The Glowing Edge

Tag: Henry

  • Say Hello to Rocky

    Say Hello to Rocky

    When my freelance writing business really started humming this fall, I decided that I was ready to get my purse dog.

    I’m home, happily working on the computer all day, but I wanted company. Olive and Henry are not particularly focused on my needs, so I paid them back in full. (Actually, Olive adores my solution.)

    Meet Rocky.

    He already had his name when I got him, so don’t go all “Ooooh, she named him after a boxer, cause, you know, she’s a boxer too…I get it!”

    And Rocky is terrified of pretty much everything except our family and cats, definitely not the fearless type. He hasn’t yet been able to make it on a walk around our block yet, because there are… noises. Strange people. Children on scooters, horrors!

    But we’re working on that. Periodically I try to get Rocky all pumped up by calling him by more fierce, ass-kicking names. “Rocky Bruce Chuck John Jet Clint!” I’ll say. “Let’s go get ’em!”

    He sits happily near my pillow and wonders if he’s about to get a treat.

    So of course I give him one, ’cause he’s just so damn adorable.

    Rocky is a Mi-Ki, which is a breed that comes out of a Papillon, Maltese, and Japanese Chin. He has the “Phalen,” or flop-down ears, which is what the Papillons originally had, before they were bred for the “up” ears. Both are adorable (types of ears and dogs), and both are acceptable in the breed.

    Just like Papillons, Mi-Kis are bred to be companion dogs. They’re quiet, calm, and attentive, very much like a cat with loyalty. Rocky is utterly content to sit in my lap or by my feet all day long, with periodic breaks to play chase and tumble with Olive. He doesn’t yap (although he does bark once or twice to warn me if he hears a strange noise), and he’s not boingy like some little dog breeds. That’s a picture of me, taking my music lesson, while Rocky poses cutely nearby.

    This breed has feet shaped like rabbit feet, and they have long hair that grows between their toes, like Hobbits. I don’t know, all dogs may have toe fur, but Rocky’s is the best, of course. He also has an adorable pink tummy. (Don’t get excited, I’m still not a “dog person,” it’s just that Rocky is not really a, you know, dog.)

    Mi-Kis, like Papillons, don’t have an undercoat, so they hardly shed, and yes indeedy I did buy him a sweet little coat for the cold weather (it’s grey, very masculine). And I didn’t even flinch when handing over $20 for a piece of quilted fabric about as big as a napkin.

    The picture at the top is Rocky with The Duck Twins. They are his current favorite obsession. Martha Stewart made those for him, and I paid top dollar, I tell you, top dollar for them. It was worth it. They have squeakies.

    You may think I can’t tell The Twins apart but I can, because Rocky chewed the foot off of one of them. I’ve included a close up so you can view the damage. When I asked him where the amputated body part was he went all Cookie Monster on me, shaking his head and going “Om, nom, nom, nom!”

    Did I mention his favorite treat is duck jerky? No lie, this is available for your dog at Target. I have to cut ours down to a reasonable size, but Rocky thinks it is the greatest. food. evar.

    Well, except for cat food, which he tries to sneak when I’m not looking. Olive encourages this.

    Of course, “little” Olive outweighs Rocky by a good bit — she’s 8 pounds and he’s 5 (they’re both full grown), and Olive can whup him in a fight if she’s a mind to. But she pretty much indulges Rocky in anything and everything, and they have a lovely time together.

    In fact, I caught Olive using her brain (who knew she even had one!) recently in a Rocky-n-Olive romp session. You know that old Looney Tunes gag where Bugs Bunny is being chased in a circle by Yosemite Sam, and once they are a solid blur, Bugs steps calmly out and crunches his carrot while watching Sam continue to run crazily by? Who would have thought Olive would be able to do that — successfully! — to Rocky. But I have witnessed this with mine own eyeballs. It’s the first cat-like behavior (other than napping) that Olive has ever exhibited.

    Henry… is the same with Rocky as he is with everyone. He sighs heavily and tries to pretend we don’t exist.

    So that’s our happy little expanded family.

    Now please excuse me while I go change the tab above from “Henry & Olive” to “Henry, Olive, & Rocky.”

  • Olive Shows Some Cat Smarts

    Olive Shows Some Cat Smarts

    Polly recently visited us for a week while Meme and Papa were out of town.

    Henry packed up and stated we would never see him again unless we “disposed of” the dog. I said, “Henry, we are not going to dispose of the dog. And her name is Polly.”

    He said, “Whatever,” and left.

    Olive, however, happily rubbed herself against Polly’s legs (making the dog horribly nervous) and proceeded to show her how things operate around our house.

    Polly was alternately fascinated and terrified by Olive. Sometimes Polly would stand stock still, her gaze riveted on Olive’s current activity, drool running down the side of her jaw. Other times she followed slavishly nose-to-tail wherever Olive wandered, shying immediately away if Olive should switch directions toward her.

    Olive was particularly pleased with Polly’s bed, which the dog brought with her since it was an extended sleep-over. Olive immediately claimed it for a nap, saying, “What a nice present for Olive!”

    Which caused really the only argument they had the entire week.

    Polly mumbled, without looking Olive in the eye, “It’s not your present.”

    To which Olive brightly and earnestly replied, “Oh! It is, though!” She smiled. “Everything is Olive’s present.”

    Polly blanched at the sight of Olive’s pointy fangs and said in a teeny, tiny doggie voice, “That’s my bed.”

    Olive got a small wrinkle on her forehead, remembering the times her humans had told her the very same thing. And I have to say, she got just a wee bit ferocious. I hadn’t known Olive actually had any of the normal cat genetic material, but clearly she does.

