Thursday, September 27, 2007
Toby Catches Squirrels
Toby, a large, black and tan classic tabby, was declawed when he came to live with us. He joined a household of four dogs and two cats without any problems. My bedroom had a door that opened to our fenced backyard. This door had a doggy door so our dogs could go out at will into the yard. Toby immediately learned to use this exit. The back yard was about sixty by forty feet with a six-foot chainlink fence, two large trees and a boxwood hedge in the rear. Toby had sense enough to stay within this yard's relative safety most of the time.
Because Toby was declawed, I did not expect him to be a very effective hunter. I was wrong. One day I heard a commotion in the back yard, dogs barking, a strange screech, and the sounds of running. I was in my bedroom and headed for the door to see what was wrong. I never reached the door. Toby bolted through the doggy door with the dogs in pursuit. The dogs were not after Toby, but his victim, a full grown squirrel clutched in Toby's jaws.
I closed the french doors that led from the rest of the house into my bedroom and grabbed the nearest dog. Somehow, I manage to shove all four into the next room. By this time, Toby had released his squirrel who was now on the curtain rod above my bed. Toby contemplated his prey and began an advance across my bed. I grabbed him and put him with the dogs.
I heard the squirrel running along the curtain rod and turned to see Tippy, my spayed female cat, halfway up the curtain. I don't know where she had come from, but she was trouble. Tippy was the killer in the family. She never played with anything she caught. She always killed it, quickly and cleanly. I climbed on my bed to get her, but she jumped to the dresser in pursuit of the scampering squirrel. I heard the doggy door pop as Tippy's brother Tigre bounded into the room. The squirrel and I had a chance now, because Tigre was a clutz whose main talent seemed to be blocking Tippy from her prey. Today was no different. Tigre joined Tippy on the dresser and body blocked her off. She landed on the floor with her tail lashing her anger with her brother. I grabbed her, and she joined the dogs and Toby. Tigre had now managed to send my jewelry case off the end of the dresser. Luckily, the box landed on the bed. I grabbed him and stuffed him past his sister who desperately wanted back into the bedroom.
Toby was on an armchair watching me through the glass of the french door. I began to suspect he had planned the whole escapade. I opened the back door and looked for something to shoo the squirrel with. I did not see anything, but there was no need. The squirrel saw the opening, flew off the curtain rod onto the floor and scampered out the door. I shut the door behind its bushy tail.
Of course, through this whole ordeal the dogs barked, Tippy scratched at the door, Tigre stood on his hind legs digging at the glass, while Toby sat on the back of the overstuffed chair enjoying it all. Toby would bring in other squirrels, always alive, and release them in the bedroom, but never again would the whole cat and dog family be in attendance.
Because Toby was declawed, I did not expect him to be a very effective hunter. I was wrong. One day I heard a commotion in the back yard, dogs barking, a strange screech, and the sounds of running. I was in my bedroom and headed for the door to see what was wrong. I never reached the door. Toby bolted through the doggy door with the dogs in pursuit. The dogs were not after Toby, but his victim, a full grown squirrel clutched in Toby's jaws.
I closed the french doors that led from the rest of the house into my bedroom and grabbed the nearest dog. Somehow, I manage to shove all four into the next room. By this time, Toby had released his squirrel who was now on the curtain rod above my bed. Toby contemplated his prey and began an advance across my bed. I grabbed him and put him with the dogs.
I heard the squirrel running along the curtain rod and turned to see Tippy, my spayed female cat, halfway up the curtain. I don't know where she had come from, but she was trouble. Tippy was the killer in the family. She never played with anything she caught. She always killed it, quickly and cleanly. I climbed on my bed to get her, but she jumped to the dresser in pursuit of the scampering squirrel. I heard the doggy door pop as Tippy's brother Tigre bounded into the room. The squirrel and I had a chance now, because Tigre was a clutz whose main talent seemed to be blocking Tippy from her prey. Today was no different. Tigre joined Tippy on the dresser and body blocked her off. She landed on the floor with her tail lashing her anger with her brother. I grabbed her, and she joined the dogs and Toby. Tigre had now managed to send my jewelry case off the end of the dresser. Luckily, the box landed on the bed. I grabbed him and stuffed him past his sister who desperately wanted back into the bedroom.
