Pets

We knew the day was coming.  Our dog Heidi was fourteen years old and failing, and even last winter we wondered if she would survive until spring.  She did, and with the coming of warm weather, she perked up and ate better, and began to take her daily walks again.  As was always her habit, she again visited the creek most days to lay in the water and cool off.  But she was growing weaker, and finally lost her ability to walk.  Her hind legs would no longer hold her up.  That’s what we were waiting for—and dreading.

Heidi as a puppy, with Angie, in the shade of a picnic table.

So yesterday was the day, and our vet came out to our house and gently helped us say goodbye.  I asked him if he sees grown men cry during these times.  “Yes,” he said, “actually, pretty often.”

I took her body down to the pasture under the Weeping Willow tree, and dug a deep hole.  The digging was cathartic, but it was still difficult to cover her with dirt.  I know.  I know.  She was just a dog.  But most of you will understand.  They’re not “just dogs.”  They really wiggle their way into our hearts.  We’ve had quite a few of them over the years, but she was the best.  There are many wonderful breeds, but in my opinion, none can match the gentle and loving personality of Golden Retrievers.  Labradors come close, and some of you have other favorite breeds, and that’s okay.

There are several memories I will always cherish.  Heidi would never let my hands lay on my lap.  She’d put her nose under my forearm and lift until my hand came to rest on top of her head.   Then a look of bliss would appear on her happily squinted eyes.  Just knowing the master’s hand was upon her was enough.  (Goodness, couldn’t one draw a powerful analogy from that?)  Sometimes I’d tease her, and hold my arm firmly in place while she tried to lift it with her nose.  She was remarkably strong, and wouldn’t give up until she had succeeded.

Other special memories include her instinctive gentleness with little children.  She loved them, and would lay down next to them, smiling gently (yes, dogs can smile) and softly nuzzle them.  Some dogs like to show affection by licking.  Heidi was never one of them.  Her affection was shown by being there—a constant companion who loved human interaction and physical touch.

All day l kept seeing her out of the corner of my eye.   I’d turn my head quickly, as if hoping that she might really be there, but it was one of those tricks of the mind.  I suppose that will happen for a few days or weeks until I get used to her being gone.

We still have a cat—a jet black cat that came from a wild mother at my workplace.  The mother cat had three kittens under an old truck body, and they’d come out to sun themselves on a pallet.  One day when they were about five weeks old, a lady that I worked with decided we should catch them, and she would find homes for them.  While she carefully distracted them from the front, I managed to sneak up from behind, and in one quick grab, got all three.   After a few days, and some begging from my daughter, we decided to give one of them a chance—and that became his name.  “Chance.”   He’s been with us as an indoor-outdoor cat for around thirteen years now.  Not sure why, but he’s gotten some extra love and attention today.  Maybe I’m really missing my Heidi.

But speaking of cats.  When I walked past Jacob’s farm yesterday, it was milking time again, and numerous cats were hanging around the barn door.  It looked like they might be expecting some milk.  The scene was one right out of my childhood when our own herd of cats would appear out of the shadows, and gather around expectantly at milking time, waiting for a dish full of milk.  Several were tame.  Most were wild—some of them with very good reason.  Step back in time with me as we reminisce about “The Hog Creek Cat Farm.”

To the casual observer it was a nice little family farm, situated on the west bank of the Ottawa River. (Better known by locals as “Hog Creek”)  It was bordered on the north by the shortest road in Allen County—Neff Road.  A very pleasant country setting, the little farm was complete with a couple of cows for milk, a few sheep, a horse, a family dog, and some cats.  Included in the picture were a passel of five boys, not yet joined by their late-coming brother.    

It may have appeared to be quite idyllic, but it was clear to the people who lived there that something unusual and unexpected was happening.  The cats were taking over the place.  They were everywhere.  Left to their own natural pursuits, they multiplied with reckless abandon. The situation had developed slowly at first, until one day the people woke up and realized that the cats, which had no natural enemies, had let their population go out of control.

How many cats were there?  Ten?  Way low.  Twenty?  Keep going.  Thirty?   Now we’re in the neighborhood.  Not kidding.  Thirty cats for one family is a problem.  There was just no way for all of them to get the attention they needed, so most of them were “wild” and nameless.  There were two older matriarchs who had names.  Issachar and Liberace.  They looked remarkably alike, and were largely responsible for the population explosion.  

Farm boys playing with kittens.  Gene on the left.  Author on the right.

Kittens were brought into the house to play.  Gene on the left, Wes in the middle, and author on the right.

