A mighty will in a tiny body

Ah, poor Toffee. And poor Danielle, for that matter. Poor me too, perhaps, though I had less to put up with – just a brief interruption of sleep.

Why poor Toffee? One of the reasons we wanted a second toy poodle is that we thought it would be fun to breed from her. We found Luci, our first toy poodle, such fun that we thought a second one, and then some puppies, would just multiply the pleasure. It’s certainly turned out that just adding Toffee to the household took the poodle amusement level up several notches.

The thing about Toffee is that she has a personality that completely compensates for her lack of physical size. She knows what she wants. She likes to make sure she gets it. You should see her if she’s found some awful mouldy piece of meat in the park: we can chase her all over the place, but she’ll never drop it or even let us lay a finger on her.

Another example is breakfast. She and Luci like to take their time over it. It’s dog biscuits rather than soft food, so they don’t wolf it down the way they do with food they like better. They leave some of it in their bowls.

But just let Misty, our cat, get anywhere near it. Toffee will be out there like a shot and growling ferociously. I watched her this morning, and saw how Misty, twice her weight, backed away intimidated by her ferocity.

The heart of a lion in a teeny-weeny body.

Because that’s the other thing about Toffee. She really is minuscule. Which rather spoiled the second part of her plan. Breed from her? Would she be able to handle a pregnancy? Where would we find a male small enough for a pregnancy not to cause her harm?

That all came to a head a few weeks ago. We’re beginning to plan for a move to Spain rather sooner than we’d originally planned – Brexit oblige and all that – and another move probably means we don’t need a litter of puppies to complicate things. Given we were already in two minds about it, that really rather killed the plan to breed from Toffee.

So that was it. Toffee went under the knife and came back wombless.

Toffee with her mate, on their couch
She's in her blue post-op coat, poor thing
Though it's much better than those ghastly cones....

Now Toffee is lively, active and carefree. But neutering is a serious operation for a female. When she got back from the vet’s, she was far from herself. She was lying on the couch and clearly in pain, poor thing.

We’d had clear instructions that she wasn’t to run and she wasn’t to jump for a while. And let’s be clear: jumping includes using the stairs, for a little dog who has to leap from step to step.

‘I think I’ll sleep down here,’ Danielle said, ‘on the couch. That way Toffee can sleep next to me and, if she needs a pee during the night, I can take her out in the garden.’

It seemed a little rough on her to have to sleep on the couch but, in the circumstances, it made some sense. So I went up to our bedroom on my own while Danielle settled down on our (quite comfortable) couch, with both dogs next to her.

And so things might have stayed had Toffee not once more exercised her mighty will and her inalienable right to freedom of choice.

At 4:30 in the morning I was awoken by Danielle bursting into our room, distraught and panic-stricken. Though I’m glad to say that her first words suggested things were less bleak than they seemed.

‘Oh, thank God,’ she said.

Danielle was wearing an outdoor coat over her nightdress.

‘I’ve been hunting around the garden, looking behind every bush. I thought the pain had got too bad for Toffee and she’d crawled away to die somewhere quiet.’

‘But she hadn’t?’ I enquired, not yet fully conscious.

‘No. There she is.’

I looked where Danielle was pointing. And there lay Toffee, curled as always into a little ball, lying against my leg. She had doubtless been asleep not long before, but she’d lifted her head to look and Danielle as though asking, ‘what’s all the commotion about?’

The explanation was simple. Toffee views the couch as a fine place to lie on, during the day, or even in the evening when we’re watching TV. It isn’t where we, and in particular Toffee, sleep. That happens two floors up, on a proper bed.

So, doctor’s orders or not, she’d jumped off the couch, made her way to the stairs and quietly but determinedly jumped up from step to step till she reached the top.

Where she’d made the further leap onto the bed and fallen asleep next to me. In what she clearly regarded as the right place for it.

‘Well, if she’s sleeping up here, so am I,’ said Danielle. And climbed into bed.

Onto which Luci also promptly leaped. So we all four slept for the rest of the night on our communal bed. As we usually do.

