The Kitchen Witch

Females have long owned the kitchen. For thousands of years, women have stood possessively around fires stirring pots while all eyes circled around her. Men would look furtively towards their meals bubbling over firelight, casting hungry glances at the females who guarded the meat as if they themselves had hurled the spears into the hearts. Women ultimately owned the quarry of the hunt, not the men. Queens of sustenance, they drove the men to wait passively until fed.

So why am I surprised that Singer has been stalking and surveying the kitchen? Saylor was my little housewife-in-training. She always watched me in the kitchen, preparing the meals. She noted the smells politely and watched hungrily when I lifted the savory roasts from their pans, the steam filling the room. Her head swiveled from the stove to the counter to the table. She would gobble up the tasty morsel tossed to her and wait for the next piece. Maybe it was because she was so well-fed, she never begged too much while the food was so plentiful. Sorry for her food allergies, I prepared each meal for her with bits of Cheerios, oatmeal, canned dog food (prescription) and her regular dog food. She was overweight, yes, but happy with her food courses. And content to just watch me in the kitchen.

But Singer, she’s something else. We have barricaded Dakota’s eating area but she still finds ways to paw around it and move the cat food to the floor. She does this when we are at work, so I make sure Dakota eats his food before we leave. Then if he doesn’t finish, the dish is moved up to the refrigerator. And nothing is left on the counter or oven to cool! I should know this by now, having left a pan of brownies to cool one day last summer and coming home to find the empty pan in the corner, licked clean. I spent a frantic night trying to make her throw up, but she was fine. The next day, the vet’s office called me to see if she was okay. Singer never showed any sign of getting sick, not even queasy. Now Singer gathers spoons that have dished out cat food from the sink and lovingly licks them clean, leaving them in my path to the bedroom. That’s all she gets, and she wants me to know it. She wants me to find them. She knows they have to go in the dish washer, but she's also telling me how deprived she feels.

This morning she was especially sneaky. I made cinnamon buns and left them on the stove to cool, and went back to the living room to read the paper with my coffee. I called her and she obediently came in the living room. Dakota took his place on my lap, I threw a lamb ear to Singer, knowing she was jealous of the attention. But she just sniffed it and gave me a passive look. Then, while I was deep into my reading, she sneaked off to the kitchen and I heard her. “Singer!” But she took too long coming back, and she was chomping on something delicious when she finally came, not looking at me. “You knew I couldn’t get out to the kitchen fast enough with Dakota on my lap, you little witch!” She doesn’t like to be scolded. She laid down at my feet. A few minutes later, she tried to sneak back, there were some more cinnamon buns left, after all. “SINGER!” She stopped short at the threshold and meekly took her place on the couch.

Jeff came in. “I heard you were a bad girly—counter cruising,” he told her in a soft voice. She was curled up into a tight ball on the couch and didn’t move. He kissed her head. “Even though you’re a bad girly, we still love you.”

When Love Becomes Distorted

When does love for your pet go over the edge into distorted wackiness? I think there’s a fine line that starts with your budget. If you want to buy expensive food for your pet to help ensure its health, fine. I think that makes a lot of sense, and I have experience backing up the claim that feeding your pet healthy food can help to ensure a healthier, longer life. I gladly put out the extra dollars to feed both Singer and Dakota high quality food, knowing that in the long run, my vet bills will probably be lower. Hopefully.

Recently, I was at a small locally owned pet store stocking up on food for my pets when I happened upon a new dog product—yak milk bones. I took a look, knowing that Singer will be boarded for a time this Thanksgiving, and me of course feeling guilty. But I was astounded to see the price for a 3.5 oz bone--$18.99! I know the store clerk, a young man named Jake, so I felt comfortable enough to bring up the price with him. He agreed that the bones seem ridiculously pricey. He also felt obligated to point out how long lasting they are, and confirmed that people are buying them. I asked him about cat products that are ultra expensive and he told me that there is such a thing as “gourmet” litter—outrageously expensive litter that cat owners are buying these days. Really. Why, they even have a $350 litter box, called “Litter Robot”! A user says, “At that price, my cat better be pooping gold!”

