Handy Pet Manual II

I am required by poop'ular demand to expand upon Handy Pet Manual I.

Virtually no one was pleased with my efforts in that posting.

Dog-Lovers world-wide were enraged by the truths I spoke in HP Manual I.

Cat-Lovers across the wide-world felt I had not adequately expressed the full glories of cats and catsmanship. Mea-Culpa. This time I'll try harder to meet all my devoted readers' expectations.

First, perhaps I was not entirely fair to dogs and dog-owners. Therefore, I offer the following additions to my earlier comments upon the glories of dogsmanship. A dog reflects his master. Therefore, I take pains in my unerring descriptors to consider both dog and master attributes.

Anybody likes his trouser-cuffs chewed ragged while patiently going about his daily errands -- he wants friendly neighbor-dogs running about loose.

Anybody likes the legs of his sweat-pants torn to shreds while out on a jog -- he wants other joggers accompanied by panting dogs on long leashes.

Anybody who doesn't like the legs of his sweat-pants torn to shreds while out on a jog -- he wants a bigger, meaner dog than other joggers' mindlessly drag along with them.

Anybody likes startling other shoppers into wetting their pants in the grocery-store parking lot -- he wants one of those frantic-little-yappy dogs tethered loosely in the front seat of his car.

Anybody likes having his bare legs sprayed with shards of dog-droppings when he cuts his lawn -- he wants untended dogs wandering free .

Anybody likes fishing his kitty off the top of the highest armoire in his home -- he wants an occasional indoor visit from one of those committed he-goes-where-I-go-dog-owning friends.

Anybody likes having his rugs and the skirts of his fabric furniture chewed to shreds -- he wants just any-old dog.

Anybody likes a variety of odoriferous doggy deposits hidden cleverly around his house -- he wants a dog. But he doesn't want to walk a dog regularly. Convenient doggy litter-box? Are you kidding me? A patient dog will explain: "That's what carpeting's for."

Anybody likes his perennials and ornamental bushes regularly sprayed -- he wants a too-well-watered dog.

Anybody likes a smelly-dog panting in his face -- he wants the dog belonging to a rude neighbor. All dogs smell, as do some neighbors. (Not my neighbors, of course.)

Anybody likes having his leg humped in public on his own deck -- he wants a friendly neighbor-dog.

Anybody likes an ugly dog (who looks just like him) -- he need only visit his local dog pound.


That's a rich-baker's dozen. I'll save the the rest of the gross GROSS for subsequent updates of Handy Pet Manual.


Onward to the uniformly uplifting attributes of Catsmanship. One hardly knows where to begin.

Kittens are uniformly cute, cuddly and delightfully mischievous. One hardly wishes them to grow up. Inevitably they do, however.

But never mind! Full-grown cats are beautiful. I'll describe my Gatsby-Kitty. He's typical of all the cats who've owned me.

As I look fondly down upon him this moment, his curious, upturned face is heart-shaped. His eyes are huge and yellow-green.

His ears are perfect concave triangles which he adjusts quickly to project a multiplicity of questions and attitudes. Ears upright, slightly forward he is alert and interested in unfolding happenings; pointed forward he is worried; upright-center: Stop loafing around and rub my ears and head fondly.

I am currently writing a huge Funk & Wagnells-like digest in which Cat-Ear-Postures are minutely described and explicated.

Whole-body cat postures also express the unutterable majesty of the inner-cat. At rest, he is supremely dignified. He sits like the Sphinx: proudly serene and monarchical. He stands slender, minutely-balanced, erect, poised for instant motion. In movement, he's graceful, nimble, and elegant.

My cat-Gatz is a gold-black tiger short-hair. He displays great strength and agility. He is quietly lithe, slender as a young dancer. As he moves, his powerful muscles slide gracefully beneath his skin. He leaps and bounds, whirls and floats in the air. All cats are athletic. But Gatz is the Michael Jordan of Catdom.

Gatz glides, moves with the astonishing grace of an Olympic athlete. I recently saw him glance upward from the base of one of our seven-foot quilt-cabinets, gather himself quickly, and leap effortlessly to the very top .

