When One Plus Zero Equals Four

Sitting at the farm one evening (in the days when I didn't like cats - or at least I thought I didn't), Geri and I noticed quite a bit of activity around the grain wagon that sat in the aisle of one of the barns. Closer inspection revealed something that we should have always known: mice and grain go together like bread and butter. Scurrying up and down the wagon by the dozens were tiny, grey mice, basically making gluttons of themselves on the endless supply of grain. "What we need is a barn cat," Geri observed. I could find no reason to disagree with that, so while I stayed behind and watched the feeding frenzy continue, Geri headed to the animal shelter to pick out a barn cat. She had reasoned before she left that a barn cat was self-sufficient, you didn't need to feed them, they would hunt their food and water was always nearby. Sounded like a pretty good deal for me - and the barn cat. I glanced in the direction of all the fat mice and thought, "Just you wait...."

Eventually, Geri returned and as I watched the red pickup enter the yard, I was intrigued by what looked like four cat carriers in the bed. Hmmm...wonder what that's all about. I went to investigate and found that "a" barn cat had become barn "cats" to the tune of four. All black, all meowing in harmony, and all wanted out of their little enclosures. I looked at Geri and all she could do was lift her hands and say, "They kept shoving cats at me. Take this one...you'll love this one...if you don't take this one it will have to be put to sleep tomorrow. You're not going to leave this one behind are you? It's best friends with the other one you have there." Indeed, we came to find out that we- or should I say Geri-had saved four black adult cats from death row...there would have been no tomorrow for them.

Not being cat people, and having just recently re-entered the dog person world, we still had enough sense not just not open the carriers and let them out. We understood that they would scatter like buckshot and who knows when and where they would resurface. So I starting cleaning out an old shed that had once been a henhouse and, within thirty minutes or so, we took the carriers into the shed, shut the door, and one at a time opened the carriers. Four black cats scattered at once, but fortunately the real estate around which they could scatter was limited to about 100 square feet, four secure walls, and a door that could be latched. I left food (hey, they didn't even know where the mice were yet so I couldn't let them go hungry) and water, and we shut them in for the night. And, oh yeah, a litter box.

For the next four days, we returned, unlatched the shed door, eased in, and refueled and re-watered the four refugees, along with cleaning out the litter box. One or two were actually friendly, but one squeezed itself into a tiny space between the wall header and the roofline and another made it a point to be on the side of the room I wasn't.

The day arrived for the great release. Finally, we'd have four cats who could gorge themselves on mice for days on end and would require absolutely no maintenance from us. Yep, four great barn cats...independent...self-reliant...no trouble at all!

Right...

On the fifth morning, we opened the shed door to the bright summer sunlight and four blurs of black scattered in all different directions. Geri and I looked at each other, pretty clueless, just knowing that we'd probably need to leave some food out if they decided to return anytime soon. I mean, you couldn't expect a cat to just take right to mouse-catching, could you? Everybody deserved a little time to get acclimated to a new life, didn't they?

So into town for an automatic feeder, some good dry cat food, and back to the farm to set it up. Before we left we wandered around the barns and the fields calling, "Kitty, kitty" but Kitty times four was nowhere to be found.

Big lesson: you can't leave an automatic feeder full of cat food abandoned at a farm. Nope. Because the raccoons and possums have no idea that what you've left isn't raccoon and possum food. And, let me tell you, once the word gets out that there's a cat food buffet available, every critter from six square miles finds its way to the dinner table. Next morning all that was left was an automatic feeder that had been beaten and clawed to death in every way possible. And no barn cats. The mice were sunbathing, munching on grain, and giggling under their breath.

Over the next couple of days, when we came with the cats' breakfast, three of the four black cats showed up for their chow. I could hear number four hiding somewhere in the depths of one of the barns - a very hungry meow - but he wouldn't show his face. He instantly became Casper. In a couple of days, however, his hunger overcame his desire to lay low, and Casper joined the other three (Ringo, George, and Jelly Belly) and we had all four barn cats ready to start catching mice at the first opportunity.

