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Wednesday, May 04, 2011
Pack Leader.
Mickey.
CHANGING OF THE GUARD. Things don't always work out the way you expect. I grew up in a house with two dogs (usually) and a cat (sometimes). The dogs were smart, German shepherds and various terriers, who were always in charge one way or another. Everything changed when I married Mrs. CP. As I've written before, sighthounds aren't always the sharpest knife in the drawer, and it's a comforting thing not to be constantly outsmarted by willful pets. Except that nothing ever really goes according to plan.
Life with Mrs. CP also means cats. I've told you about Izzie the Bengal, who's a handful, and I'm pretty sure I mentioned the three ferals too, including the sad fact that one of them recently died. Penny.
She was the in-between one. Cassie remains completely feral. She lives in the garage and hides, hides, hides. Mrs. CP announces a sighting as if she's seen a wonder. "I saw Cassie," she says. Which means she's still alive. Hooray. The ferals were all from the same litter. Cassie, Penny, and Mickey. Penny tried to bridge the gap, came into the house, occasionally consented to be petted, but somehow escaped into the out of doors and was lost to us for a month. We could see her, slowly starving to death outside (feral doesn't mean you know how to hunt), but she couldn't bring herself to come inside. When she finally did she was skin and bone and Izzie sensed vulnerability and attacked and attacked. Penny regained some weight but never her health. She died some months ago in the living room. Maybe the most beautiful of them all. I will never forget her huge startled eyes and the white flash on her chest. Even more, that she sometimes let met stroke her, which felt like an extraordinary privilege. Miss her.
Sighthounds. Blah blah. Molly the beautiful. Andrew the dour. Raebert the impossible. I know I haven't provided an update about this monster lately but he's huge and he has eaten everything in his path. Plus, he insists on carrying everyone else's bowls into the dog yard and arranging them in some configuration of his own. When it comes to mischief, he never ever ever ever stops. He barks constantly. He can't resist messing with the greys or the cats. He's gorgeous and completely incorrigible.
But he's not the pack leader. That would be Mickey.
I didn't really realize it until we got Elliott, whom we've introduced before. Elliott's mom was afraid that he was such an alpha cat nobody else could live with him. Turns out she was almost right. Except for Mickey.
But I probably wouldn't have realized all this if it weren't for Elliott. Who is definitely an alpha cat and very very smart about dogs, even giant dogs like Raebert and tornado dogs like our pug Eloise. He just stays cool. But he does pick fights. In the first week he got into it with "Sugar Ray" Izzie (a draw), and then he squared off with Mickey. Who weighs twenty pounds and doesn't care who you think you are. Advantage Mickey.
Cutting to the chase. Elliott likes to hang out. So does Mickey. They take turns. But what I've been realizing more and more is that Mickey shows up for a purpose. Yeah, he likes affection. But what he really is is the Man. He's there when it's time for the dogs to go outside, when it's time for them to be fed, even though he has no set dinnertime but a constant bowl of catfood he can dip into anytime. Mickey is the pack leader. He tells me when something needs to be done for the others.
Go figure. He's a feral. It took me years to gain his trust. Now he trusts me, tells me what to do, and purrs when we understand each other. Life is a beautiful thing.
We hang out, too. He's enormous. And his eyes are the size of saucers. He's handsome. We have three cats who act more like dogs. They know their names, they come when called, and, well, isn't that the definition of a pack, even if the dogs aren't always as responsive?
