Round One

It’s spring here in Tuscany and Fraud-the-cat is testing out her stalk and sleuth instincts on yours truly.  Taking into account that, because of her winter laziness, she has a few pounds on me, I should not be embarrassed by an occasional slam to the ground. I SHOULD simply walk away from such activity, especially since I KNOW it gives Fraud any pleasure at all, and yet….

My larger brain (yes, all Terriers have larger-than-normal brains.
A fact widely overlooked by the scientific community, but inherently known by all dogs…) leads me to take the bait and return the pounce.

I know that, until I have adequately bulked up from seasonal feasts such as baby hare, fresh percorino and spring lamb (preferably in a hardy ragu with penne pasta), I have no advantage against the bulbous, grey dirigible called Fraud.

Witness:  

Chow…

Outside the Box

My take on thinking outside the box: The Litterbox, that is.

Cats on leashes.

Like the phrase “herding cats”, the picture that comes to mind is one of chaos.  A whole lot of pulling, dragging and sliding. 

Cats cannot be cajoled.  They walk at their own pace—if they walk at all.

Here’s a little thinking outside the litterbox, canine style: smart dogs use the litterbox as a snack bar.  It may be recycling taken to it’s extreme, perhaps absurd, conclusion, but it fulfills the fine criteria of a dog.

Disgusting, putrid and sure to illicit a speedy reaction from your human.

And, alas, a bath.

Chow.

Associate Producer

I think I’ve found my niche, that is if I can find someone with an opposable thumb.

My idea: A new Game Show for dogs.  Cable TV; mid-afternoon time slot, just after the usual small meal and short walk-around; something to provide a little humor as a dog drifts into a little nap.

We’ll call it Whack-A-Kitty.  Here’s the pilot:

Now if I can just get PetCo to come in as sponsor.  Maybe they’d like to do lunch?

Chow.

Dog A-Tax

For those of you who filed for an extension in the USA last week, here’s something else to try to figure out:

1040-Dog

In Italy, Dogs are considered dependents, of course. 

You may defer any tax——-unless you add a cat.

Households with cats always pay extra, one way or another.

Chow.

Happy Halloween

I never really understood Halloween.  It’s been a recently adopted holiday in Rome.  I owe it to the influx of American ex-patriots who now call Italy home.  Frankly, I find most of it frightening…except the abundance of treats.  That’s a definite perk.  I did pass a poster in a shop window this week, however, that suggested the best use of the demonic celebration:

Best use of a cat….I say.

Chow.

The Church Turns

Cats…again.  Now it’s Pope Benedict.  In what I can only hope is a move unsanctioned by the church, the Pope has taken a cat.

A cat.

Granted, it was on a trial basis.  It seems that while visiting Australia, the locals determined his live of the feline and loaned him said creature.

Thank God…literally…he doesn’t actually keep a cat at the Vatican.  they breed like rabbits, you know.  Look at any Roman ruin.  Imagine the Pieta with the addition of a life-size tabby straddling Mary’s shoulder.  A cat standing guard at the tomb of St. Peter?

What kind of spiritual leader prefers cats to dog, I ask you?

I wonder if they have dogs on the West Bank?

Chow.

Cats

Did I mention that anytime I post anything about cats, I get as many hits on my blog in a few hours as I normally do in a day?

It’s yet another species slur as far as I’m concerned.

Do dogs not inspire?  Do they not compel people to google and search?  And why not?

Is it because cat people sit idley by the computer with nothing better to do than surf the web for the antics of the cats they love, simply because the cats they love are immobile, sloth-like on a feather cushion, whiling away the hours of daylight only to become roaming maniacs at night?

Surely dog owners are in the park, on the other end of a game of fetch, or hiking with their favorite St. Bernard, trusty cask within reach, no?

What cat can serve up a shot of brandy, I ask you?

Ever hike with a cat?  Ever tempt a feline to fetch?  Ha!

You cat people need to get out more.

Go get a dog.

Chow.

To Skin a Cat

There is a cat next door.  A surly, serious, dim-witted cat with no sense of humor.   He sits on the wall of the terrazzo, just beyond my reach, eyeing the ripening tomatoes behind me. 

 

I bark in fun, giving a short, jest-full rise to the end of my communiqué.  He hisses, claws poised to do harm.

 

Cats seldom have a sense of humor.  They certainly lack the ability to find themselves funny in any way and most hold a sense of entitlement rivaled only by a Caesar.  This is perpetuated by the Roman Gattinare: hundreds of elderly women who make their daily business to feed the thousands of feral cats that inhabit Roman ruins.

 

And yet, the feral dogs that roam the Pincio garner only thrown stones and shouts…

 

While I can see the attraction most humans have for the feline: furry, cute, blah, blah, blah.  They are, for the most part, conniving, manipulative and undependable.

 

How many cats can cross the floor on the spur of the moment, without taking time to plot the entire trip from cat-stretch to pounce?

 

How many cats are willing to wait for their breakfast before they use their claws to begin to knead and furrow any bare skin peeking through the covers?

 

And how many cats can you depend upon to run to the door to meet you every time you open it?

 

Evolutionarily speaking, I think dog-kind as a whole should give the attraction some thought.  Fine tuning may be in order: sharper claws, the adoption of a more aloof spirit, the hint of caution to each adventure.

 

Man must enjoy a certain amount of punishment, no?

 

Chow.

Whatta Ya in Fer?

So, here I am behind bars.  No one here is happy. One square a day and no affection.  They slide a dish through a slot in the bars and scrap away anything I might extrude. 

 

The cat next door is in for biting a baby.  Rough, that.  What a dunce the feline is for taking it’s frustration out on a freshly hatched human.  Even I, with little direct knowledge of such a creature, can glean that to bite a small child is the highest offense.

The cat’s mouth is swabbed twice a day.  It spits its way through the deed then chomps onto the stick as though it’s mouse flesh, and growls its way from lunacy to a better mood. 

It’s been here longer than I and I wonder if I’ll end up the same way: mad at the world, or simply mad, period.

Chow.

Defining Rome

Few things define a city as much as it laws. 

The edicts of a small town in Hungary will reflect the nature of it’s conservative residents; the statutes of liberal, big-city Paris, do the same.

Here in Rome, a quick look at the books will give you an instant education on the character and principles of it’s people.

For instance:

1) A law has been passed allowing Rome’s stray cat population to thrive, untouched in the place where they were born. Visit any ruin and you will see the evidence of frenzied felines as they scatter through the rubble.  Cavernous tombs echo the details of cat calls.  Old women provide free food on a daily basis to these curs.

I find it an affront to the common dog.  After all, were not Romulus and Remus, upon whose foundation Rome was built, suckled by the wolf?

Simply because Rome crawls with oblisks is no reason to perpetuate the Egyptian’s love of cats…

2) The Italian Supreme Court has legalized the right of males to pat the derrier’s of their female constituents.  It’s an actual law.  It’s legal, it’s encouraged, it’s allowed.  Italians understand that the sexes ar different.  Not only do they embrace the fact, they glorify it. 

It’s hard on the lawyers here, but they are generally kept busy by the frequent changing of the political guard…they have enough to do without having to try to explain the peculiarities of the male species in court, let alone change the laws of nature.

The Law’s the Law.

Chow.