Order had been restored to the universe. Things were once more the way Toffee likes them. And the way, ill or not, she was going to make sure they remained.

Misty's diary: an injury? Not something to get me down

It’s so tedious. Interloper cats really get on my nerves. I mean, sure, yes, I sometimes stray outside my own territory. But when I meet another cat, I just greet them politely, make my excuses, and get the hell out.

So here’s my question: why does that ghastly black and white cat from two doors down behave as though he owns our garden? My garden? More to the point, when he invades it and I courteously tell him he’s in my territory, why doesn’t he just get out like I would, instead going for me with tooth and claw?

He reckons he’s better than me because he’s from around here, and I’m an outsider who’s moved in. So what? Place doesn’t belong to him, does it? And I’ve been here four years. Practically half my life. I reckon that gives me the same rights as any local. Though sadly that’s not how he sees it.

The ghastly animal got me in the face the other day. Took me completely by surprise. When I was younger I’d have given him as good as I got but, these days, I’m not the aggressive scrapper I used to be. Put on a bit of weight, perhaps. Nothing excessive, of course, but you know how it is, I’m not quite as quick as I might have been once.

Still, I’m quick enough to leg it back into the house pretty fast. Had to nurse the injury. It certainly needed nursing: blew right up, nasty red and black coloured thing, that hurt like hell. The domestics were full of sympathy but, hey, what’s the use of sympathy? I needed help.

Luci tried, of course. But, you know – a toy poodle? About as skilful as a poodle toy.

I had to sort it myself. Got my claws into the nasty mess on my face, and that hurt badly too. But it did some good. Some vile liquid came out and the whole thing shrank to a sensible size which hurt a lot less.

Next day, once they’d had a decent night’s sleep themselves, the domestics actually got around to helping me.

“It looks less bad,” said number 1, “it’s like he’s managed to lance it himself.”

I’ll say. You weren’t going to do it, were you? Had to do it myself.

“Still, we’d better get him to the vet,” she went on.

There was a time when those words would have filled me with horror. But, you know, I reckon now that, though you get poked and pricked, at least you leave the vet’s feeling better than when you went in.

Not that I like going there. It means getting into that ghastly sort of brown cage thing they put you in. It’s made of cloth but believe me, it’s as much a cage as if it were all iron bars. Got Luci all upset too – she went bounding around and sniffing and saying useless things.

“Don’t stay in there, Misty, come out and play. Come on. It can’t be nice in there. Just come out.”

Lots of words. But no unzipping of the bit which would let me out. She’s as useful as a wet rag, like I said before.

How about not telling me to come out
and actually helping me out, you useless dog?

Anyway, I put up with it. We were off to the vet and I suspected it would do me good. So I did my best to be nice. I mean, when he jabbed me with a needle – and he did it twice – I didn’t give him a HOWL, more of a half-power protest. Quarter-power. Sort of Mrrrrr. Just to mark the fact that I knew they’d stuck me with steel and they shouldn’t start to think that just because I’d put up with it, I was going to go on putting up with it in the future. 

Even though I’d put up with it twice.

He’s good that vet. Did the trick. When I got home I was feeling a lot better. Comfortable, basically. 

OK, so can I get out now, please?

Domestic number 2 opened the door to the nasty cage thing – thank God he’s worked out how to use a zip – and I emerged. In a dignified way, though I did nuzzle his hand and let him stroke me. I mean, I didn’t want him to think I wasn’t appreciative.

And of course little Luci came dancing round.

“You’re out of that nasty carrier thing!”

“Cage,” I corrected her.

“Who cares? You’re out of it.”

She was dancing around so much she didn’t notice she’d left her blanket empty, so I curled up on it. I left her a little bit on the edge and she joined me. Which was fine. It was quite nice having her silly wet nose pushing against my back. Companionable.

I was feeling good about things again. There’s nothing like getting rid of pain. Why, I could even think of the nasty black and white cat from two doors down and, you know, I didn’t even feel bitter about him. Revenge? What good would it do even I managed to exact it?

Though if he gets too close to my claws with his back turned, I might just revise that opinion.

