Downsizing Lucky

We've got our two dogs and five cats moved into the cottage. They all fit in 800 square feet, but moving from one room to another is complicated, particularly for the kittens.

These two are maturing, but have not outgrown chasing each other pell mell across the floor plan, which in the big house posed no problem, but in the cottage requires planning beyond these guys' capabilities.

Lucky is the big furry oversensitive fly in their ointment. Like most of our animals, this dog is a rescue from the pound, picked off death row by my wife with no regard for his past history. We know Lucky is scared of thunderstorms and that he, for whatever reasons, can't abide large black dogs.

We believe that somewhere in his private past he was captured, taken to an undisclosed location by terrorist cats, and tortured within an inch of his young life. He has been marked forever by some such horrible experience, because any time one of the cats gets within 20 feet of him he curls his lip and snarls viciously. Every time he does it we tell him to get over it, but he never has.

In our big former home the two kittens on a tear had plenty of room to move, but in the cottage, every chase path invariably leads right over the top of Lucky, who explodes in a paroxysm of rage, panic, and barking.

Doesn't faze the kittens a bit. They scramble over him as if he were one of the better special effects in a horror movie.

For poor Lucky, though, this is real life, so, rather than yelling at him, we give him whatever comfort we can.

Luckymuck

I just brought the dogs in from walking.

At the walking trail where I take the Sophie and Lucky some asshole kids had dumped the garbage can into the creek. I crawled halfway down the embankment and hauled the can up out of the ravine, just so I would have somewhere to dump Lucky's shit.

Lucky is the poopmeister; he lays out about three loads per walk, great big bulky handfuls of it. I say handfuls, because the best way to deal with this stuff is take a plastic bag, turn it inside out, pick up the shit with your hands, and then turn the bag inside out. This approach gives you the heft, warmth, and smell of the shit without having to squish it through your fingers.

So Lucky just by himself is a three-bag dog. Happily, Sophie is good for only one dump a walk, and she takes them back in the bushes where no one will notice, so I don't bother to pick hers up.

Lucky lays his out on sidewalk (all he's lacking is his own personal logo and brand, something like "Luckymuck" with little handcrafted signs saying "Stomp your Nikes in this pile!") and so I'm obligated to pick up after him. Then I throw the bags of shit in the garbage can, and then the kids dump the can in the creek. In East Tennessee, where I live, this is called "recycling."