Right...

Lesson two: Cats who have lived domesticated indoor lives don't know a great deal about mousing, especially not for their food, and especially not when it's so much easier to just show up at the shed every morning for the best canned food on the market. And, every evening, because Geri and I were certain that cats needed to be fed two times a day.

So here we are with four cats, four different personalities, and a deepening attachment to each one. I started feeling really bad about all the jokes I'd made over the years about cats and guitar strings. And we had no idea what an impact on our lives Casper, Jelly Belly, George, and Ringo would make. (To be continued...)

Old man George

Casper - one cool dude

Emerald II

A few days later, the vet calls and I can barely hear what she's saying because of some audaciously loud barking in the background. "Hey, Doug...your dog is ready to go home."

"Don't tell me that's him I hear..."

"Yep, healthy as a horse and ready to go..."

So Emerald came home. It would be an exaggeration to say that Geri was ecstatic about getting a second dog. There were some hints that the Shelter would be a good place to take him for adoption. I told her that I at least owed it to him to make sure he was good and well. You know, just make sure that everything's okay.

So Emerald set up house in an open-air shed off the driveway. It had a gate that I could close. Unfortunately, it housed a small flat trailer, but I went to the barn and brought up some hay bales and made Emerald a very nice outdoor home on the trailer with the hay bales keeping out the wind and weather.

Problem was: I didn't get to spend much time with him. He was sequestered and secluded, and, with the exception of walking him and sitting in the shed with him, he and I saw very little of each other.

Until the neighbor called.

Unbeknownst to us, Emerald had a habit of barking very long and very loudly at 2 a.m. each morning. With our bedroom on the far side of the house, we couldn't hear him. But the neighbor could. So it was back to two choices (in Geri's mind, anyway)...either the Shelter for adoption or inside with Baylee. At the time, Baylee was living confined by the means of a baby gate to the kitchen and utility room area. Emerald would just have to get used to the same thing. Yeah, right. Within five minutes, he had leaped over the baby gate and was politely sitting beside me on the couch, staring into my face, as if asking, "Now what?"

So once again, Emerald had barked his way into getting what he wanted. Eventually, we built a large enclosure for the two of them outside for their daytime life. Nighttime, they slept on the couch in the den, or the living room, whichever they chose. We were still doing nightly walks for bodily functions (theirs, not ours) and that got old. (Ever tried to hold on to an umbrella being blown upward by the wind in a thunderstorm waiting for your dog to go potty?) So next came the chain link fence all around the backyard for the daytime hours and back with us in the evening. Now it's pretty much the house all the time because the weather is just a little too hot or a little too cold or something that causes them to knock on the door to come in just about as soon as they get outside.

Five years have passed (seems like five months) and now Emerald and Baylee are as much a part of our lives as anyone or anything. Baylee enjoys her little brother, and, needless to say, we enjoy both of them.

Baylee meeting her new brother

He's mine and he's not going anywhere!

Checking out Tiger through the window

Outside time (rare)

Inside time (the norm)

Emerald

Then there is Emerald - always a day late and a dollar short. Not six months after Baylee found us, Geri and I went to the Shelter to see what was going on. Curled up in a basket on the counter was a sweet, little puppy with glassy eyes and a runny nose. We were told that he was a drop-off and he had barked from the back pens until they were forced to bring him inside. He had settled quietly into the basket and was watching the comings and goings with mild curiosity. He was such a doll, we offered to pay the adoption fee for anyone who would give him a good home. He deserved that for the credit of making a big enough pest of himself to get from the outside pen to the inside of the comfy basket. We were told that he didn't feel well, he wasn't eating or drinking, and, if we wanted to help out, we could take him to the vet.