Luci's diary: getting to know my way around. And my family

Luci's Diary. She begins to learn the ropes. And gets to know the people round her a bit better.

End of March 2015

Wow, Misty, our cat, is just great! Isn’t he? I’m getting on really well with him these days. We’ve got a real rapport, I feel. Even if he still beats me up a bit. Well, a lot actually. But only when I’ve really stepped out of line and he needs to correct me.

We get on so well these days
He only beats me up when I really ask for it

And he’s just so exciting.

He wanders indoors and back out again without so much as a by your leave. All the comfortable places to sleep on are his by right (it took me a while to get my mind round that, but he’s very good at making things really, really clear). And, boy, he can jump! I thought I was good at it, but he’s so much better: his food is kept way up in the air, far out of my reach, but he just leaps up there to eat away.

Of course, he can get at my food too, and does, but it’s odd because the only time he doesn’t beat me up is when I push him away from my bowl when’s he’s trying it on. Could it be that he’s not altogether sure he’s being entirely honest? I like to think it’s just my tactful way of suggesting to him that the bowl’s mine and he really ought to move on. Perhaps show me how well he jumps again, to get at his own food.

There’s one thing I’ve worked out about him, though, where he’s not being quite as clever as I thought. There was a time I believed he could just walk straight though a solid, closed door. In from the garden. Silly me. It’s not like that at all. There’s a sort of flap in the door. You push it with your head from outside, and it opens up inwards and you can slip through.

I was really pleased when I worked that one out. Now I can get in myself if it gets a bit cold or wet, and they leave me outside on my own. Actually, even if it isn’t cold and wet: I don’t like being out on my own too long anyway.

But there’s still a trick I haven’t mastered. He seems to be able to get out through the door too. Smart operator. I haven’t sussed out how he does that. I can’t see another flap. Could it be magic after all? I wouldn’t put anything past our Misty.

The humans are fun too. She is, particularly. Tough, but you know, loving. Looks after me. Walks and all that. And food! She’s the one for food.

I spend more time with him, though. She clears off somewhere or other during the day, but he’s mostly there. So I can lie next to him. Get a lot of rest, actually. Mainly because he gets terribly shirty if I walk on his keyboard, and he seems to have a keyboard on his knees practically the whole time. Hits it with his fingers – you’d think it would hurt and he might stop after a while it. Why doesn’t he feel uncomfortable with it? I know I do. But, like I said, it’s no good telling him – he just gets irritated.

Still, he takes me for walks too. And I’m getting him reasonably trained: he takes me by car to the places we’re going to walk, instead of forcing me to get there along those nasty, smelly streets. Drives me to the park gates, you know, just as I like it. If he can just learn to give me food, he’ll be basically all right.

No better than all right yet, though. A couple of times he’s taken me to this dismal place. The house of lamentation, I call it. Full of unpleasant smells, lots of strange people, wailing dogs, even the odd cat I don’t know. There’s a weird woman there who takes me into a back room and does nasty things to me, prodding me and pushing me and even sometimes sticking needles in me.

Well, he took me there for the second time, just a few days ago. And afterwards, when he stuck me back in the car, it wasn’t to go home, it was to drive somewhere else. Driving for ages. Ages and ages. It made me throw up in the end, which I wasn’t very happy about, and nor was he when we stopped – which makes me wonder why we bothered at all, if it only put us both in a bad mood.

I got a couple of nice walks out of being wherever he took me, but no better than we usually have. Certainly not so much better that they were worth driving ages and ages for.

With such good places to walk near home,
why drive for ages and ages?

When we got back, we met up with her again – joy! – and we all went for another walk – double joy! – but then he started throwing a pine cone for me to chase.

After that day. Can you believe it? I was exhausted! The pummelling in the house of lamentation. And then all that driving. I had no energy left.

Still, I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. He was doing his best. So I fetched him his pine cone three times. But that, I thought, was enough. After the third time, I wandered off and pretended to be interested in some grass. He stopped throwing.

He’s nice enough, but he needs a bit more training. In empathy. And compassion.

It seems I still have some work to do…