The following is actually an enhancement, elaboration and compilation of stories of two such lovely elderly ladies I once knew... all names have been changed.
At 86 years old, Mrs. MacCabe, a proper Victorian lady, lived in the yellow and white cottage on the corner across from St. Andrew’s Anglican Church. Her husband died in 1952 in a boating accident and despite having several gentlemen callers, she remained true to the love of her life and never remarried.
She preferred the company of cats and she had three such companions, Pebble a large black and white fellow, Fat Freddy who lived up to his name and Gina, the shy little ginger cat that showed up at her back door one wintry Sunday morning after church.
Her summer afternoons were spent sitting on her porch, correctly attired in her lace blouse clasped tightly at her neck with the cameo broach her husband, Earl, brought back from Italy in 1945, pressed and pleated long gray skirt, thick support stockings and chunky heeled black shoes. The loose white curls on her head stirred softly in the breeze of the nearby lake as she sat drinking Earl Grey tea from her Royal Albert tea set. Nearby, her cats sipped milk from china saucers that had lost their matching cups.
Her closest neighbor, Thomas, who had moved into the village from up the lake, complained to everyone he met about that damn Fat Freddy who destroyed his flowerbed every chance he got. Thomas, however, would never mention Fat Freddy’s dreadful deeds to Mrs. MacCabe, knowing how mortified and upset she would be to think her beloved cat could be capable of pooping amongst the pansies and snapdragons in Thomas’s well cared for garden. Instead, he kept mum and chased Fat Freddy from his yard when Mrs. MacCabe wasn’t there to see.
It was in the darkest part of January last year when she didn’t show up at church that we realized something was amiss. Through out the morning’s service at every small sound that came from the vicinity of the broad oak doors, heads would turn in expectation of her arrival. No one could remember when she had missed a Sunday or had even been late.
At the end of the morning’s last hymn and closing prayer, two people attending worship who had seen her the day before, commented that she had looked pale and had a raspy cough. They quickly pulled on their coats and crossed the street to check on her.
They found her. Still in her blue flowered dressing gown and pink slippers, she sat silent in her overstuffed chair. Her chin resting on her chest and the little ginger cat curled in her lap. Her church going clothes were laid out neatly on the perfectly made bed. Pebble and Fat Freddy mewing persistently, weaved in and out between the parishioner’s legs. Mrs. MacCabe, and Gina were gone. It was as if Gina could not bear to be without her and in undying loyalty and love, accompanied her dear lady to heaven.
Fat Freddy and Pebble each went to stay with the two people who discovered them that sad day. Pebble later became the darling of the local retirement home. He resides there still, a nurturing presence amongst the elderly residents who lovingly stroke his velvet coat while enjoying the music of his purrs.
Two months after Mrs. MacCabe’s passing, I was combing through a basket of fabric remnants at our local thrift shop when I came across a plain, gray woolen scarf. I picked it up and was immediately met with a memory of her, wrapped in her brown winter coat, the gray scarf loosely wrapped around her neck, dressed as she was every Sunday morning when she came to church. I lifted the scarf to my nose and could still detect the faint scent of Coty’s White Shoulders, Earl’s favorite and the only perfume she ever wore.
I paid ten cents for the scarf and brought it home. I carefully cut it into several mouse shaped pieces, sewed up the seams, stuffed them with catnip I’d gathered the summer before, stitched them closed, and embroidered on faces. In memory of Mrs. MacCabe’s love for her feline companions, MouieWowies and Rattatudes were born… these are for you Fat Freddy, Pebble and Gina in heaven. You can see and acquire them at: http://www.plumentails.com/
Monday, May 26, 2008
Saturday, May 3, 2008
The Trick
The following story is absolutely true. If you've ever lived with a Border Collie, you wont doubt me for one minute. Enjoy and read on...
My best friend and I waited anxiously at the Air Freight Depot in Spokane, Washington, for the delivery of our Border Collie Pups, arriving all the way from McLeansborough, Illinois. Unrelated for future breeding purposes, both were from champion stock and were being ‘shipped together in a safe and light weight crate,’ as promised by the breeder.
