The promise of 2011

The living room floor is littered with squeaky balls, catnip cigars, Tuffie toys and little Kahnua toy that has proven to be every bit as durable as its claim. This is what the post-holiday house looks like when the kids are grown and gone, long past the years when Lego bits and comic books were left scattered about while video games lure them to other worlds ripe for conquering. The holiday itself hurtled towards me, only to pass in the blink of eye on its way to becoming one more memory of days gone by.

I’m not someone who frequently laments about how quickly a year has passed, primarily because during most years they seem to grind by slowly that I’m welcoming the chance to put it behind me and move on to the promise of a new calendar. This year, though, I have to concede that it did fly past me. Days, then weeks seemed to slide through my hand like droplets of water, running from my palm no matter how tightly I tried to cup my fingers. I felt perpetually behind. Not so far behind that there was no catching up --- there’s a lovely sort of beauty to be found in the occasional throwing up of the hands and declaring it all beyond your control --- but just far enough behind that it still feels doable, if I can just…

But sitting on the edge of the last week of 2010, the sand has about emptied in the hourglass and I just couldn’t quite get there. Rather than lament about all that’s been left undone, my husband and I began planning for 2011 with a week to spare, as if getting the early jump on the list will give us the time we need to make it all come true. For a change.

We’re again bantering around the idea of another pet, preferably a kitten. With the three who currently employ us all enjoying double-digit ages, we feel a need to insure ourselves that there will continue to be a purrbag should something insidious happen. It’s a straight-up bonus that Darby loves kittens, so another set of velvety paws would seem, to him, a gift.

I’m also seriously contemplating attending BlogPaws, something I had all but out-of-hand dismissed just a few weeks ago when I saw the announcement on Facebook. I’ve always wanted to be someplace where I’m knee-deep in other people who share my passion for critters and writing about them, but this year’s event was simply out of reach, from both a practical and financial perspective.

Now 2011 is peeking at me from just around the corner up the way, whispering hints of what might be possible. BlogPaws may be in my future after all.    

A Christmas Tale

What a lovely Christmas story...


Complete with update


Happy holidays.

Helping pets for the holidays

Chances are pretty good that if you are reading this column your pets are some of the most fortunate companion animals in Kern County. Not because my writing is that terrific, mind you, but because you care enough about pets to give up several minutes of your day to read up on what’s happening in the world of the four-legged critters in your area. In my experience, that translates as people who try their best to do right by the animals they bring into their lives.

As the holidays creep ever closer more than a few of you will have a little something under the tree for your pet, if the 2009 AP-Petside poll is any indication. When asked, 52 percent of respondents said they planned to purchase gifts for their pets for the holidays, despite the difficult economy.

I’m all for spoiling the fur-footed house inhabitants, but if you have a few extra dollars to spare perhaps during the season of giving we can all do a little something to benefit the pets who are not so lucky as ours.

Kern County Animal Control can really use blanket donations to provide a little warmth and comfort for the dogs out in their kennels during these wet, cold months. They ask that the donations be blankets, not comforters, because comforters can be shredded and the padding inside creates both a huge mess and a potential hazard if swallowed. You can drop blankets off at the shelter at 201 S. Mount Vernon Ave.

Bakersfield Pet Food Pantry can always use cat and dog food donations. Their goal is to help disabled and/or homebound seniors and low-income folks keep their pets by helping provide food to get them through the rough patches. Cat food always seems to run in short supply. You may go to their website to find out where to drop off your donation.

Helping Animals Live Tomorrow (H.A.L.T.) Rescue is selling one-pound boxes of See’s Candy during the holiday season to help raise funds. If you are planning to gift some folks on your holiday list with chocolately goodness, why not get in touch with H.A.L.T. and make your purchase doubly-sweet? Give them a call at (661) 395-3018 for more information about ordering.

Bakersfield Cat Control can use a little holiday love to assist in their mission to Trap-Neuter-Release feral cats and adopt out kitten rescues. They can always use cat litter and cat and kitten food. They are also looking for folks willing to sponsor the cost of humane cat traps, donate towards the cost of transporting cats to be sterilized and donations to help offset the costs of veterinary care for the kittens they rescue. For more information go to their website.

Finally, if your mailbox is anything like mine, you are probably being beset with requests for year-end donations, with many of those requests coming from pet and animal organizations. Please remember to think locally when giving money to help companion animals and donate directly to our local animal shelters, rescues and welfare organizations. Many people don’t realize that when they donate to the big national groups --- the ones who send out calendars, address labels and note pads --- that none of that money comes back to the local community. Help the pets in this area by donating directly to the groups who work to make a difference in the lives of homeless pets right here in Kern County.

Happy holidays to you and your fur-covered friends.

Happy Thanksgiving

A bloody mystery

Last Saturday was another slightly warmer than usual day for November, even for Bakersfield where the heat seems to fight against the approaching winter months far harder than is necessary. Though some of my friends love the heat and greet the late fall with a sigh of resignation, I love the days when one needs an extra blanket on the bed and warm comfort foods find their way back into the menu rotation.