Toby was on an armchair watching me through the glass of the french door. I began to suspect he had planned the whole escapade. I opened the back door and looked for something to shoo the squirrel with. I did not see anything, but there was no need. The squirrel saw the opening, flew off the curtain rod onto the floor and scampered out the door. I shut the door behind its bushy tail.
Of course, through this whole ordeal the dogs barked, Tippy scratched at the door, Tigre stood on his hind legs digging at the glass, while Toby sat on the back of the overstuffed chair enjoying it all. Toby would bring in other squirrels, always alive, and release them in the bedroom, but never again would the whole cat and dog family be in attendance.
Labels: declawed, doggy door, dogs, squirrel, Tigre, Tippy, Toby
Monday, September 24, 2007
Toby Wears a T-shirt
Toby, a giant, tan and black tabby, lived with us for many years. When he as about ten, he developed some lumps on his side, so off to the veterinarian he went. Dan (not his real name), my vet, did an exam and decided the lumps should be removed and biopsied. Toby took the exam well; he seemed to enjoy the attention. He was not happy when I left him. His surgery would be the following day.
Dan called me the next day. Toby had done well during surgery and all the masses had been removed and samples sent for exam. I could pick him up tomorrow.
I arrived the next afternoon to retrieve my cat. Dan came out to speak to me, and I feared the worst.
"Toby's fine, but there is a problem," said Dan. "He pulls out his stitches. He took them out last night. I stitched him up again this morning with metal sutures. He took them out as I carried him back to his cage. I've restitched him and bandaged him, but he is removing the bandage. You'll have to rewrap him to keep him from the stitches."
I tried not to smile as Dan described Toby's actions. The exasperation was clear in Dan's voice. I could see Dan struggling to hold the twenty pound cat and keep him from removing his stitiches. Toby could be very quick.
Dan's assistant brought out Toby who sported a large, white gauze cumberbund. Dan indicated where he had made his incision. It was long, but not deep. Still, Toby needed to keep the stitches in for at least ten days.
I took Toby home and left him with my mother. Access to the doggy door was blocked. I then headed to the nearest dime store (This was a long time ago.) There I purchased several toddler's and baby's T-shirts. You see, I knew a friend of mine had experienced a similar problem with her golden retriever and solved it by having her golden wear a T-shirt that covered its injury. I thought I would try the same thing with Toby.
When I returned home, I found my mother holding Toby. She told me that was the only way to keep him from tearing his bandage. I tried the T-shirts on Toby. The one that proved the best fit was bright yellow (the only color that size came in). Toby's front legs went through the sleeves and the shirt ended a couple of inches from his rear legs. I thought that this could not work. Of course, it did.
As long as Toby had the shirt on he did not touch his bandage. He wore it even at night. We kept him inside, but he soon began to complain. So, when Saturday came, I went outside with him. I chose the front yard because I could sit on the porch and watch him. Soon, Toby stretched out on the walk in the sunshine wearing his new yellow shirt. I had picked up another so the other could be washed.
I watched Toby enjoying the morning. When he got up for a stroll, I went with him. As I followed him around, I realized that cars that passed slowed down as they reached our house. After a moment's reflection, I understood. None of Toby's bandage showed, these people thought I was a crazy cat lady that dressed her cat in baby clothes. I suspect I was the talk of our neighborhood for a long time.
The biopsy showed a benign growth.
Dan called me the next day. Toby had done well during surgery and all the masses had been removed and samples sent for exam. I could pick him up tomorrow.
I arrived the next afternoon to retrieve my cat. Dan came out to speak to me, and I feared the worst.
