Monday, January 18, 2010
Our old dogs were inseparable. The Pointer (Sam Pickens) always deeply appreciated that our lab (BJ Honeycutt) invited him into his home and was always a gracious host.
For the eight years they lived together they were inseparable. They even ate their meal from the same dog bowl. As in everything else Sam would defer to BJ and wait for him to take the first bite before he would follow suit.
As Sam reached his late ninety's in people years he got easily confused and succumbed to just doing what ever BJ (a full four years younger) did. Sam clearly did not know what country he was in or who was the president.
It was shocking to all of us when BJ had two seizures in two days and the ER Vet told us that it would be best to put him down.
We went to the animal ER with a beloved pet and came home in an empty car.
It was a loss that to this day makes my throat hurt to even remember.
In our grief we wondered -- what will happen to Sam Pickens? Who can be his anchor?
After a sleepless night Joe trudged up and out the door to take Sam for his morning constitutional. As he stepped out the back door this little black cat was sleeping on the step.
Sam Pickens took one long questioning look at the cat as the cat calmly stood up, stretched and lovingly rubbed against his leg.
Sam was a hunting dog and there was no orientation towards being a cat lover but for some reason he instantly took a shine to this cat.
All of their waking hours they spent together.
We asked our adopted grand daughter Clio to name the cat and quickly she pronounced it "Rosie!"
So Rosie it was. We asked her how she knew the cat was a female and she in all of her 5 year old wisdom said "because I felt down there."
Made sense to us!
While I was away I got a call from Joe asking me how he should transport "Rosie" to the vet.
"Because now that Sam loves her I want to make sure she has her shots and after feeding her every morning and night I want to make sure she doesn't get (his words not mine) knocked up."
The next day Rosie was ensconced in her cardboard carrier and on the way to get fixed.
Being a feral cat that box lasted all of about 3 minutes and the rest of the way she sat calmly on Papa Joe's lap catching the view from the driver's seat.
That afternoon I got another call from Joe. "I think it may be too late. Dr. Rossi called and told me to come pick up Rosie. They couldn't do the surgery. How do you feel about a cat farm?"
"Not good. Call me with the verdict."
An hour later Joe called back his report. The vet had called him into his office and declared, "Mr. Honeycutt, this is a neutered male!"
And so my advice for today dear reader is......... don't consult five year olds for gynecological information.
Sam Pickens went to join BJ not many weeks after that but he left behind another beloved part of our menagerie.
Rosie (as in Rosie Grier) the feral cat.
at 8:37 AM