I’m with Jeanette about her home-isolation saviors and pets in general.
Here at the Blough Barn, tomfoolery and frivolity flourish unfettered. We’ve downsized to only three now – one dog, one Doug and one delightful new kitty.
You already know about Ginger, the suddenly homeless, 10-year-old gal for whom Kathy McDonald sought to foster 3-plus years ago, supposedly too traumatized for a night at a commercial kennel. That info became dubious when at Tractor Supply, Ginger wrested free of her handler, said hello briefly, and scurried to my truck’s open back door and hopped in, to wait patiently.
That night on my couch, she studied me from the opposite end before rushing over to collapse, paws-straight-up, onto my bare chest. As I took my first-ever selfie of this blatant seduction, my old collie Gabe watched from the recliner as if thinking, “This b…. is gonna be a problem.”
It was we three till we lost Gabe months later, and believe me when I tell you, Ginger remained in that back seat for months, refusing the passenger throne where Gabe reigned. After much reassuring, she reluctantly assumed that revered front seat. Ginger needed no training in showing respect.
And then came Kiki, the young, butterscotch, long-hair kitty I took over for my niece last year. I had boarded her a couple past weekends, so knew she was a real peach, but had no idea. Besides that irresistibly soft, mew/purr, never in all my dozens of past cats have I met one who comes running at the call of her name. And get this: she insists on joining Ginger and me for our twice-daily poop walks.
It’s the highlight of her every day. She trails our every step, resting about 50 feet behind before mad dashes to catch up. People come from miles around to see this rare procession. Well, that may be hyperbole, but I know for a fact, no fewer than two separate neighbors watch for it every day.
But sadly, for every dog lucky enough to have loving owners who cherish this isolation time together, there is two that suffer the wrath of angry isolators. You know, those “chain-people” and out-of-sight, out-of-mind ignorers who take turns screaming “Shut up” at the slightest loneliness bark, as one couple I’m told by neighbors regularly does.
For every pet lying on a warm lap accepting treats, there’s one outside getting skinnier from cold-hearted cost-cutters taking their frustration out on the most innocent and vulnerable.
There’s not a roofer in town who hasn’t seen it from on high with no legal remedy, thinking: “Why would anyone want a dog they have no feelings for?” I think it’s all about ownership. “I OWN that property, and no one tells me how to treat my property.”
That’s the callousness and shallowness we’re dealing with, and why I involuntarily smile and coo, “Ahh” at seeing someone walking a happy dog, patiently stopping when their friend needs a tinkle. Good people won’t even raise a voice in anger, lest we frighten or hurt the feelings of a super-sensitive, precious family member.
Well, there’s an afterlife where similar accommodations await those black-hearted people, and there ain’t no cold days in hell.