He lay in my lap the whole way, his little body pushed up against me for comfort. He was lethargic and is nose ran the whole way. We walked him in on a leash. Inside, he spotted another dog and I watched his tail give one weak, little wag. We turned him over to the staff, ordering all his shots and tests, and asked for a phone call when he was ready to be picked up.

Two hours later the phone rang. It was the vet and it was bad news. Some of the worst news you could get. The little guy had parvo and was on his last legs. I had barely heard the word but knew it was usually a death sentence. I asked the vet what would be best and the answer was to put the little fellow to sleep. I told them I would handle the charges and thanked them for their time.

I'll never forget - it was about 4:00 p.m. that day and my heart took on a weight that I thought was going to sink it from my chest. I couldn't get the little puppy off my mind. And how he had been dropped off, barked his way to the front of the Shelter office, just to be discovered by me and then taken to the vet for a death sentence. I picked up the phone and called the vet office. When I asked if the puppy had been euthanized, I was told that he was being taken back at this moment. I asked them to wait a minute and explain Parvo to me. I had read quite a bit on the internet earlier and was convinced that euthanasia was the correct thing to do, but I needed reassurance. Could Parvo be cured? Yes...but it was expensive. Could this puppy be saved? Yes, but along with the expense, there was time involved, time for the virus to be shed through the poop, and just a lot of maintenance. I said, "Save the little guy's life." They said, "Credit card information, please." (To be continued...)

Baylee IV

At the Shelter, Beagle gal was subdued. The lingering effects of the valium probably had something to do with it, but I could tell it was more. It was defeat. And, as happy and satisfied as I was in capturing/saving her, I identified with her demeanor. (Yep...I thought I warned you...I will and do give "human" qualities to animals.) She was sad to the point that I was sure I saw tears in her eyes. Or maybe they were in mine. But there was still work to be done to get her adoptable (after all that Labor Day labor, she wasn't going to end up in the freezer in a bag). We plunked down the cash to get her checked out by the vet and spayed. So, after going to her and whispering that everything was going to be okay, we left.

Baylee at the Shelter

Two days later, Beagle gal is back with a shaved belly, fresh stitches, de-wormed, all shots, and ready for the adoption route. (We discovered that she was pregnant, so now any doubt that we did the right thing by grabbing her evaporated.) I was out of town and Geri reported the latest Beagle gal news by phone. She also mentioned that she had decided to bring her home while she recovered from surgery. Probably a few days - a week at the most - and then she'd be ready to go back to the Shelter and put up for adoption. And I shouldn't worry about us keeping her because she's definitely a hunting dog and needs a farm to live on and a place to romp. And we didn't need a dog. Or any pets for that matter.

I came home a day or two later and named her Baylee. She wasn't going anywhere. The transition was slow. Baylee didn't warm up that quickly to anyone. Odd thing about that: she seemed to trust and endear herself to people that shared her personality - humble, maybe a bit wounded themselves, with a reserved honesty. For awhile she stayed on a long leash in the laundry room. She could stretch the leash from the laundry room to the kitchen. Toys were bought and she mistook most for food so only the toughest nylon bones survived. Next step was off the chain but still confined to the laundry room and kitchen area. I installed a baby gate to keep the rest of the house Baylee-proof. When she wanted some play and companionship, she would push her nylon bone or another toy through the holes in the gate. There were lots of trips outside - in all types of weather, all times day and night - to do her duties. Plus several romps around the yard, Baylee leading, me stumbling behind trying to keep up. There were even a couple of great escapes which sent Geri and I running and calling her with flashbacks of the Labor Day weekend. (One thing you know if you have a Beagle, once the nose gets to the ground, the brain loses all respect for confinement.)

Baylee in her new home

Today, Baylee has the run of the house. And a chain-link fence. And two outside houses. Fresh sheets and blankets spread all over creation. And here's the rub. She owes it all to her little brother who would find us some 18 months later: Emerald. Emerald showed how ineffective a baby gate can be to a pup that doesn't want to be behind it. More on him in a later post. And, even today, she's still one of the most stubborn and independent little cusses I've ever encountered. And we love her dearly.

