The Cat's Out of the Bag

We brought little four-month-old Frankie home from the Humane Society in January.  I thought I would need more time to get over the untimely departure of Bailey, our five-year-old kitty who unfortunately developed some kind of tumour, but I really missed the adorable purrs and mews of a cuddly creature who could romp around and play with our lonely dog Braxton.  

To see the stacked cages and all the sad looks on so many animal faces was heartbreaking.  Each one vying for your attention, hoping they would be picked for a new forever home.  How do you choose?

But I knew instantly that Frankie was the one.  She was so tiny, but her persistent little meow and the way she rubbed herself against the bars of her cage to flaunt her obvious cuteness demonstrated her feisty character.  We needed a cat that could hold its own against our enormous and playful dog, not give the poor pussy a heart attack.

So we brought her home to introduce to the family.  It took a few days before I was sure that the dog knew she was not meant as a midnight snack, but Frankie knew as soon as she was released from her kitty carrier that this was her turf now.

I was amazed and amused at how she taunted the dog so blatantly, strutting about with sheer arrogance, getting just close enough to Braxton so he would pursue a sniff, moving a little too quickly, so to ensure a scolding.  Frankie relished. 

Now that's she's a few months older, she has taken even further control over our powerless canine.  First thing in the morning, she climbs out of her little bed, down the stairs to the dog and promptly swats him in the face with her razor-like claws.  He lays without moving; he's grown used to her torment.  She persists with some tail biting until he wiggles away and comes to my side for protection.  Sorry big boy, you'll have to handle her yourself. 

 

It's most entertaining when he does get into it and they play fight.  The cat curls around the dog's head and bites all over, jumping back and forth while he tries to pin her down and show her his enormous teeth.  He pushes her belly with his nose and she tries to latch on.  Who needs tv?  I could watch this for hours!

Then when they tire, they curl up together for an impromptu nap - what good pals. 

 

Harbouring an Outlaw

Since August 25, 2005 I have effectively been harbouring an outlaw and I must say that through the the almost 4 years that have passed, it hasn't gotten any easier.  

I am referring of course, to the breed specific legislation passed in Ontario, which is supposedly aimed at making the province safe from 'dangerous' Pitbulls and similar dog breeds.  

And there was poor Braxton, still only but a wee puppy when the dramatic media frenzy began in 2004 that ended in the passing of Bill 132, plucked from low-hanging fruit of fear mongering and diversion, on the steps of the legislature.  

Braxton is now forced endure the scorn of onlookers, to bear the scarlet letter, the Dark Mark of the Death Eaters, the mask of Hannibal Lecter.  

To see his caged face insights fear in small children and sees small-dog walkers running for the opposite side of the street.  It is with shame in his sweet eyes and a somber bowed head that he asks, "Won't you love me?  Won't you play with me?"

Never again will he feel the fresh summer air on his unobstructed face as he frolics free in a field.  He remains forever chained to the leash of injustice, an animal clamped down by the laws of man.