would rest her head on my knee and give me the saddest look she could muster. Her go to was the drool. Whenever everything else failed she could count on the drool to get her food. It was pretty gross trying to eat while watching drool come out of her mouth so I always gave in and gave her something. I also always saved a little food on my plate and brought it up to the kitchen to leave for her. She knew whenever I was done eating and got up she was going to get something and got very excited.
She followed from the front when she thought she was going to get food. I would stand up and start for the stairs and Tasha would race up the stairs and wait for me at the top. This was something my dad once used to tease her. He got up with his plate of food and as soon as Tasha ran up the stairs, dad would sit down and wait. After about 30 seconds Tasha would come back down to see what was happening and the trick would start again. By the fourth time I had to yell at my dad like he was being a misbehaving child.
Tasha passed in April 1986, almost exactly ten years after we got her. Yes, I was a 22 year old still living with my parents at the time. I had plans on moving out but I feared what Tasha would think of me for leaving her behind. I was pretty sure I would not be able to take her with me.
She seemed perfectly healthy but one day she suddenly started foaming at the mouth. I thought she got into the cabinet and ate the laundry soap or something. When I let her outside she crawled under the deck and I had a hard time getting her out. She then hid somewhere in the house although I don’t remember where.
My parents brought her to the vet and left her there overnight. That night they got a phone call from the vet’s office saying that she didn’t make it. It was very heartbreaking. Apparently, she had stomach cancer. I can only hope it wasn’t because of all the food I was giving her. I was not the most healthy eater back then.
I moved out shortly after Tasha died and never had a dog again. The one exception was a Dalmatian named Ernie that we had for about a month. I was living with my now ex-wife. I believe it was around 1992. She brought Ernie home because a coworker had a husband that would abuse him. Unfortunately, my ex-wife was too much of a clean freak and after a week relegated Ernie to living outside. I felt bad for Ernie and soon found him a home with a co-worker of mine.
It wasn’t until I met my current wife in 1999 that I would have a pet again. This time it was a cat that eventually turn into two cats then three then four then six. Well, I think you know the rest of the story.
New people moved in next door recently and Frankie and Chris were not happy about the dog that moved in with them.
Maybe they think there are enough gingers here already.
Chris and Frankie have both been increasingly annoying lately in their attempts to get one of us to let them outside. Frankie is the vocal one. He will make lots of noise while sitting and staring at the door. Chris is the sneaky one. Every time I go outside I check to make sure there is no cat around and then make a quick dash out the door. More often than you could imagine, before I get a chance to close the door, Chris is already outside.
At least I don’t have to worry too much about Chris running off and often I will let him stay out for a few minutes before I bring him in. He mostly just eats grass or lies on the driveway. If I leave him out too long he will start to wander off and then I know it is time to bring him in.
Frankie I have to worry about. If he escapes it is very difficult to catch him. He tends to travel far from home and I worry if I ever lose track of him he might not remember how to get home. So to allow Frankie to have some outside time and also to let him get used to the neighborhood, I have been trying to take him for a walk more often lately.
These walks are always an adventure. Granted, a good part of the time spent outside is Frankie standing around smelling bushes.
Some of the walk is a bit boring for me, as you can see from the video, but there is always some excitement, such as Frankie trying to run after a bunny or a lizard. On our last walk we had both of those plus a snake, which required great effort to keep him from catching.
One time we even encountered a big dog off his leash.
The camera just stopped recording at that point but everything turned out fine. The dog owner apologized and said the dog was best friends with a cat at home. Even so, I hope he keeps him on a leash from now on.
The main problem I have with taking Frankie out is that the more he goes out the more he wants to go out. At least, that used to be the main problem. A new, bigger problem appeared the other day.
On Friday Rose noticed what she thought was an eye booger on Frankie but when she removed it she discovered it was a flea. That led to DEFCON 5 in our house and we had to buy flea medication for all the cats, which I don’t like because it is unhealthy for them, but Rose thinks my all natural methods are a bit crazy at times and I knew I wouldn’t win this round with fleas in the house. We bought a six-pack of Advantage II for cats at PetSmart which was expensive, about $76 before tax. I then discovered it on Amazon for much less but we needed it right away.
Now Rose insists that Frankie and Chris never go out again. I don’t agree with that but for now Frankie is stuck inside. Chris has already been out this morning but only because he is better than Frankie at escaping.
Bad Cat Chris 