Tippy & Stella Allen, in San Diego.

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Culver family on the Cape.

Sometimes You Just Have to Laugh

by Jackie Dering {first published in the Congo Drumbeat}

Any week where the words, “We were very happy to hear that her toes were jammed or pulled” come out of your mouth is going to be interesting. Early in the week Harley injured her paw. We suspected broken toes so we were relieved. That was enough excitement for us for the week, but apparently not for the basenjis.

A couple of days later both dogs were extra anxious to go out, racing back and forth to the door with full basenji sound effects (yeah, basenjis are quiet, sure). I opened the door and out they flew. When they did not return in the usual amount of time I went to the back of the yard to discover them madly circling my shed, taking turns diving under the shed, crawling back out, running to the other side, and diving under again. Both had developed basenji “I’m busy deafness”. Luke was covered with thick mud from head to toe especially his belly. I got hold of his handle (I mean collar), took him inside carrying him to the tub, and gave him bath number 1. Then I went back to get Harley, who was waiting at the back door. Teflon Harley didn’t need a bath. (Don’t know how she does it.) I went back to the shed alone, got down on hands and knees in the dirt, looked under the shed, and didn’t see anything. Back in the house a closer look at Harley showed her ear was covered with blood. I started very gently washing off her poor little ear. After two wipes it seemed pretty clear that her ear was not sore and it was not her blood. It wasn’t Luke’s either. We figured something didn’t fare well, but the dogs were fine.

Next time the dogs went out I went armed with a flashlight. By the time I got to the shed both had resumed their mad circling and diving. Looking under the shed with the flash light much to my horror what I saw was Luke retrieving a dead cat, pulling it by its head to drag it out from under the shed. Well, perfect! He did leave it and come (good boy?). Harley then went in again. I wasn't so worried she'd bother the body and couldn’t grab both dogs from under the shed so I took Luke inside for bath number 2. Harley followed us in (and still wasn’t dirty). We left the dogs in the house while Ed and I used a shovel and a rake to drag the poor dead cat the rest of the way out. To our confusion, the cat was uninjured, just dead. We put it in a box and sent out a neighborhood email asking if anybody was missing this cat to call me. I was certainly not looking forward to telling the owners their cat was dead, but didn’t want to say “dead cat found” in the email. Found out the cat was sixteen and they were expecting her to crawl off and die any day. They were sad, but relieved that the cat was uninjured and burial ready.

Okay, so where did the blood come from? Did the cat go out Viking style (credit to Therese Leimback for this description of the cat fighting to its death)? Did the dogs rescue the cat from another animal giving the cat a peaceful end? Yes, I believe they were heroes rescuing the old dying cat from the clutches of neighborhood varmints. That is my story and I am sticking with it.

On Memorial Day I had guests for dinner. One of my friends has a lovely cane with an antler handle hand made by her husband. While we were eating she set the cane on the floor and I’ll bet you know where this is going. We heard the sound of gnawing and found my demon tri happily chewing away on the new antler on the floor. If only that floor had opened I would have been grateful. Harley, however, wasn’t quite done for the evening. Not five minutes later she surreptitiously climbed up on the same friend’s lap and her head popped up from in front of the totally not a dog person’s face. She was quite proud of herself. Sometimes you just have to laugh.

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