Here’s a brand new market idea: A pet line for plutocrats. Go for it.

I just have to wonder at the people who are spending that kind of money on their pets. Even those people whose taxes are bound to go up soon (it’s about time!) I’m not jealous, mind you, it’s just that I can think of so many better ways to spend all that extraneous cash on animals. Do those products really benefit the pets or their owners’ egos? How about paying for a pet sitter while you’re gone during the day? Or a dog walker? That way, you can benefit the economy AND benefit your pet! Instead of buying bones that cost more than ribeye steaks, why not sign up your doggie for play dates at the local pet center? Or give your neighbor teen a chance to earn some money by walking your dog? I’m not kidding myself into thinking that millionaires are reading my blog. This is for those people who might be “cheating” by buying those expensive products once in awhile just to make themselves feel good. I confess, I considered for a few seconds buying that yak bone. Then I got a hold of myself. Guilt does strange things to mamas…

I swear, even if I suddenly become a millionaire (no chance), I promise I won’t waste my money on yak bones. Or gourmet litter. Sorry, Singer and Dakota. There’s a limit to my largesse.

Singer's View of the Weekend

I had planned on grooming Singer this weekend myself, I really did. But then other chores and tasks filled my agenda, so I went to the Internet to see if I could find a groomer with an opening this weekend. I lucked out and found a groomer who had an opening Sunday morning. Her shop was a few miles out in a little town called Fitchburg. I was motivated. And Singer needed it!  As you can see from these pictures, taken afterwards, she looks good.

When I went to pick her up, the girl who runs the cash register asked me if she could take her picture with her phone and I said sure. Singer was standing on her grooming table and she shook her head impatiently. I called her and whistled to get her attention, but she gave me this haughty look, like "You don't know what I've had to put up with here this last hour..." and then she again shook her head, so I don't know if the girl got a decent picture or not. But she was good natured about it. On the way out, she nosed another dog waiting to be groomed and I imagined she was transmitting doggy code, "You better watch out for this one...I hear she's from Iowa!" She held her head up high and quick-stepped out of there, not giving any of the other lowly dogs a backwards glance.

I don't want to give you the wrong impression about Singer, she is such a sweetheart, she actually trembles with submissive joy when I come home sometimes. And she prances around the house in happiness other times, so glad to see her family. But she is rather snobbish to strangers. She deigns to allow a stranger to pet her, then noticeably backs off. She gets this distant look in her eye, like she is comparing the stranger to one of her servants back at her mansion. Not that we are rich, but I always wonder if she is reflecting some subtle key she is picking up from me, or if she is just naturally aloof. I asked Jeff about it, and he reminded me that we were told about her "princess" nature when we got her, but still. We don't think of ourselves like this at all. And Saylor wasn't like this, she loved everyone equally. But I guess, like children, some dogs have individual personalities that seem to come from nowhere.

Yesterday, I walked Singer in Garner Park, that lovely hillside park with prairie and woods and even a pond off the trails. A man approached me and I thought, political volunteers are even swarming the parks this weekend looking for voters before the election. But actually, he was a park ranger, I learned after I took my earbuds out and took his card. He explained that this park was a "no dogs allowed" park, and owners were subject to $114 fine. I looked around and started adding up the fine money for him and came up with over $500. He assured me that he didn't want to enforce the law, but he did ask me to contact my alder about proposing a fenced in dog park. Of course, I agreed. He said the idea of a three acre fenced park in the wooded area near the pond would allow dog walkers like me to enjoy the park and we wouldn't be breaking the law. I went home and emailed my alder, expressing my support and offered to give my time if needed. I sent a copy to Josh, the young park ranger, who emailed right away with an "awesome." I still think he acted more like an Obama volunteer than a government worker.

I hope we can construct a dog park. This park has been a favorite for Singer and me, and Saylor's before her. I still worry about allowing Singer to run wild and free with other dogs, but I know she longs to run. It breaks my heart that she hasn't been given the chance since coming into our home to run, but I just haven't been able to trust her to always come immediately when I call her. And I hope the other dogs don't size her up as a prima donna just waiting to be taken down a notch or two. I guess that's my real worry.

