Once Again, I’m a Two-legged Friend

Published in The Christian Science Monitor

            Animals come to me not because I seek a pet but because someone says, “I can’t keep this animal anymore, could you take care of her (or him)?” Thus Dudley, the grey striped cat joined me, and Simon the long-haired siamese Tom, and Simone, the Siamese female, though Simone came on her own and scratched on the door of the cabin Laura and I lived in for a while at Toadtown. She obviously needed food and a place to live, so we took her in.

            Kylie became my dog because my sister couldn’t keep him anymore. I worked in the mountains then. I tried to teach him not to chase deer until a doe with a fawn drove the lesson home by turning and chasing him into camp, so close to him with her sharp hooves that he took rapid refuge under my pickup. The doe turned and greeted me, decided I wasn’t a threat to her nor her fawn, turned and left camp in a dignified and graceful walk.

            Spot refused to go with Joe, her owner, when he moved from the cabin on Nimshew Ridge, because he was viciously mean to her. I moved into the cabin. I sat on the porch a lot, waited, and talked quietly part of the time. Eventually, Spot came out from under the cabin, eventually sat beside me, eventually let me touch her. She learned to trust me, though she never would let any other man near her. Women, yes, if they were gentle and patient, but she associated men with her past with Joe.

            Years later, my family and I took the job as caretakers of the ranch in Whitney Valley. Tex, the previous caretaker drove in with his dog “Pooch” beside him. He asked me, “You know anybody needs a good stock dog?”

            “No, Tex, I sure don’t.”

            “I got to give this dog away. He’s a good dog, but they won’t let me keep him down where I’m working now. Too many dogs there already. That young couple lives up Hale Valley said they’d take him, but now they’ve gone to the city, and they might not come back. You ought to have you a good stock dog here. He’s a good one, just two years old.”

            “No, I don’t want him. Life’s simpler if I don’t have a dog.”

            “Well, I thought it might go like this. I brought my rifle. I’ll have to shoot him on the way home.”

            “Te x, you wouldn’t really shoot him.”

            “I hate to do it. I surely don’t want to, but what else can I do? I can’t find anybody wants him, and I can’t turn him loose. A dog without any owner is a danger to wildlife and to stock. Some rancher’s going to shoot him anyway, first time he bothers some cattle.”

            “I’ll take him, Tex. I can feed him and take care of him.”

            “You won’t regret it. He’s a good stock dog. He’s a good dog. You’ll like to see him working cattle. He’s a real picture.”

            And he was. He herded anything that moved. Our daughters were small, and we had to teach them how to say a strong “No” or Pooch but tried to herd them where he thought they should go. He bunched up cattle, moved them into a convenient fence corner and keep them there until I discovered he was gone, tracked him down, and relieved him of his duties.

            Elm-Oak, the cat, and Thorn, the dog, we acquired for our daughters, and they were marvelous animals, and close friends to each other. Our daughters grew up and went away to college, and Laura and I took care of the animals. When Elm-Oak and Thorn finished their time in this material world, I said we would not again have pets. Animals tie us down, and it was too emotionally hard for me to lose Thorn and Elm-Oak.

            But then Leiza needed a home for Lobo, her cat. I encouraged her to find someone else care for this American Black and White, but when she turned up nothing, I took Lobo.

            Now we are here, just the two of us, much of the time. I ‘ve been trying to answer the question, “Can a cat be trained?” She’s been trying to answer the question, “Can a human being be trained?” We’ve come up with similar answers, “Yes, within limits.”

            I don’t want Lobo in my study when I’m not there. She got tangled in the wires that run the computer and its accessories, and if that happens when I’m not there, she could get hurt and break equipment. If I’m not here to tell her not to, she gets up on my work surfaces and lies on manuscripts, and I’m sure a generous coating of cat hair doesn’t encourage editors to give serious consideration to manuscripts. So I’ve trained her. When I leave the room, she comes along. She also understands the word “No” and obeys, and she usually comes when I call her.

            In turn, I respond to her appeals three times a day and give her canned cat food to supplement the boring diet of dry cat food. I ‘ve learned to provide a lap several times a day, and I’ve learned when she nudges me with her nose, it means I’ve forgotten to scratch under her white chin. I’ve learned I must leave room on the bed for her, and I mustn’t be too restless a sleeper, as she needs peace and quiet through the night.

            We accommodate each other. I haven’t met a cat quite like Lobo, who follows me around like a dog follows and waits by the door for me to return. She probably thinks she hasn’t met a human quite like me, kind but insistently independent in thought, so we both learn something about the world by our association with each other.