>> Friday, November 6, 2009
We have a fur problem. I'm going broke feeding and vetting our furry friends, and do not have enough laps or hands to pet everyone who wants attention at once. I trip over fast-moving objects continually. A day after vacuuming there are tumbleweeds of fur again, which grow to incredible proportions. These days I vacuum solely because I am afraid one of those tumbleweeds is going to develop a personality and we'd have another mouth to feed.
The breakdown of the fur problem is as follows:
Of course, we have the basset hounds. We went to the Humane Association for one dog, and came home with two. Why? Because they're so cuuuuute. And they're litter mates - we don't want to separate them! And they're special needs but that's okay. We can work on their extensive behavioral issues, deal with digestive problems, and take care of a stump.
Note to self: in future remember that if a dog has been available for adoption at a shelter for 6 months, there's probably a reason no one has taken it home before now. Especially when they're purebreds.
It took us a year to get Lucy housetrained (and she's still not exactly reliable), there are baby gates in nearly every doorway, Simon has destroyed countless pairs of shoes and thus far one rung on the antique railing, and between the two of them we need new carpets throughout the entire house. They are unruly (to say the least) when there are guests in the house. They've injured us countless times by taking off down stairs while we're attached, slamming their hard heads into our noses, knocking us off whatever we're seated on, or all sorts of other exuberant obnoxiousness. There is no amount of exercise that will wear them out, and no amount of rewarding good behavior will get them to knock off the bad. When you ask one of them to "come", s/he will calmly look at your hands, and if no treats are detected, s/he will bolt the other direction.
So that's the dog factor.
Then, there are the cats. You've already read about Tucker, who we rescued from a dumpster long ago. He's destroyed furniture, clothing, bedding, woodwork, and carpeting by peeing on it. He won a many-years-long fight about whether he gets to go outside by battering at our defenses and whittling away at our nerves, until between the two of us humans we had one nerve left and he was getting on it.
But he's cute.
We actively went out and adopted Sneakers (the stripey one below) when our old dog was getting decrepit, because we were afraid Tucker would be too lonely when our old dog died. Ha. Tucker hates Sneakers. She's sweet, but a little off. No one in the house quite understands her. She is slowly destroying the wooden railing in the attic by clawing it to pieces, despite the dozen or so different types of scratching posts and blocks available to her. And she has the most irritating meow conceivable and never shuts up. We have the Fran Drescher of the cat world.
This is Sneakers looking through the space where the railing rung was before Simon ate it:
So, you ask, why am I going through this list demonstrating our insanity? Because, now there's Rocky.
Rocky is Tucker's boyfriend. They sleep in an excruciatingly cute pile of paws and tails and whiskers on the porch. They've been buddies since Tucker started going outside a year ago, but we've never been able to get close to Rocky. We assumed he was as wild and feral as the rest of the feral cat colony in our neighborhood. Apparently not. After a year of coaxing, he actually allowed Spouse to pet him this morning (there was food involved). Damnit, if we can get close enough to him to pet him, and we're feeding him, then we need to get him to a vet for a checkup and shots and worming and neutering. I promise, he very obviously needs the last of those items. And if we're feeding him, petting him, and taking him to the vet, that does rather make him ours, huh?
Well, Rocky, welcome to the family.