"Toby's fine, but there is a problem," said Dan. "He pulls out his stitches. He took them out last night. I stitched him up again this morning with metal sutures. He took them out as I carried him back to his cage. I've restitched him and bandaged him, but he is removing the bandage. You'll have to rewrap him to keep him from the stitches."
I tried not to smile as Dan described Toby's actions. The exasperation was clear in Dan's voice. I could see Dan struggling to hold the twenty pound cat and keep him from removing his stitiches. Toby could be very quick.
Dan's assistant brought out Toby who sported a large, white gauze cumberbund. Dan indicated where he had made his incision. It was long, but not deep. Still, Toby needed to keep the stitches in for at least ten days.
I took Toby home and left him with my mother. Access to the doggy door was blocked. I then headed to the nearest dime store (This was a long time ago.) There I purchased several toddler's and baby's T-shirts. You see, I knew a friend of mine had experienced a similar problem with her golden retriever and solved it by having her golden wear a T-shirt that covered its injury. I thought I would try the same thing with Toby.
When I returned home, I found my mother holding Toby. She told me that was the only way to keep him from tearing his bandage. I tried the T-shirts on Toby. The one that proved the best fit was bright yellow (the only color that size came in). Toby's front legs went through the sleeves and the shirt ended a couple of inches from his rear legs. I thought that this could not work. Of course, it did.
As long as Toby had the shirt on he did not touch his bandage. He wore it even at night. We kept him inside, but he soon began to complain. So, when Saturday came, I went outside with him. I chose the front yard because I could sit on the porch and watch him. Soon, Toby stretched out on the walk in the sunshine wearing his new yellow shirt. I had picked up another so the other could be washed.
I watched Toby enjoying the morning. When he got up for a stroll, I went with him. As I followed him around, I realized that cars that passed slowed down as they reached our house. After a moment's reflection, I understood. None of Toby's bandage showed, these people thought I was a crazy cat lady that dressed her cat in baby clothes. I suspect I was the talk of our neighborhood for a long time.
The biopsy showed a benign growth.
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Toby Climbs a Tree
Toby was declawed. He had arrived at our house that way, but that did not keep him from climbing trees. We had dogs and a doggy door, so there was no keeping Toby inside. Usually, he stayed in our fenced backyard with the dogs, but occasionally he ventured into the front yard.
One cold, wet November day, Toby took a stroll in the front yard only to encounter a pack of three dogs. Barking madly, they chased Toby up the pecan tree. I heard the commotion and ran to see what was happening without stopping to put on a coat. Toby was about sixteen feet off the ground with his front legs wrapped around the trunk of the tree and his rear ones resting on a branch. He was only about two feet from the top of the tree. I yelled at the dogs and they took off. I had not seen them before and did not see them again, but they had done their damage.
With the dogs gone, I assumed that Toby would make his way down the tree. He did not move. I went back inside to put on my jacket, then returned to call Toby. He looked at me, but would not come down. I retreated to the house once more. Maybe if he were alone, he would leave the tree. I knew he was physically able to climb down even without claws because I had seen him do it many times. Today, however, he would not budge.
The weather was not improving. The intermittent rain had turned to sleet. I called my vet for advice. Did he think Toby would come down on his own? Maybe not came the answer. If he had been really frightened, he might not want to come down anytime soon. There was also the possibility that he had gone so high that he was afraid to move. Usually, my vet said he would advise just to give Toby more time but not in this weather. I needed to retrieve Toby from the tree.
I owned an aluminum extension ladder. I carried it from the garage to the front yard. I was much younger and healthier then. I tried once more to convince Toby to vacate his perch. He did not even twitch. With considerable difficulty, I managed to prop the ladder against the tree with the top of the ladder about a foot below Toby. The diameter of the tree was only a couple of inches. I wondered if the tree would hold. (In later years, I would have at least made sure my mother was home before I did this, so she could call for assistance if I fell.) Up the ladder I went. Once I was about five feet off the ground my fear of heights began it's assault. I had to think about every movement as I crawled higher. One hand always had a death grip on the ladder. Ice was beginning to form on the ladder's edges.