Sunset Velvet Head, Twinkie and Bingo Bango

These are just some of the names Jeff and I have made up for Singer. We’ve spoiled her greatly and love her so much. Does this mean she is a “dependent” and we are “the government” because we provide her with food, shelter and love? In other words, is she part of the “47% who don’t pay taxes”? Yes, I guess she is. When I started this blog, I promised myself I wouldn’t get political, but these times are just too compelling not to weigh in. Sorry about breaking my promise.

Dakota, too, is part of this crowd, a “moocher” as the media is calling these people. They were originally described as people who don’t pay income taxes by Governor Romney, and so therefore not of his concern in getting elected. His argument is so full of flaws, I won’t go into it, but suffice it to say, I don’t agree with him. So what does this have to do with my pets, or anyone’s pets? I think there are some distinct parallels. Pets are like are our dependents, yes? And they don’t pay taxes and sometimes act like “victims”. But do they really become so passive and just lie around waiting to be fed? I don’t think so. Take Dakota, for example.  Every morning he meows at about 5:30 in the morning to get our lazy butts out of bed. He sounds like a cranky drill sergeant and sometimes even makes his meow lower by a few registers for dramatic effect. He deserves an Oscar for the emotion he puts into it. Sometimes I can coax him up to the bed and I pet him while holding him down. But he soon breaks out of my arms and goes right back to his “job”—which is to get us out of bed!  I would argue that he isn’t being driven by a “victim” mentality, but he is motivated by a sense of entitlement, that’s for sure. And who can blame him, if he’s hungry, to want us to get up and feed him? But he is uncompromising about the time—can’t he just let us sleep a little longer? Please?

Singer takes a more assertive approach, also without a “victim mentality”—she paws my face until I get up and let her out. She doesn’t wait around or whine or bark, she just gets in my face, literally. But somehow, I don’t mind that approach as much. I can’t tell you why, exactly, but to get a scratchy paw in the face just seems preferable to a mournful meow that swoops low like the resinous sounds of a cello. The sound is grating, to say the least. More than once I’ve imagined throwing something at him to shut him up. So, to carry the analogy further, I guess we find people who “complain” about their circumstances more annoying than those who “get in our face” about it, right? Is it okay to become aggressive but not complain? Wait, that’s not right, either. Back to the drawing board:  we’re all dependent on one another and our pets expect a certain amount of care from us, just as our children or others who are dependent on us do. And I guess it’s up to us to work together with them to decide just how much we can do.

Now back to my original thesis—Sunset velvet head, twinkie and bingo bango, these are all terms of endearment that we didn’t just dream up out of thin air and apply to an empty vessel. They are inspired appellations because of the love we feel coming from our loving dog, whose essence of devotion, love, loyalty, fealty is real and of value. The same goes for Dakota, whose purring soft love pours out of him like a reliable engine. They are not takers, they are givers. 

Son of Luxor, Daughter of Dante

My pets are from some illustrious stock. Dakota Moon’s father was named Luxor, after the Egyptian city known for its “high social status and luxury, but also as a center for wisdom, art, religious and political supremacy,” according to a History of Luxor (Thebes). Luxor was a registered Triple Grand Champion with The International Cat Association. He was a big ragdoll, officially a blue bicolor, while Dakota takes after his mom in coloring as a seal bicolor, and is rather small for his breed. But his front paws are the same as his father’s—splayed outward. He also has a great temperament. Still he’s a bit of a prima donna. Lately, he’s been demanding different kinds of foods, he gets finicky really easily these days. So I have to rate the kinds of foods he likes, trying to please him. He soon tires of even his “favorites.” Next, he’ll demand only freshly cooked meats warmed to the perfect temperature. Such a spoiled one. Is that what his people had in mind for future generations when they chose the name Luxor for their cat? The epitome of luxury, he is surely a premium prince. This is a chicken and egg argument, but did we spoil him because of his father’s name or was he spoiled despite his name? Who knows? Maybe a little bit of each. Dakota means “friendly” in the Sioux language, by the way.