Occasionally the boys would find a litter of kittens still young enough to be tamed.  These were sometimes brought into the house and dressed in doll clothes.  Don’t ask me what possessed boys to dress cats.  I have no clue.  I was just a little kid, and went along with my older brothers.  Maybe they could explain.  Then again, maybe they can’t.  Maybe it was Mom’s idea.  Yeah, pretty sure it was her.  She always loved cats.  And God bless her, she had us doing a lot of things normally left for girls.  Since there were no girls in our family, the boys did it. (And every one of our wives are grateful for the training Mom gave us.)  We washed and dried dishes, learned how to cook, even learned how to iron and run the sewing machine.  We also helped with the canning.  And we dusted the furniture—right down to every last chair rung.  Yep, that was back in the day when people actually dusted their furniture once a week, minimum.  Saturday mornings were all about sweeping and dusting—getting the house sparkling for Sunday, because you never knew who might drop in, and Lord knows they will probably get down on their hands and knees to inspect the chair rungs.     

Now let me be clear about the following anecdotes involving the cats on our farm.  The events I am about to describe may seem a bit unseemly in today’s world, where animals have been elevated to a nearly human-like status.  Rest assured, no cats died as a result of these experiences.

It was a long time ago, but it’s not difficult to remember the times that the cats of Hog Creek became the unwitting partners in experimentation.  My two oldest brothers—having curious and uninhibited minds—just had to find the answer to this question: Can cats swim?  Some people would contend that they cannot.  It is true that a high percentage won’t voluntarily take to water, but rest assured they are fine swimmers.  This fact was proved conclusively in 1959 by a team of highly unskilled and unsophisticated Mennonite farm boys.  Shall we be gracious, and pretend they were called the Ross Scientific Research Group. (RSRG for short—namely, Dick and Stan.)

The RSRG research did not require a large government grant.  This study was done solely at the expense of the cats, saving the American taxpayers a lot of money.  The experiments were conducted from the middle of an old iron bridge that spanned Hog Creek.  The cats were gently carried to the middle of the bridge and carefully dropped into the water, from a height of about ten feet.  As the RSRG monitored the results, the cats were observed easily navigating the expanse of the river.  Upon reaching the bank they proved that they were very much alive by racing at a remarkable speed for the safety of the barn.  The indisputable results of the experiment were: Cats can swim.  The downside was that the poor animals had little understanding or appreciation for the value of this research, and they tended to keep their distance for a few days.

While we’re telling tales, we might as well mention another cat—the bob-tailed one.  No, it wasn’t born that way.  Irrepressible big brother Dick had one day fastened a cap gun mechanism onto it’s tail.  Now, he won’t directly admit to the misdeed.  Rather, he would like to pass the guilt off to brother Stan.  Stan, on the other hand, remembers seeing Dick do it.  I’m pretty sure this was another RSRG experiment, but not really sure what it was supposed to prove.  The cat was not humored.  It took off lickety-split, and would not let anyone get close enough to remove mechanism on its tail.  So it wore part of the cap gun for a number of days until it finally fell off.  Unfortunately, so did the tail.  Hopefully, my brothers learned an important lesson.

And then, the Ferris Wheel ride.  Or maybe it would be better to call it the Scrambler.  Actually, it was probably more like the Bullet.  I rode that once at the Wayne County Fair, and once was enough.  At last I could fully sympathize with the cat that took the bucket ride at the hands of the RSRG.  I don’t know what in the world they were thinking or trying to prove.  They put a cat in a bucket, and swung it round and round.  Perhaps they were testing the cat’s tolerance for G-forces.  But again, the poor cat was not humored.

This is probably enough about the cats of Hog Creek.  There are additional stories, but there are also folks who will not be at all entertained by what has already been told.  Let’s try to show some grace.  We’ve all done some regrettable things.  It delights me greatly to report that Dick and Stan turned into good men.  Despite their youthful cat-related indiscretions, they did not become abusive adults or serial killers.  They are gentlemen of the first degree, and  I am proud to call them my brothers.  

Well, this about wraps it up for another week.  Now if I could just get a black cat off my arms, it would be a whole lot easier to type.  

From Kidron, Ohio, where the homely men don’t want to be seen holding a cat, so they do it in the privacy of their homes; where the beautiful women enjoy seeing the soft side of their men holding their cats; and where the children grow up nurturing a love for animals.  It makes the chore of cleaning the litter box worthwhile.  But it’s still a pretty sick feeling to step in dog poop.   Thank you, Heidi, you were the best and I’m going to miss you greatly, but I must confess, I won’t miss your randomly-placed, and sizable land mines.  Fare thee well.

 

Tamping the dirt, and saying goodbye.