Adriana La Cerva June 2014
A conversation between Miss Annie and me:
I’m puppy-sitting Bentley next week, I say.
There’s a pause. Miss Annie cocks her head. When understanding dawns, she lifts her nose to a haughtier height. She’s six pounds.
If you need me, I’ll be under the bed, she says.
I like him. He makes me feel like a rock star.
What do I make you feel like? she asks.
A servant, I answer.
A few years ago Joe Poop entered the kissing contest in Centennial Park on their annual Dog Day. He had stiff competition from fluffy pocket dogs carried by pretty women or Great Danes walking cute kids. But Joe’s kissing prowess impressed Justin Bruce from WKRN so much that our wiry, bearded mutt took first place. His number 25 still hangs on the fridge.
I met Dessie at Love at First Sight in Nashville, Tennessee. D’money snores like an old lady and smells like a dirty shag rug. She must have beagle in her blood because her nose always gets her into trouble. Des and I are about as tight as two souls can be. Most often, she’s wherever I am.
If Floyd could speak, he’d say fixin’ with a thick southern accent. A self-proclaimed mama’s boy, Floyd loves me almost as much as he loves Sara. His temperament is mostly chill, until I let him loose in the woods. And then he acts like he just sucked down a dog’s version of a whip-it, feverishly leaping and smelling and running.
Sweet Sara Puff II Oct. 2009
Someone ditched Sara (and her brother Floyd) on the side of Flewellyn Road. When Mason brought her home, my neighbor looked her over. “You want me to put a bullet in her head?” he asked. No one thought she’d survive. But she did. She’s grown into a loner and a lover. A hellion. Her brother is her best friend.
After three and a half months with her almost-forever family, Meadow Soprano returned to the Farnival on Friday, Jan. 31st. Her family exhausted all their resources, but couldn’t control her separation anxiety. ICHBA put her back up for adoption, but nobody seemed like the right fit for Meadow, so two and a half months later, we decided to adopt her. For her history click here.
Boo sits on the headrest of the leather couch, sound asleep. A finch suddenly swoops in the front door, then into the living room. Boo leaps vertical, knocking that bird down with a swipe so fast and accurate he seems bionic. He settles back into his sleeping position, tucks the finch under his belly, saving it for later.
If I forget to fill up the water bowl, Goo pees in it. He’s a baller and expects me to be on my game. He’s just as deadly as his two comrades, but he assassinates his prey when no one is looking. He likes to leave me presents of beheaded mice and mangled chipmunks on the basement floor. He’s the only cat in my pack that that isn’t pure black.
Fuzz Sept. 2006
A feral cat and her litter lived in a barn on Greg’s farm down Sandy Hill Road. Every week or so, he’d dump a bag of Cat Chow on the barn’s dirt floor. One night, a scavenging coyote killed the mother and every kitten, except for one. The only survivor was blacker than nighttime. We named him Fuzz.