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Heading Into Autumn

25 September 2021

The pets are heading into autumn, and, not far behind them, am I. Dear Husband is keeping pace with them!

The Problem at Larkhaven during the past ten days has consistently been The Coyotes. The time of the Harvest Moon only intensified their midnight moonlight gatherings.

“They’re nocturnal creatures,” I explain softly but firmly and diligently to Chance, who is worn-out, asleep, every morning, on the couch. He almost feels sorry for himself.

Last night, on towards nine o’clock, this wonder beagle cried, yet again, at the inside pane of glass of the kitchen door. He’d heard them, and even saw one of them by the detached garage.

Dear Husband told me that he threw a stone at the vexing animal, which he claimed was smaller than our rather large hound. The nasty critter skulked away, as all coyotes do, in a sneaky, snarly, almost human-like manner. He looked back over his shoulder, as if to say, “I’ll get back at you. I hold grudges.”

“That coyote is too close to Gabby!” I exclaimed.

“The doors are all closed,” was the comforting reply.

I then gave thanks that Annabella is in a much better and safer place. By now, my beloved black cat would have discovered a much beloved cachette, somewhere here among the pine trees and leaf-covered slopes. And one of those punk predators would have found her. AB in her celestial cachette is a soothing thought for me on this day, on many days, and during many nights, particularly those of the past dozen eventides.

For almost two weeks, the after-dark slumber has been interrupted, most definitely interrupted, by the Call of the Coyote.

The beagle-sentry watch begins in the evening, although it never truly ends during the day. Chance cannot get the taunting yapping cry of Canis latrans out of his head. That signature note of the West has become the signal to do his duty to the non-sleeping Homo sapiens. There’s more than a power struggle going on here; it’s an endless haunting refrain that even the strains of Chopin cannot soothe.

Whenever the coyotes yip, and yap, and yip, Chance dashes outside, and those infernal mammals stop. Obviously, the intentional training here is that He, Alpha Male Dog, has silenced the noisily annoying carnivorous creatures.

He’s shut them up!!

Who in the world, upon this day, would not like to have a similar power over the jokester vegan-beasts of prey as they assault the right to pray, the right to bear arms, the right to speak freely, the right to peaceably assemble, the right to laugh at them, the right to live, and the right to be???

I suppose that I can learn some valuable lessons from my canine pet, if only I could sleep soundly enough to be able to focus on contemplating whatever those learning moments might be!

My REM moments, though, are quite plentiful, almost dream-like, compared to those of Dear Husband. He is the one who must contend with the All-Day and All-Night Champion of Coyote Chasing. This round-the-clock rapid instinctive response of the doggie does not go unrewarded. We gently praise Chance Beaumont for his beagling; and then we pray the coyotes are gone for this season. They’ll move elsewhere, to scavenger and sleep-deprive another domicile filled with humans and the pets that so diligently and vigilantly protect them.

Chance takes his mission a little too seriously. Actually, he takes himself a little too seriously. One would never know, judging by his slumbering pose on the sofa and by the lumbering way in which he deals with most of his every-day routine, an activity that involves a lot of inactivity. He only reliably comes to life, in lightning-fast motion, whenever he hears the call of the wild. The call of nature does not move him with such impulsive urgency.

He is a hunter, which means he needs something to hunt. The Coyote is filling that need. The high-speed puppy-playtime of Houndey-Boy has evolved into the Adult-Dog Crazed Chase . . . of the Coyote.

Chance has two speeds: full-bore adrenalin rush and the mopey slump, akin to a sack of wet concrete. There are no IV drugs involved in this behavior pattern. It’s all natural body chemistry.

Gabrielle seems oblivious to the entire over-turning of the people’s shuteye schedule, and to the trembling and whimpering frustration of The Dog. At least he’s not baying-fretting over getting to her! She, the pretty but demure provocateuse, was born knowing the art of diversion, distraction, red herring and smoke-screen. She’s lived in enough smoke during the summer to have mastered those techniques of survival.

Gabrielle the Snowshoe has thus earned the rank of a contented queen in her garage-castle. Consequently, I humanely and charitably took the appropriate step of purchasing a new cat-bed, along with a much better Magic Heat Source, to ensure her abundant comfort during the cold, wet months of winter in our region.