I was hanging out in the backyard watching Darby do his favorite Darby backyard thing --- run from one end of the yard to the other, stopping briefly to let out a few of his singularly Darby-like combo bark/howl sounds, tail raised so high on his back that it seems nearly impossible to believe that it is still connected to the rest of his spinal cord. He loves his territorial outbursts far more than our neighbors do, but in the middle of the afternoon there’s little effort made by us to stop him from indulging. Honestly, if a dog can’t rip a few out in the middle of Saturday afternoon, when can he?

I hear the thump of the fence and look to see Bad Kitty Bo coming over the top. At nearly fourteen, I’d much prefer that he stay in his own yard, but the house behind us is the only place he really goes, generally two or three times a day. It was vacant for nearly the first year that we lived here so it became the de facto hangout for the area cats, pet and stray alike. The family who recently moved in have small children but no apparent pets of their own, and don’t seem to mind much that their yard is part of the feline superhighway, connecting one dead-end street to another. The cats who use their yard as a combination pass-through/lounge don’t much cotton to the humans living there, so when someone threatens to walk outside they scatter pretty quickly to less inhabited digs.

Bo usually walks the length of the fence line until he’s over our compost bin, where he will drop down with a thud before the final hop back to the ground, but not this time. For this reentry he comes over the fence, scrambles his way to the second half-fence wall about foot further in from the property’s edge and drops down to the ground. It’s an indelicate reentry, not typical of his usual graceful style.

A few seconds later Brindle appears on the fence ledge. We don’t know his actual name, but my husband starting calling him “Brindle” due to his striking classic tabby pattern and it’s stuck with us to the point that Darby will react if you use while outdoors. He’s the closest thing I’ve seen to a true feral in the area since we moved here a little over a year ago. He is uninterested in our attention or affection, but is secure enough that he will skirt along the edge of the backyard while we are outside, making his way from one street to another. He seems to enjoy Bo’s company and will rest in our yard near Bo if Darby is safely indoors. Like Bo, he seems stressed, as though they were the recipients of an unwelcome surprise. Brindle quickly makes his way down the fence ledge and disappears into the yard of another neighbor.

I head in with Darby, ready to get back to a pet-related blog-a-thon that is taking place over the weekend. I’m not a participant, but I’m not sure the average houseguest would have known that, given my attention to it. After giving the doodlebug his treat for coming inside, I cross the living room to get back to my laptop. I glance out the back door at Bo, who is now sitting on the patio.

The first thing I notice are the weeds wrapped in his fur. After six-plus years of him hunting along the bank of the American River in Sacramento I thought I had seen every possible type of weed that can get stuck in the longish fur of a Maine Coon, but I was mistaken. The house behind us offers a new variety for my fur-picking pleasure. Turns out it is a variant of the foxtail family (naturally), only instead of having barbed seed pods these pesty plants have heads on them that can wind their way into fur like thread on a bobbin. Fortunately, Bad Kitty Bo knows when we are trying to help ease his discomfort and generally keeps his meathooks to himself while we are relieving him of his unwanted riders. I sigh, knowing this will further keep me from blog-a-thon lurking, and head out back to start picking him clean.

That’s when I see it.

A bright red splotch of fresh blood about the size of a quarter mars the soft white beauty of his chest.

Damn. Damn, damn, damn. Damn the world that he is wounded and damn that the hurt happened on a Saturday afternoon, the time when veterinary bills magically triple.

Of all the things Bad Kitty Bo does well, one the things he is the very best at is being hurt. Bo becomes the nicest, most compliant cat in the world when he doesn’t feel well. I pick him up gingerly, trying to avoid the wound area, and carry him into the house, calling for my husband to help me out as I get him to his table in the kitchen. Yeah, you read that part right. He has his own table in the kitchen. Technically it’s for all the cats, but being Bad Kitty Bo means it’s mostly his.

John grabs some paper towels, gets them wet and brings them to me, then holds and soothes Bo as I begin picking the weeds out of his fur, trying to get him as clean as possible before we begin the part that will hurt. I get the weeds as fast as possible and grab the first towel, still wondering who hurt him. There weren’t any sounds to indicate a cat fight, nor did I see him get hung up on anything coming over the fence but there’s no doubt that something bad went down.

But not to him.

It wasn’t until I was on paper towel number two before my brain caught up with my eyes. Yes, there was blood, and no small amount of it, but it didn’t belong to Bo. The bright sticky mass coated the first quarter inch of the fur on his chest, but his skin remained white as snow.

We checked, then rechecked him. We checked his chest, his neck, his jaw, his mouth. Nothing. Not even a scratch.

Bo, weed-free and tired of the inordinate amount of now unnecessary attention he was receiving, struggled to get free. His needs having been met, he loped off to a quiet sunny spot to relax.

We spent the next half hour watching him as he cleaned up behind our cleaning job, looking for signs that might indicate what might have taken place during his sojourn to account for his “injury”. No matter what theories we come up with, the only one who knows for sure is Bo.

And he ain’t talkin’.