Silly and the Stepcat
We encountered the first newbie, Silly, durin' our evenin' perambulation. We learned his name 'cause his humans tried callin' him back when he came bouncin' and yappin' across his yard toward us. He ignored 'em like any self-respectin' terrier would if their humans named 'em "Silly." Even Yorkies have their pride, ya' know.
Gotta' say Silly had an interestin' welcome-the-visitors technique. He would bounce a few feet, come to a sudden stop with his forepaws firmly planted on the ground and his butt half in the air, then yap three times. It took him so long to cover the distance to the street we sat down to watch the show. Bounce, yap, bounce, yap, bounce, yap. Then, miraculously, he managed to judge his very last bounce right to the edge of the grass and gave out three more yaps.
We all stood up and stretched to the end of our leashes ready to do the touch noses routine. Little Girl barked a very polite greetin'. Big mistake. Silly promptly reversed gears, bouncin' and yappin' backwards 'til he got to his own stoop. So much for the meet 'n greet thing.
After a fleetin' moment of silent awe at that backwards bouncin' feat, we went on our way, snickerin' and wufflin', and figurin' we wouldn't see Silly again anytime soon. Wrong. We musta' been on the same schedule 'cause we were treated to the same performance every night we took our walk, weather permittin'.
Speakin' of which our weather's been doin' its own bouncin' around, from 72 degrees to 27 degrees and back again. 72 is just fine but 27 creates somethin' AHM calls "black ice"—the see-though stuff that makes the road look like it's been hit by the mad Simonizer. You really gotta' watch where ya' walk or you'll be auditionin' for the role of Pluto in Disney On Ice.
Guess Silly didn't have black ice wherever he came from.
There we were, on one of the 27 degree nights, doin' our sniffin' and markin' thing across the street from Silly's, and here he comes, bouncin' and yappin' across his yard. 'Cept this time he went a little too far on his last bounce. This time Silly landed on the road beside his yard. More precisely, he landed on the black ice along the edge of road beside his yard.
He slid a few feet in the paws-splayed/butt-up position, lookin' like a hairy stone in a curlin' match. Then his rear just sorta' collapsed. He tried sittin' up, but that just made him spin sideways like Bambi. All of us naturally leaped to help him, but AHM stopped us before we could join in. Probably figured we'd use him for a hockey puck, which, I will admit, did cross my mind.
Silly took one look at all of us waitin' for him at the edge that little ice rink and rightly guessed we weren't there to give him 6.0s on his triple-triple combination. So of course he tried to back up. That's when the dog-claws-on-ice effect kicked in. All four feet went in opposite directions and there was no stoppin' him 'til his feet finally hit dry asphalt. That is to say his front paws stopped. His back end slewed into his front and he went over on his nose in slow motion. Little Girl woo-wooed in sympathy and stuck her muzzle under his butt to help him up. Evidently that's not in the Welcome Wagon guidelines.
For a little guy, Silly sure can move fast.
We figured that was it for new neighbors until a coupla' nights later when we met…
(Continued in Read the Rest!)
We call him The Stepcat 'cause that's where we found him. (I'm usin' "him" for convenience since we never got close enough to determine the appropriate gender.) 'Course he wasn't on just any ole' steps—he was on our steps. Makes ya' wonder if fe-lyings have any sense of smell, doesn't it?
Anyway, out we come for the evenin' stroll and bam! There he is, just sittin' and pretendin' he belonged. We stop and stare 'cause we're waaaay too surprised to actually attack (not to mention that pesky short leash problem). 'Course Stepcat fuzzes out 'til even his ear tuffs are rigid. We take one step forward and growl. Stepcat backs down one step and hisses. Down one, growl; back one, hiss. Down one, back one. Growl, hiss. The eternal canine/fe-lyin' rumba. The tension finally gets to us and we all bark at once. Stepcat goes straight up in the air, off the end of the stairs and vanishes. Since we could see he was wearin' a bright red collar, we figured he was headin' home.
Until we got back, that is. Now Stepcat was at the top of the stairs waitin' for us!
That was too much even for AHM. She let us loose enough to charge the fool. Stepcat went over the rail, across the drive, and up a tree.
That should have been the end of it, right? Noooooo. We'd been inside for about fifteen minutes and suddenly heard a faint mer-rroooowwww from the dark. We tried to ignore it, but there was a second one, then a third and a fourth and a...well, ya' get the idea.
Enough already. We had to look, so AHM opened the door and we all braved the blast of cold air to peer out. We could smell him, but there was no sign of Stepcat. At least not at our eye level. Then AHM spotted him—still in the tree.
There is nothin' more irritatin' than a cryin' fe-lyin' ('cept for cryin' Demo-cat voters). Not only did this particular fe-lyin' have no brains and no sense of smell, he apparently had no idea how to get out of the frickin' tree! Boy, could we have used Dad right about then.
Since we couldn't listen to that crap all night, AHM climbed back into her winter gear, dragged out the stepstool, hauled it to the tree, and climbed up like some demented Good Samaritan. Stepcat was 'bout as appreciative as you'd expect. Soon as she got close enough to reach up, the little ingrate leaped on her head, then her shoulder, then the ground. Soft ground plus small stepstool multiplied by abrupt change in weight and equilibrium equaled AHM hangin' from the nearest branch swearin' worse than a whole pack of alley fe-lyings.
You humans really know how to look stupid.
Think that was the end of it? 'Course ya' didn't or I wouldn't be writin' about it. A couple of days later StepCat was back, hangin' around the walk this time. That was one seriously intellectually disabled fe-lyin'. AHM wasn't payin' attention and we almost got him. But he got away. Up the tree. Again.
Instant replay on the meowin' routine. But at least AHM didn't use the stepstool this time, decidin' the paintin' ladder was safer. StepCat waited 'til she got all the way up, then leaped right over her.
We all decided AHM was getting' sillier than the fe-lyin', 'specially when…
…yeah, yeah. A week later. Redo.
Okay, not quite a redo. When we reached the fe-lyin'-up-a-tree-mer-rroooowwww-ing stage AHM stalked off and began rummagin' through some storage boxes. When she came back…
Well, there was no stepstool this time, and no paintin' ladder. AHM marched out to where StepCat was going' through his pathetic pussy routine and unloaded on him with a full blast…
…from a Super Soaker.
Can't say I'm gonna' miss the little yowler.
posted by Harrison at 11:09 PM