The dog, the cat and the sloth…

I performed emergency rectal surgery on the sloth.

Well, okay, maybe not EMERGENCY but it needed to be done today if it were ready for duties this evening. Miss M had chewed him a new one and his stuffing was coming out.

Plush sloth dog toy
Slothie, recovered after surgery.

GDA (Guide Dogs of America) provided her with a soft toy with which to sleep for comfort, but instead our little ten week old chewed his ass off. Or maybe gnawing on his naughty bits provided her solace, who am I to judge.

In any event, the morning inspection of the toys we cannot directly supervise revealed the grievous injury.

She also has an “extreme chewer” Kong puppy… thingy… um… it kinda looks like a 3-d star with skinny-ish spines, vanilla flavor. Better that than Slothy’s innards after she’s sunk the mortal blow.

And is this dog ever active. Holy moly. That whole thing about sleeping 16 – 20 hours per day? Yeah, and the remaining eight is at 90mph. Actually, that’s an exaggeration… probably only three is 90mph, but she’s at least active through a lot of the rest of it. As Beloved says, we no longer have time for walks (Miss M can’t go walking in public until she’s fully vaccinated) but dang, we get our steps in.

She has, however, been allowed short forays on the back lawn, closely watched to make sure she isnt eating grass etc. We try to keep our patio clear so when piddling she doesn’t have an extra meal, but god love her, the dog is a gravel-magnet. We’r forever digging small rocks out of her mouth – not even the size of pebbles, but gravelly bits. These bits are flung onto the side bank, which will resemble a deconstructed El Capitan by Christmas at the rate we’re going.

Back to the lawn. Her favorite, favorite place. There’s an additional problem, however… MaeMae, our 18 month old rescue kitteh. For more background on this little monster, see

So the dog and the cat are still eyeing each other suspiciously. Miss M sees either a potential playmate or a plushie with claws, not sure which. MaeMae views the hound with a mixture of envy, suspicion, and incredulity.

Dog on one side of baby gate, cat on the other.
Still working on introductions. Better not to rush things…

MaeMae: seriously? Three meals a day?

Me: she’s a baby. When you were a baby we fed you every few hours.

MaeMae: I do not remember this. However, I do remember you dunking me in a foul mixture… her paws are gingerly wiped with soft cloth.

Me: You had ringworm. Lime sulfur dip was our sole alternative, you were too young for oral meds. She’s just stepping in her own pee.

MaeMae: Infidel. How can she learn to cover her excrement if you keep diluting it with water or picking it up? And on cement. <shudder> She is… in terrible need of training. At least you lock her up at night.

Moral: never argue with a cat. But back to the problem with the lawn.

Y’see, MaeMae is an indoor/outdoor cat, having retained a certain amount of feral due to her origins. I’d be quite happy turning her back in to the cat rescue, but now Beloved and The Boy (our son, 24) won’t hear of it. MaeMae stays in the confines of the back garden, praise be, but coyotes and bobcats around here have been known to hop fences to pick up tasty little snacks. Also a hawk could grab the little eight pound wonder.

That aside, she follows her ancient-cat origins by stalking and murdering. As I’ve said before, the back patio at times will resemble the Battle of Dunkirk, the cement beach strewn with mummifying bodies of lizards in various positions. Beloved is wonderful about clearing the carnage before I eyeball it (they give me the creeps, tiny little dead dinosaurs, their claws vainly reaching skyward as they dehydrate in the heat).

You can probably see where this is going. Okay, pupper, have a quick romp but NO EATING THE GRASS.

No. She did not eat a dead lizard. Thankfully she didn’t even see it.

I did.

I was eyeball to eyeball with yon dog when I glanced sideways and spotted… well… half a lizard.

Our sweetheart next door neighbor musta been at work because I’m sure he’d’ve come running upon hearing what I emitted.

Oh, dear god. Scoop up confused puppy (“what I do? What I do?”) and sprint for indoors like the corpse will rise up with its little lizardy friends and attack like a buncha zombies. Teeny weeny little vacant eyed reptiles, upright on hind legs, dehydrated arms stretched out, rising outta the lawn to mount an offensive like a bad horror flick.

Oh, hell, after writing that, devil take the dog, I am never going on the lawn again.

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