At last my head was even with Toby. He did not even move to look at me. I edged higher now holding the tree with one hand. Toby had always been willing to come to my arms, not today. I realized I would have to pry him from his perch and that would take both hands. I did not think I could do it. My fear of heights was simply too great. I took a deep breath. Toby needed to come down. I released my grip on the tree and reached for Toby. He did not move. Whether from fear or cold, he was unresponsive. I pried his front feet loose from the tree one at a time, then somehow swung this twenty pound cat against my chest and held him there with my left arm. I began my very slow descent.
When my feet rested on solid ground, I was shaking. I put Toby down expecting him to make a beeline for the backyard and then into the house through the doggy door. Toby simply crumpled on the grass and remained there without a single change in position. Now frightened for him, I scooped him up in both arms and headed for the house. Once inside, I put Toby on the kitchen table, grabbed a clean towel and began to massage and dry him at the same time. To my relief this worked. Toby perked up, jumped off the table and headed to the utility room where food awaited. I sat down, my knees weak. Both of us had survived our high escapade.
One cold, wet November day, Toby took a stroll in the front yard only to encounter a pack of three dogs. Barking madly, they chased Toby up the pecan tree. I heard the commotion and ran to see what was happening without stopping to put on a coat. Toby was about sixteen feet off the ground with his front legs wrapped around the trunk of the tree and his rear ones resting on a branch. He was only about two feet from the top of the tree. I yelled at the dogs and they took off. I had not seen them before and did not see them again, but they had done their damage.
With the dogs gone, I assumed that Toby would make his way down the tree. He did not move. I went back inside to put on my jacket, then returned to call Toby. He looked at me, but would not come down. I retreated to the house once more. Maybe if he were alone, he would leave the tree. I knew he was physically able to climb down even without claws because I had seen him do it many times. Today, however, he would not budge.
The weather was not improving. The intermittent rain had turned to sleet. I called my vet for advice. Did he think Toby would come down on his own? Maybe not came the answer. If he had been really frightened, he might not want to come down anytime soon. There was also the possibility that he had gone so high that he was afraid to move. Usually, my vet said he would advise just to give Toby more time but not in this weather. I needed to retrieve Toby from the tree.
I owned an aluminum extension ladder. I carried it from the garage to the front yard. I was much younger and healthier then. I tried once more to convince Toby to vacate his perch. He did not even twitch. With considerable difficulty, I managed to prop the ladder against the tree with the top of the ladder about a foot below Toby. The diameter of the tree was only a couple of inches. I wondered if the tree would hold. (In later years, I would have at least made sure my mother was home before I did this, so she could call for assistance if I fell.) Up the ladder I went. Once I was about five feet off the ground my fear of heights began it's assault. I had to think about every movement as I crawled higher. One hand always had a death grip on the ladder. Ice was beginning to form on the ladder's edges.
At last my head was even with Toby. He did not even move to look at me. I edged higher now holding the tree with one hand. Toby had always been willing to come to my arms, not today. I realized I would have to pry him from his perch and that would take both hands. I did not think I could do it. My fear of heights was simply too great. I took a deep breath. Toby needed to come down. I released my grip on the tree and reached for Toby. He did not move. Whether from fear or cold, he was unresponsive. I pried his front feet loose from the tree one at a time, then somehow swung this twenty pound cat against my chest and held him there with my left arm. I began my very slow descent.
When my feet rested on solid ground, I was shaking. I put Toby down expecting him to make a beeline for the backyard and then into the house through the doggy door. Toby simply crumpled on the grass and remained there without a single change in position. Now frightened for him, I scooped him up in both arms and headed for the house. Once inside, I put Toby on the kitchen table, grabbed a clean towel and began to massage and dry him at the same time. To my relief this worked. Toby perked up, jumped off the table and headed to the utility room where food awaited. I sat down, my knees weak. Both of us had survived our high escapade.
