Dogs have owners, cats have staff. — Anonymous
For some reason, animals have played an important role in some of the more bizarre events in our family’s recent history. Here are three:
We were living an ordinary bourgeois life in Los Altos, on the San Francisco Peninsula. Each weekday morning the breadwinner goes off to work, the kids go off to school, the housewife prepares for her day. In our case the preparation always involved a long, leisurely bath that my wife Judy used to polish off about one half of a romance novel. That was about par, a new book every other day. I’m not being critical or snide here, she just found that this routine was the best way to get her day off to a calm, stress-free start.
And so it was, until the day the bird flew in. A window must have been left open, a small bird flew in and migrated directly to the bathroom. There it flew around, crashing into the bathroom window and mirrors, and pooping everywhere. Something had to be done. Judy was very kind-hearted, especially where animals were concerned, and she set out to rescue the bird. She grabbed a lightweight towel and attempted to throw the towel over the bird. The bird did not cooperate, but after many attempts the bird was caught. Judy carried the bird and towel to the front door, opened the door, and flung open the towel to let the bird fly away. It was only then that she noticed that she was stark naked, arms upraised, framed beautifully by the open doorway. She quickly looked to see if any neighbors were visible–none were–so the door was closed, the bath resumed, and another day commenced.
In that same house, and I believe in the same year of 1975, an event involving our cat Stomper occurred. A word about the name: We got the cat when it was a tiny kitten. I don’t remember how we got that cat when it was so young, but Judy was feeding that tiny creature warmed milk from a nippled bottle every few hours. Over dinner one evening the suggestion was made that the kitten needed a name. Well, it didn’t really need a name, but we decided it should have one. Many suggestions were advanced. I observed that the kitten was so small and defenseless that it should at least have a tough name. So, Stomper she became.
Our bedroom had a narrow window, perhaps six feet wide and a foot high, about six feet above the floor directly above the head of the bed. I was sound asleep when Stomper, now a full-grown 12-pound bird murderer, decided that she wanted to get to the ledge where that window was. And she used my head as a launching pad.
You can already tell that I am not a cat person. I dislike their arrogant demeanor and don’t like them rubbing up against my leg. So, I was of no mind to dismiss the event as just cat behavior. No, I was MAD. I leapt from bed, grabbed the first weapon I could find–a broom–and set out to whack that cat hard. But the cat was faster than I was and ran under a bed to hide. I decided it was beneath my dignity to get down to floor level and attempt to poke that cat with the broom. I went back to bed, and the cat went wherever cats go. I had calmed down by morning, but if that cat ever expected me to feed it, it was sorely mistaken.
The third event happened on a Christmas Eve at my daughter Colleen’s house in Sebastopol. The whole local family had gathered for presents, food, drink and songs. Memory isn’t perfect, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the year that Libby, my daughter’s dog, had gotten at the turkey, roasted and resting on the kitchen counter. But it might have been the year that my daughter-in-law Lisa had put the piece of Limburger cheese in my stocking. And then someone else kindly hung it over the fireplace. THAT got everyone’s attention.
It had been a long and very successful party and it was approaching midnight. Judy’s mom, my mother-in-law Lillian, had just gone upstairs to sleep. It wasn’t long after that Libby started to bark. Libby was an Australian herder mix and might have been the smartest dog I’ve ever known. She was quite possibly smarter than half the people there that night. So, when the barking didn’t stop, we figured something was happening. At that same time someone smelled smoke, rushed up stairs, and found a bedside lamp on fire and emitting lots of smoke. Lillian had placed a dishtowel over the lamp, probably to dim the light, and it had caught fire.
We called the fire department. Several engines arrived within minutes. They parked outside on the street, red lights flashing. Three or four strapping young men dressed in full regalia quickly entered, found the fire and put it out. Then they positioned huge fans at the front and back doors, one pushing air in while the other sucked it out.
The firemen were all business, not much interested in our thanks for their efforts at midnight on Christmas Eve. After about an hour they gathered up their gear and left. They had kindly not mentioned the many empty wine bottles still on the dining table.
And Libby, who had alerted us to the fire? She was forgiven for the turkey-snatching incident and absolved of any rancor for the several times she had escaped and had to be bailed out of the pound. Best dog ever. # # #