I try to do my part for the world in general. I try to do the right and decent things for our momma earth. I like to save trees and barn owls and don't litter and conserve energy. Well, don't ask me to save electricity and turn off my computer, we all have to draw the line someplace. But I do type by the glow of the monitor, and leave the lights off. Of course that's what my family insists on when I'm up at 3 AM so I won't disturb them.
Where was I?
I'm a firm believer in spaying and neutering of animals. As soon as they hit the six month mark I yank them and their respective genitalia to the vet and have them rendered infertile. My home and yard is overrun with 'its'. I'm somehow a reject magnet, the drop-off point for all the unwanted animals.
No, you cannot have my address.
But, I have a kind heart for lost souls, since I am one myself. I cannot turn away anything with four legs and pitiful eyes. Notice the 'four' legs remark. That disclaimer precludes you dropping off your kids when they are driving you nuts, okay? Even if they mimic the quadrapeds.
Again, I digress.
Perhaps it's a law of averages of sorts and more females of the species are born, but definitely more females of any species are what find their furry little countenances at my humble crib. Shemales cost more to fix, of course. But, the ones that find their way here are population enough without adding to from the expulsion of by-products of lustful wandering, no matter how cute. As well, we can't abide the constant caterwalling, fighting and marking of territory that comes with the instinct to be 'all that'. So, fix I do before they do.
We had a rare find last year, a male kitty that made its home with us. I've been busy with one thing or another, had a schedule at work that kept me from being able to make commitments, and blah blah blah. The bottom line is that 'Dudley Do Wrong' has NOT made it to the vet yet. He's passed his six month mark and grown remarkable attachments for a cat of his size.
I shall tell you a small tale of his tail that will send me to the bowels of hell as far as moms go if my daughter reads this. She's 17, and sweet as can be, and more innocent than that. Dudley jumped up on the fence, and spying his 'accoutrements', she screamed in terror. "What's wrong with him? What's the matter? Help him!" (Can you imagine she once considered being a vet???) When everyone else recovered enough to howl with laughter she blushed and said, "Oh".
Dudley, your time has come, Old Boy!
But today was Josie's time. She's our puppy, female of course. She's white and fuzzy and trusting. She trusted me when I took her this morning, wagged her tail when she saw new people at the vet's office. Something in my demeanor likely alerted her that things were not normal, and by the time we made our way to the holding cage, she was clinging to me like a child.
I'm not sure who hated the parting more, but she definitely knew she was getting the raw end of the deal.
I came home and decided to take advantage of my time without a fuzzy ball at my feet licking my ankles, and clean my floors. So, on my hands and knees with paste wax I rubbed my hardwood floors. Then I scrubbed and waxed my linoleum floors. Then I cleaned my carpeted areas. Did I feel like wonder woman or what? Martha Stewart eat your homegrown handsewn ho-hum heart out. My home was glowing and ready to welcome my patched up pooch from her day of terror.
Josie came home, looking for all the world like a survivor of Auschwitz. In her accusatory "you tried to kill me" eyes was all the pain of war and wars yet unfought. Her fur was matted to her in places where she'd soiled herself in her aneth...anethest...anesth..anesthesi....when she was asleep in the cage. She smelled like a lavatory at a gas station in Doodlywop, Illinois on a hot Sunday afternoon. She could hardly stand, much less walk.
She's a good dog, a loyal dog, a dog committed to perseverance in the execution of her petly duties. A pat on the head will net you hours of undying love and affection. So, it stands to reason that if I give her 'spayed' she'll give it back to me in 'spades'.
True to her usual bravery in the face of a rolled up paper, her daring in the throes of combat with claw wielding cats, she mustered up enough strength to pee on the hardwood floor in the dining room. Then as if to assure that she was suitably impressed by the rest of my day's work she managed to poop on the hardwood floor in the living room. All of this exertion left her only enough bravado to barf on the carpet in the den on her way to lay her filthy self down on the carpet beside my bed. Then she looked up at me with a most pitiful face and a look of "gotcha".
Gosh I love that dog!