My research work of reviewing the feline repose-merchandise on Wayfair and Chewy was made much easier, once I surrendered to the inescapable fact that such products are Only Made In That Commie-Country. With a sigh, I felt some semblance of gratitude that the packaged pet food is no longer made Over There.

When first the Milligan Family adopted the two abandoned and very small, very young and nearly emaciated cats, in March 2008, we had to steer clear of purchasing certain brands that were undergoing massive Pet Food Recalls. That manufacturing had been hornswoggle-outsourced to a nation whose human beings eat pets for dinner, and consume, as delicacies, bats, rats, and creatures you’ve never heard of, and don’t want to hear of. If only the coyotes would make the desperate journey over that land bridge!

One online reviewer of foreign-made cat food expressed palpable fear about her cat. “She’s only 12 pounds, and is losing 10 percent of body weight a day. You do the math!”

At that time, Gabby was a cat-junk-food junkie. Meow-Mix, made in the USA, was her meowy-favorite. Annabella would have none of the stuff, which is a smelly blend of fish broth, chicken by-products, corn gluten meal (ugh), beef fat and artificial food colorings. This bewitching creature-blend of black Burmese and American shorthair turned her little cat nose up at those delightful shapes. She turned her back on the entire set-up (food bowl and water bowl) and walked away. She’d have no part of the colorful corny cholesterol in that saucer.

A very intelligent cat! (There were birds to kill, and eat, in that upper parcel of untamed land.)

The Snowshoe cat adored the cute itsy-bitsy shapes, and the wonderfully varied shades, of this feline form of Lucky Charms. It was like being in kitty-kindergarten! Princess Gabby was quickly deprived of this kitty snack food, thereby permitting the lure of the Black Cat back to the social contract of civilization and prepared cuisine. Only the very best cat chow, also Made in The USA, would ever enter those royal blue enamelware cereal bowls (which, alas, were not Made in The USA).

It was an intensive, exhaustive effort to wean Gabrielle from the treacherously tasty mealtime snacks, but she successfully got over at least this one symptom of her Abandoned Cat Syndrome:

an instinctive but panicked freak-out over any alteration in the shape, size, texture, taste, and smell of the food in her serving container.

We’ve wisely maintained the same feeding bowl to conform to her finicky tastes, a decision that aided in her more serene acceptance of any change in her diet. Those nutritional swap-outs have been frequent because the manufacturers of the salmon entrée would consistently stop making that particular variety. Variety may be the spice of life, but it’s not for a sweetly neurotic furry animal who has completely come into her own since her “sister” left her side, physically.

The heating pad tries to replace those arms of Annabella around her in the wintry weather, but I believe that warming device is merely in addition to the big warm hug that holds the Snowshoe now, in spirit.

In honor of Annabella’s month, October, I wanted to assure The Gabrielle that she has achieved the regal status to which she’d always aspired. I joyously purchased online two vintage Fenton shoes for my new work space (that is still being assembled). The pink shoe grants recognition to the Snowshoe, with her femmie-pink q-tip paws. The other piece of art glass, the one with the Art-Deco style feline head, unmistakably gives humble but minxy tribute to my black cat.

The type of glass and finish, or glaze, used for this shoe with the cat-head is known as Burmese. Yes, the Burmese one is a beauty — just like Annabella!

Chance is gonna have to take some chances tonight and let go of his ingrained obsession with Catching the Coyote. I’ve tried going to bed late, after midnight, hoping he’ll have the hunter-hunger out of his system. The results were miserable. After midnight is when the race to the door gets its most intense.

Confidentially, I think Chancey Boy is having the time of his life. His Houndiness just wants his night to yowl, every night. I’m starting to think my dog has coyote-envy. Perhaps the black cat in me can help him to satisfy his inner wolf:

We can howl, in harmony, together!

As for my Snowshoe and me, we can think along similar lines. The social needs of this sighing lovely keep me busy, especially at 4 in the afternoon. The Gabrielle runs a tight extroverted companionship ship, but I am rewarded for my dependability with her sweet affectionate loyalty.

I also try my best to tend to her sensitivity to cold. She’s prone to catch a chill. The first 45-degree F dawn arrived today. I donated one of my old used hats to her. She’s ready for winter!


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