I do NOT exaggerate: Gatz sat quietly on the rug two feet away from the base of the cabinet. He pointed his head, shrunk into the rug momentarily, and sprung like an uncoiling spring. There was no discernible arc nor effort to his leap. Like an arrow, he shot nearly straight-up. To make the leap more difficult, the cabinet-top is tucked closely beneath a section of low ceiling. There's hardly enough space above the top of the chest to accommodate Gatsby's height. Yet, he hit the bulls-eye. Then he turned nonchalantly and settled in like the Sphinx, surveying all lesser, earth-bound beings, apparently stuck to the rug beneath him. Had I been wearing a hat, I would have tipped it to him in sincere congratulations: "Oh! King-Kat of effortless grace! I salute thee."

Gatsby stands approximately eleven inches at the shoulders and hind-quarters. Fully spread on his back on the carpet, his measures perhaps 24 inches. He weighs between three and four pounds fully fed. His whippy and teasing tail -- 12 inches. He's a small and compact. A slender kitty -- yet powerful nonetheless. He's both agile and strong. Such jumps are typical of Gatz and most Katz. They are nimble and powerful leapers.

In my lifetime I have out-lived perhaps six wonderful cats. All have been amazing athletes -- astonishing to behold in action.


Typically, cats are spoken of by the uninformed as lazy. Not so.

Like all cats I've observed, Gatz has a keen sense of comfort. He always sleeps beneath a lamp or in a patch of sunlight. He stays up most of the night patiently patrolling the darkened house. And if he deigns to sleep at night, it's almost always just outside the circle of some available night-light. His watchful eyes glow, reflecting the light-source. They reassure me: Have no fear! I'm here guarding you!

During daylight hours, Gatz takes a series of brief cat-naps, serenely wrapped up in a tight-nested ball. It's as if he somehow times his naps to coincide with the movement of the sun as it passes patiently across the south-facing windows of our home.

Gatz likes a wide, south-facing window-sill, or a slow-moving patch of sunlight on a soft rug. I can find him almost any time of day. I just follow the sun. He may be napping briefly. If he is awake he will be bathing himself with his tongue or stretching luxuriantly in bright sunlight, offering his warm belly for a sweet caress with either hand I may wish to use. He commands gently. I respond with equal gentleness.

Again, as I noted in Handy Pet Manual I, good pet-owner-pet relationships are much like good marriages. It's difficult to determine who's in charge. Such is the trust-level that often, neither party even cares who takes charge. Responsibility is apt to change hands in the passage of a day, a week, as life unfolds. Over time, in good marriages, control is mutually shared. Cats are somewhat similar: by nature they do much as they please. Yet what they choose to do is pleasing.

Gatsby's noble posture bespeaks quiet dignity. As with the aforementioned leap, his movements are minutely balanced and agile.

Our home has two wide and open staircases.

One stairway is a fifteen-foot, carpeted straight-shot. Gatsby negotiates this span in no more than three quick bounds. While it appears coming down is more difficult, he nevertheless finds three light bounds sufficient. He often lounges halfway up, waits for me to pass beneath him unaware, then reaches through the spindles with his soft paw and taps me deftly on my bald-spot. He never misses his target.

At such times, I turn to meet his mischievous eyes, and I can almost hear him laugh. He's so proud of himself. And if I don't take the time to reach up through the spindles and give his ears a congratulatory rub, I'm certain he feels neglected. In those moments he owns me. And we both know it. We have a good marriage, this lovely, loving Gatsby-Kitty and I.

The second stairway in our home leads to our hallway bedrooms, and it measures roughly fifteen feet. It rises to a landing midway, then turns, and leads to the hallway above. Gatsby reaches the hallway in three leaps: one to the landing includes a facile, airborne turn, two to the hallway. He is nothing short of an aerial artiste`.

To an aging man, this is not a good example. In my mind's eye, I see myself in one of those frightening television commercials, lying at the foot of the stairs, calling out mournfully: "I've fallen and can't get up!"

Gatz is nimble and quick. Me? Not so much! Recently I considered joining two closet spaces and putting in an elevator. However, two further considerations deterred me: I'm still quite agile myself, Thank-You-Very-Much. And I'm afraid that if I dare abandon stairs, Gatsby will become embarrassed about OldGuy me.

I can't risk that.

I never forget that at the heart of any loving relationship is the pride each takes in the other.

Recall the solemn words of the Book of Common Worship. . .how it commands all those joined in Holy Matrimony to "Love, Honor, and Cherish."

So let it be with Holy Katrimony!