My boy, Nick, said that I should tell you how his cat saved his life. I was telling that story to Morris, the mailman, just today. Isn't that a coincidence? Morris has two pugs and knows that I'm a real dog person even though I have two cats. I'm always talking to him about how my cats act like dogs. He's heard the stories about my old dogs too. He's a good sport, Morris.
There was Poppie, the dog I grew up with. My parents got her two years before I was born, when my brother was a baby. They always said she was a Cocker Spaniel and Irish Setter mix. I could see the Spaniel. She had long soft ruffly ears that were very sensitive. But the rest of her was all poodle, big black curls and a long thin nose. I think my dad just didn't want to have a poodle. It must be a guy thing. Poppie wasn't allowed into the house because my mother didn't want a mess, so I spent a lot of time at her house, the garage. My mother never realized that Poppie was a very clean dog. I think she was glad to get both of us out of the house. I was never a clean kid. I made messes wherever I went.
Poppie was so good at listening to me. She loved to lie between my feet as I sat on the concrete step in the garage. I had a lot to say to Poppie. She was the only one in my family who listened to me and she'd look at me with her soft loving eyes that told me she understood what I was saying. She was the one I went to when I needed to cry. I brushed Poppie's long curls avoiding her ears. I petted her. We both had black curly hair so I tried to take care of hers too. She had a naked pink belly that I tried to keep clean. I don't think my mother knew I used her good wash cloths to do it.
Poppie went everywhere my brother and I went. She even got agitated if we went too far or she didn't like what we were doing. What Poppie loved best after my brother, sister, and I were rabbits. Oh, she never caught a rabbit. She just liked to chase them. Rabbits made Poppie very happy. She always had a grin on her face when she ran after them.
The summer I was eleven, my brother found a baby robin that had fallen out of a high nest. He tried to put it back in, but even with the extension ladder, he couldn't reach it. So we named him Rickie and my brother made me part of his animal rescue team. He did this every time he found a lost or abandoned animal mostly because no one else would. We had baby bunnies whose nest had been run over by a lawn mower. We had a baby mole with fur so soft, you could barely feel it. We brought home turtles, salamanders, and birds. We kept our Rickie alive, taking turns with the nighttime feedings. I learned that if you don't mash it up, a worm will crawl right out of a bird's mouth. I didn't like mashing worms, but I did it for Rickie.
Rickie lived through our nighttime feedings. We were such proud parents when Rickie learned to fly. At first, we just let him perch on our fingers, then we lifted him gently up and down so he'd flap his wings. There were things my brother was sure we had to do. I think he would have learned to fly without our help, but I followed the protocol set down for me. That bird got exercise, food, water, all on a schedule and I was not allowed to deviate.
Eventually, we taught Rickie to land on our heads because our hands were usually busy. I'll tell you, Rickie never once pooped on my head and for that I'm grateful. One day, Rickie was flying back and forth between my brother and I when Poppie trotted around the corner of the house. Now, Poppie and Rickie had met, but Rickie, being a bird not a rabbit, was of no interest to Poppie. She was thirteen by then and had a little of that attitude old ladies get about the outside world, that it can carry on just fine without your attention for the most part. Well, that day, Rickie was looking for black curly hair and my brother had ducked into the house for a drink. But there was Poppie, a back full of curly black hair just like mine and Rickie landed there. At the touch of those gripping feet, Poppie leaped up into the air and ran around the corner of the house. The last thing I saw was Rickie clinging with both feet to one curl and flopping back and forth on her back like rag doll. Poor Rickie. Poor Poppie. I'm glad neither of them had a heart attack that day.
Despite a heart murmur at 11, despite a stroke at 13, and the brain tumor that made Poppie's eye bulge out of its socket, Poppie lived to be 18 years old. She helped me live through losing my dad, my grandpa, and seeing both my brother and sister leave home. I think Poppie knew how much I needed her then and hung on just for me. Plus, there were so many rabbits to chase.
