This is the one responsible for starting the chain of destruction.
As you can see, he is not a law-abiding:
Due to this questionable character, he often catching these, who for some reason think hanging out on my screen, in EASY pouncing reach, is a good way to spend the afternoon.
The cat likes to bring the live chipmunk inside the house through the cat door and let it go. For him, the game is over.
And now it is the dog’s turn, and in the excitement of the chase, the living room explodes. This is where I come home and arrive upon the scene.
The chipmunk finds safety by squeezing between two faces of the sliding door:
Using an assortment of kitchen utensils, I safely remove the chipmunk, and release him outside.
Where he runs up the gutter.
I did not think this was an issue, as my dog has never been able to catch a chipmunk, inside OR outside the house. I did not realize how frustrating this was to him until several days later.
I was in my first pair of pajama pants this morning talking to my friend on the phone when she said something funny and I started to choke on a piece of ham in the split pea and ham soup I’d made in my Crockpot from 1972.
So I grabbed the closest glass of water. The cat’s. Some went down my throat, the rest went into my lap.
I changed pajama pants.
Later I was talking on the phone with my girlfriend Kristin and telling her about the ham-choking-catwater debacle when I heard noises in the basement and my cat Tom shot down the stairs. My dog Rocky started to follow him, but he is not allowed to do stairs because he’s injured. So as I was grabbing my 86 pound dog, a woodpecker flew past my head and went straight for the picture window.
Kristin heard the ruckus and said, “Should I call you back?”
I say, “No, no. It’s a woodpecker. Let me grab a dishtowel.”
There are chairs all over my sofas (see previous blog post) so Rocky was unable to hurl himself at the woodpecker, giving me time to cover the bird and open the french doors.
Kristin: “Are you sure we shouldn’t get off the phone?”
Me: “I got it.”
I had the bird in one hand and the phone in the other and walked along the icy deck. Then I was butt-first in the snow. (Note: Crocs are not good winter shoes. Not just for the holes in them, but for the pancake smooth tread on the bottom.)
Kristin:”Are you there? Did the woodpecker fly away?”
I checked the dishtowel. Empty.
I am writing this post in pajama pants #3.
It’s not just that he stares at you while you pee.
It’s that I got a call from a neighbor a third of a mile down the street. They’d found his collar. Inside their kitchen. And he had knocked their dinner tray off the kitchen island.
So he breaks and enters, trashes the place, rips off his clothing, and leaves.
Did I mention he came with the name Tom? Apparently, that’s his last name. His first name is Peeping.