My First BLOG by Chewie K9
My First Blog . . . Sounds like something I should lick off the floor!
January 25, 200-
Old and crotchety and in my waning years, I've been forced to move to the desert near Phoenix. I used to like chasing other dogs, riding in the car, long walks on the beach - but now I'm so full of arthritis all I have left is giving advice. Well, that's what I call it. All my friends say, Stop telling me what to do!
Sometimes I allow the human I live with to write about human-ee things, as she doesn't feel I'm in tune with how humans act. If you ask me, humans are a real bunch of crybabies. Whiners! Get a job!
Oh Where, Oh Where Has My Little C.A.T. Gone?
January 27, 200-
Today was the final episode of the Mystery of Smokey the C.A.T.
Sailor had gone under the house for a little R & R, (Research and Remove) and brought out what appeared to be a turkey leg with toenails. He deposited it ever so sweetly at the back door for the humans to admire, but you would have thought he crapped all over the place! Hell, they're never appreciative of a good, smelly bone! Well, I found a charcoal briquette and made a crude drawing of it (my choice of medium since they took the Polaroid away from me) - it was a good thing too, 'cause as soon as I drew the last toenail it was whisked away and thrown in the 'forbidden goodies' bin! Humans are such party poopers! Spoilsports! Get a job!
Maybe I should back up here a bit. The Mystery of Smokey the C.A.T. began the day of the BIG STORM. Ever since we moved out into the middle of Armpit Acres, Arizona - where every day's a sunny day - rain is a real treat, especially when it's mixed in with a big dust storm fresh off the Sahara. The morning began by frowning fiercely! A cold, sharp wind had set in motion waves of huge cacti while big, black, ominous rain clouds moved in and targeted the TV reception. My favorite show was on, too! Zap! Poof! Yeah, everyone should have satellite! Well, anyway - soon we were having a storm to rival a Gulf Coast hurricane.
Now Smokey used to be a big, fat, tub of C.A.T. lard, but I think he got cancer, because in the past month he'd dissolved into nothing but skin and bones. He had a foul odor and rheumy eyes and he told me that, as an invalid, he should be able to live in the house - formerly forbidden territory. As decrepit and sick as he was, he would sneak past my human in a flash! The back door had to be open only a fraction of an inch - and zoom! He would be inside and down the hall, diving under a bed or into a closet!
His body had transformed into an ugly, gray mat of fur, and when my human would pet him, she'd shiver and let out a string of ewwes or however you'd describe human howling. She didn't help the situation by saying it was only a matter of time, although I don't think Smokey knew what that meant. If he could just get into the house, he was happy! Half the time no one even knew he was there until he slithered up next to a human, begging for food! From the ceiling, she would look down on this C.A.T. who just crawled out of Pet Sematary, then drop down and feed him some sort of meat mush. With one timid finger, she'd barely tap the top of his head because it was too horrid to pet him. There was no mention of the "E" word, but his misery was tough to watch.
Now the day of the storm was like any other day to Smokey. He was inside, holed up in some corner having licked two bites of a slurry of milk and cat food put down for him. As I am a very neat canine and like a tidy kitchen, I did my duty and polished off the rest. Outside the wind and rain pounded harder than ever and after a burp or two and taking a spin around my basket, I readied myself for an afternoon nap. But Smokey had other ideas. To him the storm seemed to breathe out a long, beckoning moan and he began to pester my human to open the back door. There was a covered patio to let him out on, but Smokey headed straight for the back part of the yard. Through heavy, pelting rain, he zeroed in on the thin wire fence and pushed on it with his head trying to 'open' it. She beseechingly called him back, probably thinking "What a dumbass! He's getting soaked! Where does he think he's going?" Beyond that meager fence there was nothing except a scrubby lot of sagebrush.
But I could tell that Smokey heard her thoughts, as that's how C.A.T.S. communicate. Unlike the superior species dogs are, C.A.T.S. have to rely of primitive methods of verbalization that don't work well with humans. You see, if a human can't hear you, they don't think you're saying anything. But I knew Smokey could 'hear' my human agonizing over his bizarre trek to the back fence.