I know I'll get around to telling you the rest of Nick's story. It's almost as if these stories are linked, though I'm not sure how, except by love.
Thanks for listening, jb
There was Poppie, the dog I grew up with. My parents got her two years before I was born, when my brother was a baby. They always said she was a Cocker Spaniel and Irish Setter mix. I could see the Spaniel. She had long soft ruffly ears that were very sensitive. But the rest of her was all poodle, big black curls and a long thin nose. I think my dad just didn't want to have a poodle. It must be a guy thing. Poppie wasn't allowed into the house because my mother didn't want a mess, so I spent a lot of time at her house, the garage. My mother never realized that Poppie was a very clean dog. I think she was glad to get both of us out of the house. I was never a clean kid. I made messes wherever I went.
Poppie was so good at listening to me. She loved to lie between my feet as I sat on the concrete step in the garage. I had a lot to say to Poppie. She was the only one in my family who listened to me and she'd look at me with her soft loving eyes that told me she understood what I was saying. She was the one I went to when I needed to cry. I brushed Poppie's long curls avoiding her ears. I petted her. We both had black curly hair so I tried to take care of hers too. She had a naked pink belly that I tried to keep clean. I don't think my mother knew I used her good wash cloths to do it.
Poppie went everywhere my brother and I went. She even got agitated if we went too far or she didn't like what we were doing. What Poppie loved best after my brother, sister, and I were rabbits. Oh, she never caught a rabbit. She just liked to chase them. Rabbits made Poppie very happy. She always had a grin on her face when she ran after them.
The summer I was eleven, my brother found a baby robin that had fallen out of a high nest. He tried to put it back in, but even with the extension ladder, he couldn't reach it. So we named him Rickie and my brother made me part of his animal rescue team. He did this every time he found a lost or abandoned animal mostly because no one else would. We had baby bunnies whose nest had been run over by a lawn mower. We had a baby mole with fur so soft, you could barely feel it. We brought home turtles, salamanders, and birds. We kept our Rickie alive, taking turns with the nighttime feedings. I learned that if you don't mash it up, a worm will crawl right out of a bird's mouth. I didn't like mashing worms, but I did it for Rickie.
Rickie lived through our nighttime feedings. We were such proud parents when Rickie learned to fly. At first, we just let him perch on our fingers, then we lifted him gently up and down so he'd flap his wings. There were things my brother was sure we had to do. I think he would have learned to fly without our help, but I followed the protocol set down for me. That bird got exercise, food, water, all on a schedule and I was not allowed to deviate.
Eventually, we taught Rickie to land on our heads because our hands were usually busy. I'll tell you, Rickie never once pooped on my head and for that I'm grateful. One day, Rickie was flying back and forth between my brother and I when Poppie trotted around the corner of the house. Now, Poppie and Rickie had met, but Rickie, being a bird not a rabbit, was of no interest to Poppie. She was thirteen by then and had a little of that attitude old ladies get about the outside world, that it can carry on just fine without your attention for the most part. Well, that day, Rickie was looking for black curly hair and my brother had ducked into the house for a drink. But there was Poppie, a back full of curly black hair just like mine and Rickie landed there. At the touch of those gripping feet, Poppie leaped up into the air and ran around the corner of the house. The last thing I saw was Rickie clinging with both feet to one curl and flopping back and forth on her back like rag doll. Poor Rickie. Poor Poppie. I'm glad neither of them had a heart attack that day.
Despite a heart murmur at 11, despite a stroke at 13, and the brain tumor that made Poppie's eye bulge out of its socket, Poppie lived to be 18 years old. She helped me live through losing my dad, my grandpa, and seeing both my brother and sister leave home. I think Poppie knew how much I needed her then and hung on just for me. Plus, there were so many rabbits to chase.
I know I'll get around to telling you the rest of Nick's story. It's almost as if these stories are linked, though I'm not sure how, except by love.
Thanks for listening, jb
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