Note: This is an experiment—to see if some of my stories might work to fill in on Friday afternoons. If this doesn’t work for the Peeps. please let me know in the comments!
First, da rulz:
Here is a gentle reminder of how we do things:
Pooties are cats; Woozles are dogs. Goggies are dogs, too. Birds...are birds! Peeps are people. PWB Peeps are Pooties, Woozle, Birds People. Neat, huh.
Do not “Troll” the Pootie Peeps Diaries.
Whatever happens in the outer blog STAYS in the outer blog. This is a place to relax and play; please treat it accordingly.
If you hate animal diaries, leave now. No harm, no foul; these aren’t to everyone’s taste.
You are welcome to share photos of your own animals, or ones you just like.
If you would like a pic from the comment threads, please ask the poster. He/she may have a copyright to those pics. Many thanks!
If you have health/behavior issues with your pootie or woozle, feel free to bring it to the community. We just may have someone whose experience can help.
There are some pics we never post: snakes, creepy crawlies, any and all photos that depict or encourage human cruelty toward animals. These are considered “out of bounds” and will not be tolerated.
If you’re not sure about an issue...please ask. Someone is always glad to help.
What Martha's nephew, Jack, had in mind when he kept telling her to get a pet was some kind of dog about the same size she was, which actually wasn't all that big, but pretty big for a dog. “It's called protection,” Jack said.
“I live in a very safe neighborhood,” Martha said.
“You're rattling around in that house since Uncle Cal passed on,” Jack said. “It would be company.”
“I have lots of friends who come over,” Martha said.
“They don't come over in the middle of the night,” Jack said. “It's burglars that do that, and they ain't exactly sociable.”
Martha did let Jack drive her to the animal shelter once, but when they got there she wouldn't go in. She said animals in cages made her depressed.
“The idea is to get one of 'em out of the cage,” Jack said. “You just don't really want a dog.” He sounded pretty peeved.
“Dogs are too much work,” Martha said. “Sheesh,” Jack said.
On the way home, Jack said, “I don't know why you couldn't have just gone in there and got a cat. Cats are easy.”
“Right,” said Martha. “If they teethe on toys instead of your elbows and toes. If they comb themselves and clip their own nails. If they hate Christmas ornaments, houseplants, curtains, yarn, and all human food and never get nauseated except at the thought of eating birds. If they don't stare at you when you're in the bathtub. And if they change their own litter and take the used stuff out to the trash.”
“You haven't put up a Christmas tree in years,” Jack said. “And cats can learn to use the toilet.”
“Ha!” said Martha. “I bet they don't learn to flush.”
But then there was the kid ringing her doorbell one Saturday morning. He looked about eight years old. He was standing with his arms stretched forward and hooked up at the elbows with a cat draped across them. The cat had all its legs dangling and was making some pretty growly comments on the situation.
“You want a cat?” the kid said. “My mom don't like him.” The cat was squirming and starting to yowl.
“Poor kitty,” said Martha. He was a biggish stripy cat with big sad eyes. Martha picked him up the right way and he stopped swearing and started to purr. “Why doesn't your mother like him?” she said. But the kid was gone. The cat rubbed the top of his head under Martha's chin, so she just sighed and took him inside the house.
That afternoon Martha went to the Garden and Pet. She took a deep breath going in and didn't look in the cages. The salesman was very helpful. She bought food dishes in three designer colors, water bowls in hand-decorated ceramic, a velvet collar, a large-size litter box, a twenty-pound sack of litter, a case of scientifically engineered canned cat food, a six-pound bag of scientific kibble, a cat bed with a washable cover in red velvet to go with the collar, two catnip mice, three plush balls, and a pot of kitty grass. “Whew,” she said.
“Maybe an ID tag for his collar?” said the salesman. “Engraved while you wait.”
“Oh, okay,” said Martha. “You can put ‘Jack’ on the name tag. It'll serve my nephew right.”
On Monday Jack got a checkup and shots at the vet's and a license at City Hall. “I sure hope that's everything,” said Martha.
For a few weeks it was. Jack just ate and napped and looked out of the windows and sometimes
agreed to play with his toys. He wouldn't sleep in the cat bed but Martha was getting pretty used to having him jump up on hers. If she was quick enough getting into the bathroom she could have a bath with Jack on the other side of the door. Then one night she woke up and heard scratching inside one of the bedroom walls.
Mice, she thought. Drat! She leaned out of bed, grabbed a slipper, and banged on the baseboard. “At least go somewhere else so I can sleep,” she said. Then she saw Jack sitting up on the bed watching her.
“Don't you stare like that,” she said. “If you were doing a cat's job, I wouldn't be doing this.”
“I don't do mice,” said Jack.
Martha dropped the slipper and sat up. “Omigod,” she said.
“Now that I've got your attention,” Jack said, “I'd like to outline some necessary improvements in the management of this household.”
“What?” said Martha. “That's nerve!”
Jack stared for a moment. Then he blinked, very slowly. “Here's what I have in mind for the present,” he said. “You will, of course, receive further instructions on an as-needed basis.”
