Animal in crisis!

My mom has a dog named Zoe.  She is a 7 year old Irish Wolfhound.  Irish Wolfhounds have a life expectancy of approximately 7 years. 

Zoe’s days are numbered.

Sorry mom, but it’s true.  Last night we had to take Zoe to the emergency room.  Mom thought she was bloating (which is usually the end for dogs like Zo), but turns out she has a sprained back.  Crisis averted!  For now.

If you’ve never seen an Irish Wolfhound, they are basically small ponys.  When they went to weigh Zoe at the vet’s office, well, she weighs more than me.  About 29 pounds more than me, to be exact.  Yeah, that’s nice.  Someone else brought in a "normal" dog, and he weighed 59 pounds.  Zoe is twice that dog’s weight.  Zoe can knock you down if you are not careful.  And her tail is a lethal weapon in 12 countries, I think.  If she is happy to see you, watch out for that tail – a wagging, fur-covered whip.

To get Zoe to the vet, we had to cram her in my mom’s Subaru Forrester.  That is a sight to see, let me tell ya.  Jesse was driving the car, and my mom was sitting in the backseat with Zoe.  Actually, my mom had one butt cheek on the seat and the other was hanging in midair, because with a dog as large as Zoe, well, you take what you can get.  Zoe’s head almost hits the top of the car, but the funniest thing is to see a dog that ginormous curl up and lay down in the back of your car.

You would think a dog this large would be a monster.  Zoe is the sweetest dog (well, besides our other dog Ben, who is the best dog in the world – and whose days are also numbered).  Zoe is very shy.  She would run from you rather than make contact.  She’s also very neurotic, but that is the only dog we seem to ever have in my family, so that is actually normal.  If it is thundering out, she will try to climb up in your lap.  I should post a picture of THAT.  She likes to lean against you, and if you are not prepared, you may just find yourself on the floor.  She is dining-room table height, so when you are eating dinner at my mom’s house, your food must be protected at all costs.  If you turn away for even the briefest second, you have to know that you will either have no food at all left on your plate when you turn back, or it will be covered in dog slobber.  She loves to lick you, but with a tongue that large, it’s more like a bath.  A smelly, dog breath bath.  Not recommended.

My sister and I always say we hate Zoe.  That’s not really true – she is more of a nuisance than anything, but it’s not her fault.  She can’t help it that she is freakishly large.  It was sorta scary, going to the vet last night, because there was a possibility that Zoe would have to be put down, which would have been very sad.  That is part of why I don’t like owning animals – I don’t want to be the one to decide when they die.

Anyway, my mom says her next dog will be a chihuahua.

Evey, queen of the castle.

Klyde in his favorite place – under the carpet.

Cats…

are not my favorite animals. They don’t have facial expressions like dogs. They have this nonchalant air to them that can be rather annoying. They rub up against you and get hair on your black pants. They act like you are there to serve them at all times – "get me food, give me treats, pet me!" – and then could care less when you want some affection in return. They shed all over your clean carpet and clean couch.

I have two cats. I don’t know how this happened to me. When I first bought my condo, I was animal free and I loved it. I only had to vacuum once every two weeks! Then, my mom decided that my sister’s abandoned cat, Evey (don’t deny it, E, you left her at mom’s house and never looked back!), would be happier with me than at my mom’s house. Mom has two large dogs that were very interested in sniffing around Evey, and she hated it. So I gave in, and immediately, my house was covered in white fur (because of course, she had to be white, since all my furniture is dark). It was annoying, but I got used to it. She’s a funny cat – she meows a lot, almost like she thinks I understand her, and I usually meow back, because I think she understands me. I call her Mow-Mow because that’s all she ever says. She used to run around my house like someone had wound her up and let her go. She would run from one side of the house to the other, for seemingly no reason. She sleeps a lot and thinks she rules the roost, which I guess she sort of does. I just wish she didn’t shed so much.

Then Jesse showed up, and of course, he had a cat, too. Klyde is a big, fat, scaredy cat. Seriously. He is big, fat, and scared of pillows, ceiling fans, loud noises, being touched unexpectedly, his tail and ghosts, because he keeps looking around the house at something that is invisible and only bothers him. He also runs around the house, like Evey used to. Jesse and I will be eating dinner, having a conversation, only to see this orange blur run, cheetah-like, from one bedroom to the other. Sometimes he skids on the hardwood floor, which is hilarious. His purring is so loud he is not allowed in our bedroom at night because he wakes me up. He chases his tail a lot. A LOT. We always have to tell him, "Klyde, that belongs to you. It will not be leaving anytime soon, so get used to it." Jesse thinks he is brain damaged, because he once ate a bag of pot. Kids, don’t do drugs – look what it did to Klyde. He sheds orange and white fur, so now I have lovely white tumbleweeds all over my house.

Evey was not happy to see Klyde move in. For the first few months, she would attack him when he walked by. I would hear fighting cats in the middle of the night, chasing each other and hissing. The next morning, there would be evidence of foul play – tufts of white or orange fur, and occasionally actual wounded kitties, usually just scratches on the nose. Now, they live in relative peace. Sometimes, they even fight for fun, chasing each other around the house, hiding and pouncing on each other as they round a corner. Evey tolerates Klyde pretty well, but she does end up giving him a good whack now and then, when he gets too frisky. He always looks confused, as if to say, "But I thought we were having fun?"

I don’t take care of the cats, Jesse does. Before Jesse (B.J.), I hated to clean the litter pan. I told him, when we have kids, I will take care of them as long as you take care of the animals (of course, I didn’t mean that he wouldn’t have to take care of the kids, but it got me out of taking care of the cats, which was my evil intent). Someday, I am sure we will get a dog. I’m not looking forward to it. It just means more hair to add to the tumbleweeds.