Traveling Ph.D.

Meet the menagerie … All fixed (except the last two and that’s coming soon). All vaccinated. Really, our vet should give us a frequent visitor discount. It’s a good thing that we have lovely cat sitters (who have 9 cats of their own). We have also built a better cat box to keep the litter in place and we love Feline Pine ’cause it keeps the cat box smellin’ sweet (well, sweet enough). And before you think our house stinks, you should know that we have hardwood floors, stock in Swifter, and smelly good shampoo for the dogs. Our animals are all well-loved and most of them came to us in pretty dire straits — unwanted, abandoned, or sick. We’re just suckers for a sad story …

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Meet Clancy, our oldest critter. Born in Mercer County, Ohio, Clancy came into our lives after our Sheltie, Churchill, died in a house fire. Clancy was named after The Coach’s favorite fiction author, Tom Clancy. When we brought Clancy home, he was so small that he could fit in my hand. Shortly after his arrival, we moved to Mooseheart. During his first year at the school, the boys taught him how to climb on the dining room table. So, when I found him eating their pizza, I didn’t stop him. Natural-logical consequences, anyone? Over the years, Clancy has lived in Indiana, Louisiana, and Indiana again — in a total of seven different apartments and|or houses. These days, our 14 year old dog spends his time curled up on the couch, licking The Coach’s feet, and acting like a curmudgeon.

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When I moved to Indiana to go to graduate school, Clancy and I were lonely in our little old apartment. I asked The Coach if I could get another dog; he declined. Instead, he decided that a kitten was in order. A classified ad sent us out into the boonies where we found a kitten who had been abandoned at the ripe old age of 4 weeks. We spent the first few weeks of his life feeding him high calorie goop from a tube. Since The Coach got to name the dog after his favorite author, I got to name the cat after my favorite environmentalist, Rachel Carson. Carson was so little that I couldn’t leave him alone when I went out of town, so he spent some time making friends with TQE. Later, Carson would move to Louisiana and back with us, meowing a good bit of the way. These days, our 12 year old cat spends his time eating, sleeping, and eating some more. He also likes to “make pies” on my head while I am sleeping and constantly wrestles with Pyewacket.

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Like I said, I am a sucker for a sad story, which is how we acquired a white Persian cat for our menagerie. This poor cat was bred at six months old. When the kittens died, she was chucked outside to fend for herself. Eventually, her former owners gave her to one of her relatives who tried to keep the cat in the dorms at IU. The student got busted (of course), so I took the cat home with me. Quotes from various veterinarians: ”I am sure this cat has feline leukemia” | “Her test was negative, but she is very malnourished” | “The reason your cat is so skinny is because her teeth are broken off and her gums are infected.” $500 or so in vet bills and she’s a healthy, if grumpy cat. Clara is named for Clara Barton, the founder of the American Red Cross. She is now 11 years old and the HBIC (Head Bitch in Charge) of our household.

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It was a long time before we acquired another animal after taking in Clara (five years, in fact). But, after we bought a house with a backyard, I told The Coach that I wanted a big dog. We went down to the Humane Society to get a puppy and ended up walking out with a five year old Black Lab | Golden Retriever mix. The folks at the Humane Society told us that the dog had been surrendered because he was always running away from home. Yet, when we brought him to our house, it was like the dog was attached to my hip. It took us about three months to realize that the dog was epileptic. It’s a good thing that he thinks his special “brain pills” are treats because I have to pill him twice a day. Poor Chessie is only ten or 11 years old, but he has these weird moments where he’s in something like a ‘roid rage and tried to bite The Coach. He also has bad hips and struggles to get down the backstairs in the winter. He is definitely a special needs pet, but The Coach has put his Special Ed Teacher Training to good use with him. It makes me sad to see the toll that life has taken on Chessie, but we’ll keep him as long as his quality of life remains good. For the record, I don’t remember Chessie’s original name; we renamed him Chesapeake after the Bay because I study water politics.

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About three years ago, The Coach bribed me with a kitten. You see, he had been promising to quit football for years and never really followed through on that promise. The kitten, a tabby pointed Siamese, was named Pyewacket after the cat in Bell, Book and Candle – one of my all-time favorite movies. Living with Pye has been interesting. You see, about six months after we brought the kitten home, he had his first asthma attack. Now, you try pilling a cat — it isn’t fun. Fortunately, he seems to have grown out of this affliction, but now he has been diagnosed with a heart murmur. Our vet’s suggestion? Don’t stress out the cat. Uh, right. There’s just no stopping this cat. He flies across the room and lands on top of the armoire. He jumps on top of the curio cabinet. Sometimes, I even find him standing on top of the door frame — and we have 10 foot ceilings. And the one winter I hung my spider plant in the house, he managed to strip it of all of its leaves by jumping into the air. Yet, he’s a sweet cat who likes to groom my husband and my guests (TQE is his favorite person) and he often warms my feet in winter. Pye is now three years old.

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The following year, The Coach bribed me with another kitten. This one had been abandoned at the no-kill shelter and was sitting in a cage outside Sam’s Club one Saturday morning. How could we leave him behind? Plus, Pyewacket was in serious need of someone to play with as the aging animal population in our household was often worn out by his neediness. So, cat number 4 became Patton and was promptly nicknamed “The Littlest General” due to The Coach’s fascination with military history. During his first year in the house, Patton managed to fall down an air conditioning vent, knocking off one of his nine lives. Later that same year, I found him trapped between the storm and regular doors — knocking off another one of his lives. These days, Patton tries to help me with my research. He’s always wrapping himself around my laptop and walking across the keyboard. He tends to sleep in the dirty clothes and will often chase Pyewacket around the house.

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I know, I know. Six should be enough, but I couldn’t resist the look on this puppy’s face when I saw her at the pet store. Now before you give me flack about the evil of puppy farms and pet stores, I didn’t mean to buy her. I meant to buy fish food for Huey P. (RIP, Spring 2010). She is registered and she’s healthy as a horse. Her official name is Bluebonnets for Lady Bird but we just call her Birdie. If you are a good Democrat, you’ll get the reference. Birdie is an awesome dog and, unlike most Jack Russell terriers I have encountered (i.e., Clancy), she’s a pretty calm dog. Her biggest quirk is chasing shadows at night. Well, that and trying to climb on top of every book I’ve ever tried to read. She went to The Coach’s football games and, unlike Clancy who seems to be an atheist, she didn’t bark during the (slightly illegal) pre-game prayer. She has gone on vacation with us. She spends weekends in my office. She tends to mother the other animals — she licked the scab off of Carson’s face after his big to-do with Chessie and she is always trying to groom Sheldon. Birdie has the heart of a 90 pound dog.

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One of the things I’ve noticed about people in this area is that they often dump their pets. A few years ago, the guy across the street decided to move to Florida, so he “liberated” his dogs. I caught them, cleaned them up, and sent them to live with people in The Coach’s school district. Renters move out and leave their cats behind. It’s tragic and stupid. Even our Humane Society has close to a 50 percent kill rate because people just don’t spay or neuter their pets. There’s a special place in hell for people who do that — a place where Bob Barker will chew them up and spit them out. So, of course, we ended up with another kitten because someone dumped him in our yard. We’ve dubbed him Sheldon Cooper, Ph.D., and yes, that is the name on his vet record. Sheldon is a healthy cat except for a big old hernia that’s poking out of his little kitten belly button. Our vet’s going to fix that on the day he loses his family jewels. And, no, I will not be buying him neuticles.