The Cat Whisperer

Well, we got new carpet, and the house was just too darned clean. So we figured the only thing to do was get a new puppy to break it in. Meet Versace, our puggle -- a new designer breed that's a cross between a pug and a beagle.

Our older dog, Chuey, is kind of nonchalant about it, if not outright depressed. But I think he's beginning to figure out that this is actually a cat that will play with him instead of just getting mad and stalking off. And the cats? Well, you know how cats are.

We have three cats -- two fat, long-haired, laid-back, all-purpose cats and one skinny, high-strung Siamese. The two big cats are being rather cool, just walking by and ignoring the puppy's attempts to raise a ruckus. But the Siamese is beside himself, hissing and making an astoundingly graceful leap over the baby gate to escape the little alien who's invaded his heretofore peaceful kingdom. Slowly but surely, though, he's making occasional forays into the den to sniff noses, hiss and then slowly slink away. I'm sure they'll get used to each other in a few more days.

The funniest thing Versace did was the other evening when Bamboo, the Siamese, had jumped over the baby gate into the kitchen while Versace happened to be in the room. They both stood stock still, just looking at each other. Then Versace hunched down on her little tummy and slowly stuck her rear end up in the air waggling it just a bit. Then -- very, very slowly -- she put one foot forward and stopped, holding perfectly still. Then -- slowly, slowly again -- she put the other foot forward and stopped, staying stock still like a lion stalking its prey. Finally, she couldn't stand it any more and dashed forward, causing Bamboo to make his escape back over the baby gate. It was hilarious. I've never seen a dog actually stalk anything like that. I'm used to dogs that just go gaga, running helter skelter after whatever they want, making lots of noise and acting altogether kinda stupid and silly.

So far and thanks to the baby gates, the carpet remains unmolested. And Versace's quickly getting the hang of this housebreaking stuff, amazingly quickly, in fact. So there you have it. The latest scoop on poop.

Signs

The signs were there for years, really.
For the sake of continuity, for safety,
we chose to ignore them. But one too
many rows finally broke that poor old
camel's back, and rage poured out,
broken levees spilling
a messy molten rot.

It's silly in retrospect. Twenty-seven years,
one child
and a dead parent thrown away
for the sake of how best to hang a picture.

You'll call your sister to talk, forget
the times you called her crazy, and
cherish every word. But we both
know why the dog hid under the piano.

And even though your parents still smile
brightly from the gilded frame on the mantle,
the Studebaker shining like new hope,
we all know how it ended. She wished
she'd chosen better, and he went to the
luau in a bright cotton shirt, before the dirge
was even finished. He danced with all the girls.
You only live once. Thank God.

And the Studebaker's rusting at the junkyard,
only good for parts. Fewer every year.
So I set my sights for home, taking into account
El Nino's summer tantrums. Bought gas that's
too expensive for this war-weary world, but
surrendered, for there's nothing else to do but drive.

By the time I pass Arkedelphia you'll have faded
into a waking dream, and I'll pick up where I left off.
Exceptfor the child whose grace will never die.
And when I lie in my grave looking out at the
passing sky, I'll thank you and hope she finds
what I never did, and once found, knows what to do
with it, without anyone's help or hindrance.
Just knows.