Baylee lounging

Cat Watching

With brother Emerald

Baylee III

That the little Beagle girl didn't want to be captured is not deniable. What she didn't understand is that we looked at it as more saving her versus capturing her and that we believed she was put in our path for a purpose. We had no concept of a future with the little gal...we just believed that she needed saving. The morning after the near-miss we returned to the same spot along the road prepared to feed her, but she was nowhere to be seen. I imagined that the close call was too much for her and that she had no intention of getting anywhere near that horrible man and woman again. We gave up and were driving toward the farm listening to the local Swap and Shop program when we heard a caller asking if anyone was missing a Beagle since one had appeared on their porch the evening before. When the caller gave her phone number, we realized it was our sister-in -law who lived next door to the farmhouse. We headed in that direction, got to the house, and, sure enough, the little Beagle sat a safe distance from the house in their yard. Knowing that there are lots of Beagles, I managed to get close enough to see the identifying mark I was looking for: a little white crescent moon at the back of her head. At some point, the brave, little girl had left the safety of her ditch home and headed two miles down the road in search of something a little safer.

If I went into detail over what transpired over the next couple of days (Labor Day weekend), you would stop reading. It is involved! I'll cut to the final scene: a hot Labor Day Monday, Geri and I armed with the Beagle's favorite wet food and some vet-prescribed valium. The setting was 300 acres of open farmland and woods, and, looking back, just the thought of the task of cornering and capturing a scared (and quick) Beagle would have been enough to make most people say, "Forget it."

Over a couple of hours, we coaxed the Beagle to eat some valium-laced food. We sat and waited for the valium to kick it. It did and the little gal became a little tipsy and lay down in the weeds for a short nap. Knowing that timing is everything, I headed in her direction with a collar and leash. A hundred yards, seventy five, fifty (Beagle sleeping, I think), twenty-five yards, fifty feet (I'm a genius - this is actually going to work!), twenty feet (Beagle opens eyes and looks at me groggily), slow,steady, fifteen feet, twelve, ten (I'm a double genius-almost there!), five feet, I reach forward with the collar (easy now, easy...quietly but quickly put - the - collar - around - her n...)wow! she's awake, up, and gone. Lesson fourteen: Even a Beagle on valium is faster than a 57 year old man.

I ran a lot that morning. Somehow I kept the Beagle contained in an area of a couple of acres. I intervened every time she got close to being able to get to the road. I had several near-captures. Often, both the Beagle and I had to lie on the ground, a distance apart obviously, and gulp in hot summer air until we caught our breath. Geri said, "You need to stop...you're not going to catch her." That's all it took. Round two began. And ended badly for me. Round three. Round four. FINALLY - the Beagle ran on my brother's porch and took shelter next to my brother's coonhound (Cooley - God rest his soul). She felt safe enough next to him (and it was almost like he knew what his purpose was - just stand very still and don't spook the Beagle) for me to get a leash around her. She and I were both completely out of fight. She put up just a minimum of resistance. I put her in a cage, loaded the cage into the back of the truck, and we headed for the Animal Shelter.

I remember one of the greatest sights of my life was looking through the cab's back window at three days worth of extraordinary effort laying comfortably on the floor of the cage, finally able to chill out and enjoy the fading effects of the valium. Neither she nor Geri and I had any idea of what the future would hold. But sometimes it's just enough to relish the moment. (To be continued)

