There were cats. First was Cacophony Joe, or CJ. Our friends M & G were looking for a home for a kitten called "Queenie," and Jeff said we could keep "her." Since our friends gave us the cat, I didn't bother to do the little lift-the-kitten's-tail, count-the-number-of-holes thing. You trust your friends too, right? So when I took Queenie to the vet, I wrote "female" on the form. Boy did I ever feel dumb when the vet looked across the examination table at me and asked, "Were you aware that this is a MALE cat?" Um.... did it change the fact that he/she was ours for life? So how much did it matter?
Queenie became CJ, and was joined by Miesha, Fusion and Almost (Almost came to us as a ragged, gaunt, little kitten with intestinal parasites; he looked so pathetic that he hardly seemed to qualify as feline. As a matter of fact, he looked like he was about to croak. We didn't really expect him to reach dignified maturity. Hence the epithet, Almost a Cat).
Over the years, there were also T-Rex, Trill, Macavity and Mroux. Today, 14-year-old T-Rex and (we think) 18-year-old Mroux are trying to peacefully live out their remaining days on sunny windowsills and comfy chairs, despite the bloodthirsty designs of wicked basenjis. (Mroux is pronounced M-Roo, just in case you were wondering. She named herself by the tiny little meow she makes when she's hungry or lonely.)
Click here to see LOTS of kitty photos.
Click here to see T-Rex before and after meeting Photoshop
When we got married in 1980, my husband had an ten-year-old Sheltie named Shelley. She adored him, ignored me. Those are the breaks. She got used to me after a while, and liked me well enough if Jeff was at work. But when he came home, I was part of the furniture as far as Shelley was concerned. Jeff was her Master, and I was the one who filled the food dish when He wasn't home.
Shelley enjoyed our cats. She never bothered them, except when Jeff made a little hissing sound. Then she would enthusiastically chase the misbehaving cat that was sharpening its claws on the sofa or pulling down the drapes. No cat dared to misbehave with Shelley in the room, yet no cat was ever in danger with Shelley around. Those were her "sheep" and she took great care of them.
When Fusion and T-Rex had kittens, Shelley helped out like a good Auntie. She licked the kittens clean and pushed them into a neat little group with her nose. Since kittens don't naturally stay together as a flock or herd, Shelley was forever bringing one or another back to Momma Cat, and it provided her with many hours of useful employment and harmless fun.
Our cat Fusion was happy to share the duties of parenting with a devoted canine nanny. The kittens were all right, but they were a terrible bother, always jumping on one's tail and chewing on one's ears. If Shelley wanted to babysit them, power to her.
As you might guess, Shelley was terribly disappointed when all the kittens went to good homes. She consoled herself by trying to herd chickens in the backyard.
As you may have guessed, chickens are about as amenable to being herded as cats are. Our seven hens would graciously put up with the dog for a while, but eventually the big Rhode Island Red would get fed up and chase Shelley inside. You could always tell when the herding exercise was over the day. First Shelley would gallop through the pet door, looking quite startled, on her face, then the hen would crash against the opening with her wings outspread. It was probably a good think for Shelley that the chickens never figured the pet door out - can you imagine the pecking and scolding Shelley would have suffered if that hen could have gotten inside?
Shelley was a well-disciplined, intelligent dog when I met her; but she got considerably weirder with age. For example, she would growl at M&Ms. Jeff would carefully place one candy on the floor, and wait for the dog to find it. Instead of eating it or ignoring it, Shelley would stand over it, snarling, until we took the threatening object away. We never did figure out what she thought that M&M was going to do to her. Shelley would also become enraged at the sight of a Frito bag, although she was perfectly willing to eat the Fritos from a human hand. Show her the bag, though, and she went nuts. Maybe it was senile psychosis.
Other than a passionate distaste for certain junk foods, Shelley was a good dog for all of her fourteen years.
(I'll put photos up as soon as I can find and scan some).
In 1983, just before my son Robert was born, a black Irish Wolfhound mix joined our pack. We named her Brenna, which is Celtic for the dark one. Bren was a gorgeous dog with the sweetest temperament imaginable. When we lived in Santa Fe, I would let her run around the block off-leash while I pedaled furiously up the hill. Brenna knew she was supposed to stay on the sidewalk, and would run as fast as she could, never once going into the street. Coming down the hill on the other side of the block, I would catch up with her, and we would finish our race together at the driveway. For twelve years, she was a sweet, reliable dog - as loving, non-destructive, quiet and easy to live with as they come. Brenna was an extraordinary, wonderful dog.
After Shelley's death, we were looking for a small dog with big dog temperament (did I mention that large dogs, even very kind ones, make my husband uncomfortable? That's what growing up with toy poodles does to a man - it spoils them for real dogs). I'd heard corgis fit the bill, so we went to a Sierra Vista breeder with a sterling reputation and wonderful dogs.
Little Leprechaun was playing ferociously with a bit of cardboard, and he was just adorable. Jean York was understandably reluctant to let her darling go to a family with small children and a big dog, but we eventually persuaded her that we were Worthy of a Corgi. After she inspected our new puppy crate and pronounced it acceptable, and extracted from us an oath that the puppy would never, ever be bothered by children in his crate, she finally let us take Leprechan home.
Before we even owned him, we had nicknamed Leprechaun "Wrath of Khan," because of his exploits with the cardboard box, and he was Khan ever after. Brenna liked him a lot, and the two would often race around the yard. Sometimes Brenna would grab his collar and roll him - fortunately not with the intensity of a wolfhound snapping a wolf's neck, but with the force of a sixty-five-pound sighthound at play. Khan would be rolling across the grass, yelping, as Brenna raced on with his collar in her mouth. Being a trouper, he'd get right up and be ready for more. I think Brenna was always as shocked as he was by how much this game hurt him - like many sighthounds, she would sometimes get carried away at the sight of something that ran like prey. There are good reasons why Wolfie owners warn against letting your wolfhound run loose in the park with smaller dogs. Sometimes, not even Brenna could resist the urge to take a smaller dog by the neck and give it a good shake.
At twelve, Brenna's hips gave out and she had to be put down. Khan was heartbroken, and moped until a basenji puppy named Lindy entered his life.
Visit my basenji page to find out more about Lindy and her basenji companion, Connor.
Continue on to Avian Adventures.
Want to see some artwork featuring basenjis? Visit artfuldogger.com, featuring hand-crafted decorative objects for art and animal lovers. |
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All images and text ©2000 Tina Quinn Durham. |
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