Frankly, in emergencies C.A.T.S. have learned a few utterings like "You're on my tail, blockhead!" (Screech!) and the annoying "Feed me!" (Meeee-yow!). With a lot of clawing and biting they can make themselves well understood.
Thus deferring to my humans' mental pleadings, Smokey turned back towards the house. He had gone through a lot of effort just crawling to the fence, so when he reached the back steps, he pooped out - just like that! One foot on the lowest step and nothing - no more get up and go! My human encouraged him with a sweet, "Come on Smokey! Get in here or I'm gonna kick your ass!" She doesn't like to hold the back door open because no matter what time of year it is, it always lets in something unpleasant - your choice of freezing cold, howling wind or blazing heat. But poor old Smokey was just too sick and weak to climb those steps.
Now you're probably thinking, humans have two arms and legs! Why doesn't his human just pick him up and bring him inside?
I can see two arms and legs on her, which used to move pretty well, but a while back she left home for a long time and returned cruising around in a chair with wheels. Of course, that never stopped her from shouting me off the couch, but she couldn't help Smokey up those steps and out of the cold. After a few more useless tries, he gave up and huddled next to the bottom step and shut his eyes tight to the storm. My human closed the door. There was nothing she could do. She didn't know the Nice Neighbor's phone number and the other human that lived with me went someplace in the Big, White Car. I could 'hear' her thoughts race frantically through her head, but she couldn't figure out how to rescue my old pal. After an hour, she opened the back door to check on the poor guy but he had moved. He was now curled up to Goldie's overstuffed chair. It had a blanket covering it that reached the ground and stiff old Smokey was sitting on this.
"Hang on, Smokey!", my human thought, and closed the door before we all froze to death.
The storm was even stronger now and a neighbor lady, (the Bad, Nosy One, of course) having braved a dangerous column of swirling trash cans, came over to tell my human that the front awning had blown off the house! Thirty -five feet of mangled aluminum dangled from the roof.
"Of course I heard it!" she told the questioning old biddy. How can you ignore a freight train going through your house? I'm paralyzed, not deaf! And what do you expect me to about it now? These and other, hmm - remarks, were about to spill out and throttle Mrs. Bad Nosy One, when she thought of Smokey's predicament and agonizingly held her tongue. Maybe she could get some help.
She was first instructed to make sure to call the landlord and see if he had insurance. Then be sure that he gets at least three work estimates that included a warranty. And be diligent about getting it fixed so the rest of the neighborhood value doesn't suffer, if you know what I mean! By the time Mrs. Busybody took a breath, I could see a vein pop up in the middle of my human's forehead and the front door opened. She sent the old bat off with a "Thanks, I'll-take-care-of-it!" spoken through clenched teeth. After the C.A.T. dies! So much for Smokey's deliverance!
Now they say the third time is charm, but the third time my human checked on Smokey, he was long gone. (Probably between the time the Bad Nosy One said "Hel and lo.") I had a hunch where he went - underneath the house - but I wasn't going to look under there! That was a spooky realm of crawly insects and bugs and scary gross things that I, the suave canine that I am, do not deal with under any circumstances! As far as I was concerned, if Smokey was under the house, he had just made it his final resting place!
When the other human who lives with me returned home and was told about Smokey, she timidly looked under the house as far as she could, wary of black spiders and frightening scorpions, but came inside with the sad report that she didn't see a thing.
Poor Smokey . . .
For a few days after the storm, strange, nauseating odors wafted throughout the house, leaving horrible and bewildered expressions on the faces of visiting friends and the workmen fixing the roof. I knew it had to be - well, I've smelled that odor before! There too, was the curious explosion of houseflies, despite the cold, damp weather.
But finally, there's nothing like a piece of rock solid evidence to turn a bad smell into a sure thing and when Sailor dragged out that glorious C.A.T. leg from under the house and laid it at the back door, well! Do you think those humans were happy? Hell no! They had a big conniption fit and threw it away!
What am I always telling you? Humans are party-poopers! Whiners! Get a job!