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September 27, 2005

Honest to Dog

Caleb, Tracy and I can't walk down the street without at least a few passersby, in apparent shock of recognition, squealing, "Lassie!"

I no longer try to explain that these little collie lookalikes are neither collies nor "miniature collies" (there's no such thing), but a distinct breed called Shetland Sheepdog, or Sheltie, bred small in Scotland centuries ago just as Shetland ponies were. When stuck behind a flock stalled at an impasse, they have been known to leap on the backs of the sheep with their dainty paws, walk to the front of the herd, jump off and lead them out. Another inbred quality is their
shrieky barking, not great in the city but desirable on the North Sea coast; it would be advantageous to hear them, with their rescued strays, above the thunder of crashing waves.

The dogs and I live with two felines: a tabby called Izzy, short for Isabel (and recently nicknamed Wabi-Sabi because of her VERY imperfect homely beauty); and the jet-black, sloe-black, ebony-black, constantly chortling, mysteriously elegant Poe.

The other day Poe went missing. Looked high and low, but no Poe. Remembering hearing about dogs being able to find a piece of old chewing gum under 3 feet of snow, I rallied Caleb and Tracy for the hunt. "Dogs, go find Poe!" I commanded. I followed them to the front studio. They pointed long noses into one of the sculpture shelves. Sure 'nuff, there was the unseen Poe, curled on the roof of my miniature Temple of Dendur. "Good dogs!" I said, with originality. They gave me their versions of a shrug and a "duh!" and returned to napping.

Poe has just one bad habit. She moves small important papers from one end of the apartment to the other. Paychecks, photos, slides, receipts, etc. end up in the strangest places. She also enjoys emptying trash cans by toppling them and dragging their contents all over.

Caleb, who is on the aloof side of affectionate, did something unusually endearing the other day. I was talking to a friend at the Washington Square Dog Run, and Caleb was sitting by my side. While my attention was diverted, he used his nose to fling my arm over his shoulders.

The first couple of weeks after I brought Izzy home from Kitty Kind she hissed, bit and scratched. Finally I phoned the cat rescue place and said, so that Izzy could overhear: "Sorry, gotta return the tabby. I've run out of band-aids and patience." They said fine. Afterward I gingerly approached the curmudgeonly cat and from a safe distance said, "Izzy, you're soon to be a Was-ee. You're going back." She blinked at me with her peridot eyes. She didn't snarl. I came closer and ventured an experimental pat. For the first time she purred. From then on she's been as sweet as sucanat. Maybe I should call her that. Every night she sleeps on my pillow. From time to time, in the wee hours, she stretches out a politely sheathed paw and gently strokes my face.

Caleb, who is 4, was my first pet. As a puppy he taught me many tricks. My favorite is fetch. I throw a ball, he retrieves it and carefully, decisively, precisely plants it between my shins. He does that every time.

I just heard about a dog who jumps on a chair to open a high kitchen cabinet, from which he purloins a fresh bag of treats, CLOSES THE CABINET, jumps to the floor, and devours the treats. His last act is to hide the empty telltale bag.

What do your pets do? Please log any animal antics below.

Posted by Jane on September 27, 2005 10:29 AM

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