Our little dog Bonnie-Belinda looks so vulnerable in this photo but, believe me, she is actually gloating. She love-love-loves to steal one of the coveted end seats on the couch, rather than settle down between us. My end is especially cozy for her because it's often littered with cushions, pillows, blankets and even, as you can see here, a dish towel.
I'm bad...I will wander into the living room with something in my hand, sit down 'for a minute' and then forget to take the item away. Therefore, that same 'something' becomes part of my couch-decor. Not exactly pretty, but Bonnie thinks this cozy arrangement is meant for her and she loves it.
Recently, I wrote a veritable rant about the oil industry, intending to post it here on Our World Tuesday. As a born and bred British Columbian, I am passionate about the subject of oil spills and the like (I now live in Canada's next province (forgive me, Alberta) I am reluctant to publish my rant in its present form. I must tone down the language somewhat (or that might be 'tone down the tone') but I can't decide where to start editing.
Instead I offer, above, a photo of my favourite model: our little dog Bonnie-Belinda and, below, my artist brother's sketch of my late, great cats (one not so great, except in size, as Rob's cartoon drawing shows.
The other day, I moved things around while helping Bonnie search for her favourite toy, and uncovered a photo album I hadn't opened in years.
I was thrilled. It's a family album I started in the1980s when my cat Herman got "his" kitten. Her name was Ava, and she was a beautiful little handful of white cat hair with, we soon found out, a nasty disposition. My sister bought her for me on a Sunday, and I had to go to work the next day. Because it was summer, my sister sent my pre-teen nieces to my house in the morning to babysit, to be sure Hermie didn't hurt the kitten. However, after a few days, the girls informed me they didn't have to babysit the kitten any more because my big boy, my mucho-macho Herman, had decided he was a mother.
A short few weeks later, my teenage brother Rob took her outside and put her up in a tree. She didn't know how to get down—she had never met a tree before! Her poor "mommy," Herman, sat at the bottom of the tree, looking at her. We could almost see the wheels turning in his head as he tried to figure out how he could climb up the tree and come down with a mouthful of kitten.
Then she fell out of the tree.
Hermie, her self-styled mother, immediately picked her up by the scruff of her neck and carried her into the house. Then, I swear, he gave my brother a real cat-frown, pretty much a glare that said "Now look what you've done."
It was a long time before Herman let anyone take Ava outside again.
The two cats became a team, with Hermie even managing to turn some of his chores over to Ava. For instance, he always sat on the edge of my bathtub, to guard me when I bathed.
Eventually, Herman showed Ava how to guard me, too. For a while, I had a large cat and a kitten sitting on the edge of my tub, guarding me.
However, when Herman decided Ava had learned how to handle this chore on her own, he left her to it. Fortunately, she never fell into the bathtub. That could have been a disaster!
Eventually, because Herm was a busy cat and Ava was sedentary by choice, she far exceeded him in growth and girth, but he still insisted on holding her down in order to wash her face once or twice or more per day, partly because she was a very messy eater, but mostly because he considered her to be his responsibility.
Pets are full of surprises. Herman always thought he was Ava's mom. Now, many years later, our little Bonnie-dog thinks she is my mother. (More on that soon.)
|Portrait of Ava, guarded by the Hermanator, by Rob Davies|