Musings of Patches McFuzzynut

Patches has a lot to say lately.  She’s eleven years old now.  That’s 77 in dog years.  I suppose it’s not all that unusual for people that age to have a need to share all of the wisdom they’ve gained in a lifetime.  Or, just complain in general.  But I figure she’s earned the right so I thought I’d share with you some of what she’s imparted to me.

Last night her brother Vance commented that we don’t have any “normal” animals in this house.  He said that we have one cat that we all believe is satanic,  one cat that is a blob who only moves when food is involved, a dog that is so laid back that she makes Gandhi look like a chihuahua, a dog so uncoordinated that it’s a wonder she doesn’t fall right off the side of the earth, and then there’s his spoiled rotten sister.  Patches didn’t really agree with that last part, but Vance said it, so I thought that I should relate the statement to you in it’s entirety, even if it’s a little less than precise.

The demon cat is always stalking someone or something.  She reminds me of a ghost in a Japanese horror film.  If you look at her, glance away for a millisecond and then look back, she has somehow managed to move three feet closer to you, all the while with the same plotting gaze.  It’s unnerving.  Nothing seems to make her happier than crouching near the door when the little dogs go out to potty.  As they are called back in, if she can pounce in time to swat them on the rear, she seems content to call it a perfect day.  We believe it’s possible that she was a basketball coach in her previous life.  She swears that she’s just directing traffic, but Patches tells me not to believe a word she says.  The thing is,  she just showed up at our door one day, and rather than put salt around the house as I should have, I invited her in.  Patches says that was my first mistake.  Sigh.  Where was she when the demon was acting like a sheep in kitty clothing?  I could have used some insight BEFORE I opened the door to our little hellion!  It’s a little to late to do the right thing now.  Now it’s a matter of watching our backs and guarding our throats for the next ten or so years. Thanks a lot, Patches!

Patches and I both think that somebody should tell the blob cat that it’s creepy when she just sits and stares at her bag of cat food with more intense infatuation than a pre-teen at a 5 Seconds of Summer concert.  And it’s kind of obscene the way she rubs all over it. For Fifi’s sake, woman!  It’s a bag of FOOD!  The other day she put her paw against the bag and I eavesdropped as she wispered, “Shhh…don’t speak, just listen.  I LOVE you!  Truly!  Madly!  Deeply!  I’ll never leave you.  You will always be the most important thing in the world to me.”  It’s crazy…and not in a funny way.  More like in a “Over-eaters Anonymous” kind of way.  I overheard Patches telling her, “It’s only food, girlfriend!  It’s not like it’s a BALL!  Weirdo!”  Okay, so Patches isn’t the most understanding pup all the time, but she does kinda have a point.

I’ve been hearing a great deal about Patches issues with her little sister, Feeney, these days.  Feeney is about the most docile fuzz ball that you could ever hope to meet.  Unless she hears a strange noise and then she is suddenly more vicious than a drama queen in the middle of a reality t.v. clash.  She’s got some pipes on her!  And plenty to say.  Of course, Patches doesn’t think most of it is anything more than Feeney hearing herself talk, but if I were a stranger to her, she’d make a believer out of me with all that racket!  Majorly though, what I hear from Patches is that I need to remind Feeney that “we do not sit on our friends”.  Feeney has a tiny issue with jealousy, or as Patches calls it, jelly butt.  When Patches is getting attention and Feeney catches on to what’s up, she immediately runs over and puts her jelly butt on Patches’ back, or Patches’ butt, or, worst of all on Patches’ head.  For the Princess Patches, it’s just a greater insult than she can stand.  I HAVE tried to talk to Feeney about it.  I’ve begged, fussed, and repeated myself endlessly.  And as with other sibling rivalries I’ve had to deal with in my life, it seems to be an ongoing and probably never ending battle.  I’m sorry Patchy.  I tried!

 

Oh, how is this for perfect timing?  Oh man!  In the midst of this writing, I got a phone call from Dean. He was going to Owen County and took Lucy along for company.  He had to stop for gas, so he pulled up to the pump and went inside to pay.  When he came back out, his truck, and worse, Lucy, were gone!  As he looked around, panicked, another customer asked, “Was that your truck with the dog in it?”  Dean told him that it was.  The man pointed to the back of the parking lot, where the truck now sat, backed up against a light pole.  The gentleman told Dean that he had tried to stop the truck, but the dog inside had barked at him and made him feel quite unwelcome to do so.  So from what I understand, Lucy tried to steal the truck, but thankfully she has no opposable thumbs and therefore is not a good driver.  Patches is pretty irritated about the whole thing, and ranting about how teenagers these days are always finding some kind of mischief to get into and how she’s the only good fuzzy human in the whole pack because she’s not out joyriding when she’s supposed to be waiting patiently.  She said that she bets that Dean doesn’t forget to set the emergency brake next time Lucy rides with him, either.  And thank dogness everyone is safe!

You know, I’ve been loving Patches boundlessly for more than eleven years now, and yet still she needs me to prove my love to her.  When I throw her ball, she will only chase it if it goes far enough down the hallway.  Otherwise it really isn’t worth her time.  When she does chase it and bring it back , she sets it down at least 3 feet from me so that I have to stretch or get up to get it.  If she sets it down too far from me, and I don’t immediately reach for it, she walks over to my feet and cries at me until I finally give in, get up and get the ball to throw again for her.  It’s not that she can’t bring it back to my feet.  It’s just that, how is she supposed to know that I love her if she doesn’t make me prove it.  Over and over again.  You never know.  I could love her on one throw and then not the next.  She has to check each time to be sure!  She’s important and she does her best to reassure me that  she already know this.  She doesn’t  want me to worry about her.  She’s a good girl like that.  It’s really for my benefit.  I know this, and so I don’t like to complain.  Too much.  Until the seventy-third throw, and by then I’m starting to sing to myself,  ♪♫”If you don’t know me by now…” ♫♪

So that’s Patches thoughts on Vance’s thoughts.  I don’t know how much wisdom there is, but I figure she’s got as much right as anyone to express her opinion.  It seems, though, that explaining all of this has worn her out.  Like most elderly people, she needs a nap after a good tirade.  She’s dozing off as I type.  One more thing, though.  She wants me to tell you all to have a great week!  Throw balls, chase squirrels, eat bones and be happy.  That’s what makes the world a great place for us all!

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