There’s an advertisement featuring an Irish setter with the caption, “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.” That always makes me think of Singer. She has doleful eyes set in an almost perfect face that just make you love her. And her father, speaking of elegant, is Dante’s Inferno, a champion who made it all the way to Westminster when Singer was two years old. Singer’s heritage, like Dakota’s, is top of the line, and her conformation, athleticism, and health show it.

Sometimes I imagine Luxor, who is now old (born in 1995 so he would be 17 years old) and Dante, who is at least middle aged, meeting each other. What would they be like together? Singer is so respectful of Dakota, and it came without any training or little prompting, so I have to wonder if she didn’t sense Dakota’s standing in the world somehow. Dakota, who was so equanimous even during Saylor’s trying puppy years, has now turned pretty competitive and jealous. Whenever I take Singer outside to throw some balls, Dakota meows to go out, too. If I pet Singer, Dakota wants equal time. Now I keep a special mouse toy on a string in the cupboard for Dakota up above his food. I play with him to help him feel special, while Singer watches like the princess she is. Saylor would never allow me to play with Dakota, she would always grab the toys. But Singer knows that Dakota feels threatened by her, so she watches with a ton of grace and good will.

But then again, I think these guys both have some inbred trailer trash in their lines somewhere. They both have proven they can be little outlaws and get in trouble with the likes of alley cats and ghetto dogs everywhere. Just tonight, Singer was licking up the floor with gusto for every drop of food she could scavenge. And Dakota loves to curl up in the darkest of corners, as if he were dreaming of being a hobo cat, owned by no one. Just when you think you get them figured out, they fool you. Just like a good novel that you can’t put down.

One more thing: Singer has a mesmerizing soul mate in the neighborhood. We were walking as usual and a man across the street starts waving at me (I usually am listening to my iPod, so I don’t pay attention.) I finally looked at him and his black and white standard poodle, then looked ahead to where he was pointing. I couldn’t figure it out, I saw nothing. I took out my earbuds and he hollered, “There’s a rabbit up ahead.” Then I noticed his dog, mesmerizing, just like Singer does. I laughed and pointed at Singer and told him they were both mesmerizing. He thought I was a dumb female and said they were pointing. Well, I knew that but…I like my description better. We both stood and waited while our dogs mesmerized until the rabbit decided to run away.

Animal Spirit Transfer

Singer, forever known now as the “Walk Witch”, becomes transformed by her daily walks. It is unchanging, the transformation, even if the circumstances are varying from day to day. Even though we might take a different route, or the weather is cloudy one day, steamy hot the next, she falls into the same rhythms during her walk. The first bunny she sees, she stops to mesmerize for several minutes:  her head erect, her nose twitching, her eyes focused. Sometimes her paw steps slowly, silently forward, inching toward her prey. Her elegant legs twitch in excitement—she is drinking up the essence of her bunny, who is motionless in terror, its black eye transfixed on the sight of that big red dog stalking just a few feet away. The bunnies never even consider running away at this time, it’s as if they’ve all made the assessment:  “My life is over—I could never run from that fast dog.” It also seems the very molecules that float in the air above the bunny are somehow absorbed by Singer. She is doing a sort of Vulcan-like transfer of animal spirits, I believe. And the transformation is completed as she suddenly comes back to the present, her walk, and she moves energetically forward at a pace that pulls at her long flexi-lead, so that I am straining to keep up.

I wonder just what is involved in this complex transaction of animal spirit to animal spirit during these walks. It seems that, whatever the process, it energizes Singer and she takes the rest of the walk at a brisk speed, somehow happier. I feel like a slow child, struggling to keep up with my super fast nanny, who has decided to embark on an ambitious exercise program for her chubby charge. “Come, come,” Singer might say in an English (or Irish) accent, “Hurry it up!”