    But there were no more disputes about the bed.

  • Olive Channelling Henry

    Olive Channelling Henry

    Most of the time Olive is just as sweet and empty as a grassy lawn with no trees.

    Once in a while she channels Henry, who uses the word “douchebag” and ruthlessly shreds anything people call darling.

    And while I rarely catch Henry being charming, I sometimes see Olive being grouchy, and those are the moments when Henry feels a secret pride, although he can never admit this.

    Of course, this is all my own interpretation; it may be that Olive thought the weights looked like little funny pillows, and when she went over to investigate she started to mentally drift off.

    Come to think of it, I bet I’m right.

    But don’t tell Henry.

  • Olive’s Bukkit

    Olive’s Bukkit

    I sit at my desk all day long and work on my computer. Because there’s a heating vent just below the desk (or because Olive adores my feet) I was forever stepping on her when I got up to take a break. So I happened to see a basket at the store and I bought it for her.

    I thought it might be too small, but vain creature that she is, Olive believes it fits perfectly. I had hardly set it down before she claimed it. I’ve set it just far enough away from my chair that I no longer step on an Olive every time I get up.

    Nobody loves Olive pancakes, least of all Olive.

  • Henry is a Lackluster Babysitter

    Henry is a Lackluster Babysitter

  • Southern Cat Tactics

    Southern Cat Tactics

  • The Mystery of the Nightime Gagging Sounds

    The Mystery of the Nightime Gagging Sounds

    Okay, we all know Olive has the relative IQ of a deck chair.

    But what creative new anti-genius she has shown me! In the bleak stretches of the post-midnight hours, no less.

    Recently I had been awakened several times in the middle of the night by an echo-y choking sound. Being less than clear-headed during these hours, I managed to stumble up out of the bed and shuffle around trying to figure out which of my children was in need of emergency medical assistance. Each time I failed to discover the source of the mysterious noise.

    Finally one night I realized the wheezing sounds were coming from the master bathroom. I flipped on the light switch and there was Olive, curled up in the middle of the tub. She gazed up at me innocently. Figuring she had been hacking up a hairball in my tub I scowled, mumbled “Die quietly, willya?” and  shuffled back to bed.

    The minute I drifted back to sleep the yacking sounds resumed.

    Muttering dire imprecations into my pillow, I waited for the damn hairball to be evicted so I could get some sleep. No luck.

    “I’m about to throw you to the evil nocturnal suburban crocodiles, Olive,” I growled, getting up for the second time. “You can hack up your hairballs outside, [expletives deleted].”

    Snapping on the bathroom light, I finally saw what was really happening. “I do NOT believe this,” I told her. “You are croc fodder, furball.”

    We — and by “we” I mean the Husband — keep a tupperware container (sometimes several) in our little-used bathtub. When we take a shower it takes a while for the water to come out hot, so he captures the initial gallon or so of cold water, leaves it in a container in the tub, then uses it to fill the toilet tank next time he flushes it. He loves conservation.

    Anyway, there is often a container of water sitting in our tub. Henry (our smart but grouchy orange cat) often comes in the bathroom to drink from these. And what Henry does, Olive wants to do. Except for one small problem. Now and then, one of the containers is only half full.

    And since there are simply no marshmallows in Olive’s Lucky Charms, she was trying to drink from a container with only a little water down in the bottom. Effectively choking herself to death. In the middle of the night. Repeatedly.

    So now the Husband has received a Sound-Sleeping Mandate, delivered in stern tones by Yours Truly, to NEVER Leave Any of the Tupperwares Partly Full.

    Given that Olive’s driveway doesn’t quite reach the road.

    (Enjoy the slug on this post, coder friends.)

  • More Henry.

    More Henry.

  • The Further Adventures of Olive and Henry

    The Further Adventures of Olive and Henry

  • The Difference Between a Hug and a Smack

    The Difference Between a Hug and a Smack

    I found this photo on my camera recently, and I know what the boys thought when they took it. They thought, “Awww, isn’t that sweet, Henry is sharing his perch with Olive, and he’s patting her on the shoulder! He’s giving her a widdle hug! Awww.” You know how boys are.

    And they are totally wrong.

    Henry is saying, “Kid, it’s bad enough that you came here and robbed me of all peace and quiet. You eat all the white bread (see picture), get in my personal space, and generally piss me off. Now be still or I’m gonna smack you.” And he has his claws poised to sink into her neck.

    But the thing is, Henry is a pushover. Well, at 17 pounds “pushover” may not be exactly the right term. Shove over? Anyway, he’ll never sink his claws into her scrawny little neck or rip out a satisfyingly healthy hank of her fur, or bite her perky little ear off, or even raise his voice to her. He’s the grouchiest old bastard but he’s essentially soft inside. Henry is like an igloo filled with Eskimos. Crusty on the outside, warm and soft on the inside. (I think I saw that in a Far Side cartoon once.)

    Olive can be annoying. You cannot neglect to shut the pantry door, ever: she can drag herself up four shelves high where she stalks, kills, and devours white bread in all it’s forms and leaves the guts everywhere. She is forever pouncing on Henry just as he settles into a nap, and she demands to be picked up in order to watch what’s happening on the stove when you’re cooking. Sweeping is a favorite activity; she pounces on your pile of filth and scatters it in every direction. She waits until two am to locate and bat along the hardwoods the ping pong ball you forgot to put away, and she is particularly fond of launching herself without warning to attack sock feet. Sometimes we humans don’t know whether we want to hug her or smack her, either.

    But we adore her the same way we adore crusty old Henry. Because sometimes love just feels that way.