Coco and Sunny were the undisputed rulers of our hearth and masters of the dog yard. These were my husband's dogs — big, retriever-sized country dogs, siblings, and already well past their deer-chasing prime when we'd married and I came to live with all of them. Coco was the instigator and brains; Sunny furnished a good deal of brawn and support.
Coco and Sunny "worshiped the heat god" whenever it was cold outside and Forrest set a fire in the stove.
Orange County passed a dog restraint law when these two were three years old, and for the rest of their lives Coco and Sunny fought the change. Several schemes to restrain them failed. When they repeatedly mowed down the first fence, Forrest switched to tie-outs. But until he discovered airplane cable and spring clasps, the dogs would periodically charge in unison against the rope, leaving their run empty of all but broken eye hooks, snapped chains, and chunks of wood ripped out of the house.
Little Shoe was fond of snuggling down in things like boxes.
By the time I arrived, the pair had become too old to put as much energy into escapades, preferring to bask in the warm sun or worship the fire in the wood stove on chilly days. Of course, both felt duty bound to take advantage of a chance to escape. The new dog yard fooled them at first. They'd rush out of the open door fairly leaping with the thrill of no chains, then would realize they were in a fence, dog-gone it.
But now, Coco had diabetes and was working on her last few turns in this mortal coil. Sunning had become her passion; sleep, her daily work.
Sassy cat was indeed a sassy girl! My daughter's pet didn't scratch and bite, but she sure could sound like she was going to chew your face right off.
Our house also sheltered a parade of cats. At the time of this story, the feline count was low, and included my daughter's 6-year-old orange longhair, the aptly named Sassy, as well as Little Shoe, an 18-year-old calico, and Bumpus, a 3-year-old mentally and physically disabled gray. We'd recently lost Salome to old age; the 19-year-old black Siamese mix had been Little Shoe's lifelong friend and surrogate mother to Bumpus.
Forrest's sister-in-law rescued Bumpus from the side of the highway when he was a kitten. riddled with fleas and parasites and suffering from a severe ear infection. It took a long time for information to perculate into the "action" area of his brain.
"Look at this floor," my husband would say if I mentioned "our next dog."
"Look at the door jam," obviously scratched. "See the legs to that table? That's because of these two when they were puppies."
"Sunny chewed on this book."
"That stain is from the dogs."
"They're destructive!"
I understood why he said these would be his last dogs.
Understanding doesn't necessarily mean agreeing. >>