I cannot help but admire her athletic movements several feet ahead of me. She slices through the air, whether it is wet-blanket humid out, or still and foggy just before rain, she moves at a business-like pace. The other dogs on our walk always stop to look at her; some bark energetically, trying to get her attention. She may get her guard up, and start to growl, at which point I carefully steer her across the street. Suddenly, I think of myself as being in charge again, instead of her, and I think of the near-miss of a vicious dog fight. I am always so relieved. Singer hardly takes any notice. She is on a mission:  “Come! Come!”

Other times we will meet our neighbors, who may stop to pet Singer and talk to me for a few minutes. Singer is aloof towards most people. I excuse her frosty manners, saying that she is just tired from her walk. But privately, I wonder why she is not a people dog, like Saylor was. She is incredibly bonded to me, I know how much space I take up in her canine mind: more than 90 percent, I’m sure. I know she lives and breathes by my wishes and actions. I can’t make any movement in the house without Singer trotting down from her couch to come check out my actions, see what I’m doing. It’s kind of a daunting relationship—sometimes, I actually invite Singer to “go see Daddy” (Jeff) so that she stops trying to paw me, or lay on my feet.

But man, every day I am so glad to have her. She is such an incredible animal. She has brightened my life so much, and I love her so very much. As I love Dakota, my sweet kitten, who is getting on in years. Both are such precious pets.

The Walk Witch Gets Her Wish

Singer is my walk witch. She never lets a day go by without reminding me in her subtle way that she wants to go on her walk. Doesn’t matter if Jeff or Nate have already given her one—she has to have a walk with me. Every single day. No matter how brutal the heat, or how tired I am, she wants her walk with me.

She’ll give me looks, wait patiently until I get up and then try to lead me to the front door. Wagging her tail, she’ll look at me as if I’m a dense child: “Do you get it? Walk?” she seems to be saying as she looks at me so expectantly. I might hurry on, as I did tonight, busy with dinner preparations. She’ll lie down in the kitchen to wait, watching me.

Like a witch, she’s actually plotting her next move. I have a daring thought: I think I may be able to sneak off after dinner to the deck and get some writing down. As I walk to the door, Singer’s right by my side, like a horse trotting to first place. She blocks the door to the deck. I stand aside and let her out first. She prances around the yard, checking out her favorite chipmunk sites, and I think, “Good, she’s happy.” I boot up my laptop.

She runs over to the deck, jumps up on the table and looks down at me, her ears hanging forward as she looks right into my face. Her eyes have a disapproving look, as if she is an old crone coming out of the woods, wondering if her potion has taken effect yet. “Singer,” I push-pet her back, but she paws at me. First one paw, then she tries the other one. She tries to paw my laptop, so I stand up and walk over to the railing, setting my laptop precariously on the railing. I get a few minutes of work done. She is still on the table, watching, waiting. Her patience is admirable.

I try to sit back down again, and the walk witch tries another tack. She starts lovingly licking my thigh, slowly at first, from top to bottom. It tickles. “Singer…” I try to brush her away. Finally, I look at her, laugh, and give in. The walk witch gets her wish.

Yesterday, a Sunday, it was too hot outside to groom Singer on the deck. So I set up a card table in the cool basement and worked on her. She loves the stripping comb now, which I use every week to keep her under coat thinned out. She sometimes lays on her side and I will slow down and work on her, remembering how I used to love taking care of my dolls as a little girl. I loved to brush their nappy rough hair, dress them, talk to them, bathe them. I would use my allowance and buy them diapers and dresses at the neighborhood drugstore. Teary Deary was a baby doll I especially loved. Singer Bell Ringer is my baby doll. She loves her weekly massages, and I love to brush her fur until it shines and smooth out all the tangles so that her fur lays nice and flat. She has a sort of curl to her coat, which is hard to manage—I suspect there are show products that get the curl out. But her weekly grooming sessions leave her coat looking more uniform, less clumpy, and definitely more shiny. She always takes a jog around the yard after we’re done, and I admire how beautiful she looks as she makes her way around the yard. She’s my walk witch, but I can never say no to her for long.