Heartwarming stories of cats and dogs

I heard two stories that made me glow.

A resident here at Lake Park told of a feral cat who gave birth to four kittens then went and got herself hit by a car. The resident then had to buy formula and an eyedropper to feed the little ones. She had a half-grown kitten herself and this kitten got into the box and nurtured the babies and cuddled with them.

And a Facebook friend told of something similar. Her cat had five babies and whenever mama cat took a break her dog would get into bed with the kittens and lick and clean them.



Pinky the human cat

Excerpt from “Meow’s Way Redux”:

Our lap time is also game time. While she lies face up, I jig her legs chanting a tune accompanied by rumbling purrs. Between belly rubs I attempt to catch her right paw but she always pulls it away; it has become part of our play. She lets me keep the left one. When she shifts her head to the side onto my knee, it is my cue to administer a flurry of strokes and go zum zum zum! After this she shakes her head as if to clear it. In a few minutes she is ready to go again.

We are convivial at mealtimes as well, sharing chardonnay which she laps from my fingers. She likes champagne even better. I do not often drink merlot but she does not care for it, anyway.

Needless to say, the TV news remains ignored during this session.

She’s back!

The vet couldn’t find anything wrong with her except this significant fact, that her heart murmur is in stage 3. Just as a precaution he gave her an antibiotic shot. He also gave her fluids and an appetite stimulant.

Her heart murmur….I think she was just tired. My little girl is 15 years old now. I expect she might break my heart in the not distant future.

Rainy day pussycat

From “Meow’s Way Redux”:

A rainy day is always special for Pinky. I know, before I even see her, that she is sitting at the front door asking to go out to watch the rain. Once outside, she bundles herself up on the doormat and stares out at the wetness five feet away. Every hour or so I open the door to ask if she wants to come in. After about three hours she will finally, slowly, rise and stre-e-e-etch, give the mat a scratching workout then amble inside. All is peace.
Her other favorite place is a nest she has made of my shawl on the second shelf of the closet in my workroom. Sometimes I cross to her and lay my head against her warm body and moan about words or the story line that won’t come clear, and I may receive a sympathetic lick of her tongue on my face


I have finally met the owner of three of the big cats and learned that Tango and Au Au and Loaner are siblings. This neighbor had known for some time that Pinky, also a sibling, had defected to me. And Tango and Au Au are male.
I lost Pinky on February 23, 2011. She survived for a year after three surgeries for an aggressive sarcoma. There is nothing more I can bear to say.

The fawn police

I called Animal Control. No one comes. The fawns are still out there, hiding in the tall grasses, but I can see their ears sticking up.At 3:15 a.m. my doorbell rings. A voice outside the door says, “Police!”

He says he has just received the dispatcher’s call and do I want him to go out back and look for the fawns. He and his partner have no noose, no tools of any kind with which to catch animals, especially in the dark, and I tell him it isn’t any use. He departs after advising me to call Animal Control in the daytime. I say I called at 2 p.m.

It is one of those things: Animal Control, firefighters, the police. All are overworked and understaffed.

Next morning the fawns are still there. Once again I call Animal Control, which
redirects me to the police dispatcher. This time I think carefully about calling that number. I do not call, and go outside to check on the fawns. I make hourly visits until they have disappeared and do not come back.

Last night I woke up and found Pinky holding my hand, one paw on each side, and purring mightily. I wonder what other surprises she will spring on me.
On the grass today she is sitting up on her legs and is stretched, peering for all the world like an African Meerkat, at something high up in a tree.

Playing GETCHA

The sun has moved from behind one of the pines and I roll over onto my face. From the house comes the distant eeeuh cries of Tango seeking one of us. She has become Pinky’s sidekick and follower. It is amusing to see her run after her small leader, her jack rabbit legs like furred pistons.

When I am not home, Pinky searches for me, too. My friend Jane tells me that recently she opened her kitchen door to find Pinky sitting on the mat. Jane had a long way to look down to find Pinky waiting there patiently. “Wrong house,” she said. “Lucille is next door.” Jane had been vacuuming her house. We both figure out that Pinky, acquainted with the sound of the machine, thinks I am in Jane’s house.

We play variations of GETCHA. Instead of going to the lawn, where I appear to be headed, I continue around the bend and hide. After a while, I peek out and see her running toward me. She has caught on to the trick. I laugh at her and, instead of jumping up on me as a dog might do to share the joke, she walks off and, ignoring me, begins grooming herself by the bird bath.

The next round is hers. She does not follow me to the lawn, and as I wait and wait and finally give up, I come upon her hiding behind a boxwood on the outside, exactly at the place where I walk through.