“Well!” said Martha.
Jack sat up very straight. “To begin with,” he said. “You have got the food sadly wrong.”
It turned out that scientifically engineered cat food came in several brands and each brand came in several varieties and Martha was not stocking up on enough of them. This tends to bore the feline palette. Martha promised to mend her ways.
“Good,” said Jack. “Now, as the mice have departed, you may go back to sleep.”
Martha collapsed onto the pillow. When she was about half asleep, Jack said, “You really ought to pull up your feet. They happen to be in precisely the space I wish to occupy.”
Martha groaned. “Don't make me pounce on them,” Jack said.
In the morning Jack was on Martha's pillow at six o'clock. “Beef formula for breakfast,” he said. Martha yawned, grabbed the edge of the mattress, and pulled herself up. “We haven't got that kind,” she said. “We will when you've been to the store,” Jack said. “Oh,” said Martha.
Martha brought home three brands of scientifically engineered cat food in a total of eight varieties. Jack sampled three of them right away. “This last kind,” he said, “will probably do, now and then, if what you're having doesn't interest me.”
“What do I do with all the stuff I bought before?” Martha said.
Jack blinked. Then he started to wash his face. “By the way,” he said, “if you think this is tough, wait til you have to give me medicine.”
Martha gritted her teeth. “Maybe you won't mind if I get some cleaning done now?” she said.
“Not at all”, said Jack. “If you vacuum now you will not disturb me this evening when I'm watching my kitty video.”
Later, while Martha was putting the vacuum cleaner away, it dawned on her that she'd never heard of a kitty video. “What kitty video?” she said to Jack.
“The one you're going to buy at the Garden and Pet when you go back for the clumping litter.” Martha didn't say anything.
“I much prefer that kind,” Jack said, ”but of course if you don't want to buy It, there are alternatives to my using the litter box. I note, for example, a large white box-like object that you regularly fill with water and then wastefully empty again without even taking a drink.”
“Clumping litter”, Martha said.
“Don't forget the video,” Jack said. “And you might replenish the kitty grass while you're at it.”
On her way home from the pet shop Martha stopped at a pay phone and called the vet. “What do I do with a cat that's demanding, cocky, finicky, and insulting; has a mind of his own about everything; and wants to completely run my house?” she said.
“Scratch behind his ears and say, Nice kitty,” the vet said. “And keep his shots up to date.”
“Oh,” said Martha. “Thanks a lot.”
For a couple of weeks Jack didn't make many comments. Martha was getting used to the routine, so she relaxed a little. Then one afternoon Jack picked at the door to the basement stairs until he got it open and then headed right down the steps.
“What—?” said Martha. “Don't interfere,” Jack said. “I've got business.”
Martha heard a loud thump, then another, then a crash. Flower pots, she thought. Then came several more thumps, a bang, the sound of cardboard boxes hitting the floor, and a kind of swatting sound. Then Jack came back upstairs carrying a mouse. He dropped it in the middle of the kitchen floor about a foot from where Martha was standing. Martha looked down and gulped.
“I thought you didn't do mice,” she said.
Jack sniffed. “How obtuse,” he said. “Can't you see this one's for you?”
Martha grabbed the edge of the sink and held on.
“Your performance is not yet perfect,” said Jack, “but it is much improved. I thought it was time for a little positive reinforcement.” He frowned at the mouse for a moment and then looked up at Martha. “Don't you like it?” he said. “It was the biggest one down there.”
Oh, thought Martha. She petted Jack's head several times. “Of course I do,” she said. “It's a very nice mouse, and you're so thoughtful and sweet and—“
Jack yawned. “It's time for dinner,” he said.
Later, while Jack was watching his video, Martha sneaked the mouse into the garbage. Poor mouse, she thought. Or is that disloyal? Anyway, let Jack think I ate it. She went to see what was on the video.
At first there were mice on the screen, just ambling around and sometimes tripping over each other. Then there were birds at a feeder and then squirrels playing and then some ducks just floating. “Why, this is nice, isn't it?” said Martha. “It's kind of soothing.” She sat down on the davenport next to Jack.
“On the contrary,” said Jack. “It stirs the imagination considerably.” He rolled over on his back, stretched and yawned. “Actually, I'd be pumped if I didn't have a lot of resting to do.”
“Well,” said Martha, “that's because you're a cat. I have my own opinion.” Jack stared.
“Well,” said Martha, “I guess I can have an opinion. Even if I do own a cat.”
“The idea of owning a cat,” Jack said, “is enough to make a cat laugh.” And he did.
By the time Martha had stopped shaking the video was over. “You could start it up again,” Jack said.
Martha did. Jack walked onto her lap and sat down. Martha scratched behind his ears. Jack curled up and purred. Martha kept petting while she looked at the TV screen.
“Hmmm,” she said.
The second time through, the mice in the video seemed to have more pizzazz.
Thank you for reading this far! I’m trying to supplement a very small retirement income by earning something from my stories. IF you like my stuff, please consider helping me out a little. My PayPal account is here. Thank you!