Baylee II

Armed the next morning with dog food, bowls, water, and a collar and leash, we returned to the spot on Champ Road where we saw the skinny, wormy little Beagle gal. We parked and Geri called, "Come here, little girl..." over and over until, like magic, the little Beagle cautiously crept from the ditch. Obviously, that was her home and the place she felt safe. We opened packets of wet dog food and we could barely get them in the bowl and retreat a few yards before she wolfed the food. That was the first time we realized she had a bottomless stomach. (The other time was several months later when she downed a pound tube of ground beef left out on the counter to thaw and was halfway through the second pound when we returned home.) As soon as the food ran out, she retreated to the ditch and no amount of calling could coax her out. We knew we had to catch her to save her, but the prospects didn't appear that great. We returned that evening, and like clockwork, we called and she appeared from the ditch. After she ate this time, however, instead of disappearing into the overgrowth, she sauntered into a field and lay down for a nap. She allowed me to sit within a couple of feet of her as she dozed in the tall grass. I suspect she kept one eye partially open, just in case. So I was able to enjoy some quiet communion with the little gal before she awoke, took one look at me and trotted back to her ditch.

We decided if we were going to catch her it would be the next morning. Sure enough, she was waiting on breakfast and we took a bowl full of food into the field next to her ditch, but, but instead of retreating a few feet, I made a loop of the leash and circled the food bowl with it. When she lowered her head to eat, the plan was that I would then jerk the leash and snare her. To our surprise, it worked, but it was as if I had captured a mountain lion. The little Beagle went nuts. But I held on for dear life...except for a brief moment when something made my hand relax, and she - and the leash - were gone in a flash. Geri and I looked at each other dumbfounded as the little Beagle ran across the field, crossed the road, and disappeared into the pasture beyond. Luckily, the leash had released itself and we didn't have to worry about her getting caught in a fence. The little Beagle may have thought we were done - and truly maybe we did also - but there was more to come.

Beagle at rest

Baylee

Nope, you never know what's going to happen on a country road, but if you are Geri and me, I can guarantee something happens all the time and it has an animal of some sort attached to it. So here we are - same road, a couple of miles from the Trunk Kittens discovery. This was in 2005, a couple of years before our cat days, and actually during a time that we were "between pets." Another nice day at the farm, late August, early September, but oppressively hot in the way that only southern Tennessee can be that time of year. Labor Day weekend was upon us, and though I don't remember exactly what leisurely time Geri and I had planned, the little malnourished Beagle on Champ Road changed it in a heartbeat.

We had reached the paved part of the road, crossed Dickey Bridge, going west and passed a skinny Beagle trotting along the pavement heading east. Simultaneously, I looked in the rearview mirror, Geri glanced over her shoulder, and the little Beagle looked back at the passing 4Runner without breaking stride. A few seconds down the road and Geri said, "Well, aren't you going to stop?" Never have six words ever so quickly changed the course of events. I told her that I hadn't thought about it (maybe I had, maybe I hadn't) but at the same time braked and turned the truck around. The Beagle had stopped a safe distance away, hot, thirsty, and obviously in need of a meal. All we had were the remnants of some KFC carry-out - a smidgen of mashed potatoes and gravy, maybe a piece or two of extra crispy crust, and a little dollop of cole slaw. And, yeah, half a biscuit. We exited the truck, put the container on the side of the road (you've got to understand, this is THE COUNTRY, and the side of the road is a safe place most of the time). We had a bowl in the car and some bottled water, so we filled the bowl and placed it on the ground next to the food.

After studying us for what seemed like five minutes, the Beagle eased its way over to the food, licked the plate clean in seconds, and inhaled the water. In its eyes you could see it was still hungry. To the rescue came a bag of potato chips. I took a chip and tossed it toward the Beagle and the chip disappeared with the snap of jaws. Another, then another, then another. I was finally able to edge my way closer with a chip in my outstretched hand and the Beagle garnered enough courage to come and take it. It took another and I could feel its tongue on my fingers. I thought that this was a sign of trust, so I extended my other hand to pet it. The Beagle shot into the ditch. I saw "it" was a little girl and all we could do was call to "Little Girl" for a few minutes but she had found a safe place somewhere in the tangles. We assumed it was "home."

Obviously, we were hooked. The addiction to a furry friend in distress has to be worse than crack. Or alcohol. Or double Whoppers. And the next three days would turn out to be some of the strangest animal days of our lives. (To be continued)