Certain the pups were flown in one of those new fiberglass animal carriers, our conversation was starting to get a little heated over which one of us would get to keep the shipping crate. When from behind the counter and over the din of noise in the open freight hanger could be heard the unmistakable of sound growling animals.
“Well, here we are ladies. They look a little worse for wear, but it was a bit of long flight and after all, they were stuck in Chicago for a few extra hours,” said the attendant, pushing the crate with his foot from behind the counter. There they were in a wooden lettuce crate, water can wired to one corner, wet and soiled newspaper beneath the dirty black and white snarling pups, their teeth locked together in obvious loathing.
“Ah, it’s ok with me, you can keep the crate… really, I don’t mind,” pretending generosity.
“Yeah… sure,” she replied. “Which one is which do you think?” She opened the crate and bravely reached in to separate the scrapping puppies. Hers was the larger pup, a male she had already registered as ‘Bramble’ and mine was the small female, Chrissy, who was to become our 'hired hand', working goats and sheep on our small British Columbia farm.
At only eight weeks old, Chrissy demonstrated her superior Border Collie intellect. We would throw or hide different toys in separate places and when told to retrieve a specific toy, she’d fetch the correct item every time.
Our pups were sent to us with training instructions and although I did my best to follow the directions to the letter, I was a total failure. Training sessions usually ended up with either my mouth feeling like dry cotton from my futile attempts at various kinds of whistle commands described in the book, or I’d be left standing with my arms flailing around in the air trying to get her attention with supposed hand signals. Fortunately it was only me that ended up confused and exasperated for our little gal was a lot smarter than me and was able to figure out on her own what was required and off she’d go and do it.
When there was no work for her to do, she would invent her own entertainment, usually pitting her fine brain against that of the farm cat and mealtimes provided the greatest opportunity for outwitting the poor unsuspecting feline. She would hunker down behind the kitchen cabinet and stare unblinking at the cat’s food dish, quietly waiting for the cat. Queen Pine Cone would approach the kibble dish. Chrissy, holding her breath, body tense and frozen, would wait for the cat to be fully engaged in her repast when she would leap out from behind the cabinet and hit the bowl with both front paws, sending kibble and cat flying in all directions. After a few such encounters, Queen Pine Cone stopped coming to her kibble dish, but Chrissy wouldn’t allow the game to end that easily. Taking the edge of the cat’s bowl carefully between her teeth, dragging it to another place on the kitchen floor, and moving to a new hiding place behind the stove, the game was on once again. To save Queen Pine Cone from eventual starvation, we built her a special feeding table, elevating her well above the collie’s reach.
Our son had an uncanny talent for training dogs, and with such an enthusiastic pupil, his ability as a trainer excelled. First, he taught her the shell game using a dried pea and three small matching bowls. She picked the right bowl every time but soon lost interest. Ready to move on to something new, one afternoon he proudly demonstrated the new 'card' trick he had taught the keen-eyed little collie.
Whenever he had an audience, he would call her over and shuffle a deck of cards. Fanning the deck face down in front of her and in a firm voice he would command, "Pick one… Just one card!" Dutifully, and with the intense eye and focus Border Collies are well known for, she would step forward and gently pull one card from the deck spread before her. For dramatic effect, the boy would hold the card up for all to see. He would then place the card back in the deck and reshuffle. Once again he fanned the cards out face down before her and in his strongest voice commanded, "Chrissy, which card was it?" With the same intensity, she would run her nose over the cards and gently pull out the correct card between her teeth. With a theatrical flourish our son waved the card before their audience for all to see.
This went on for most of the summer and as word spread in our small farming community, the duo became mildly famous in a ‘big fish, small pond’ kind of way. Curious friends and neighbors came, eager to see the show but Chrissy was getting more and more reluctant to perform.
One afternoon as guests gathered to see the boy and his dog perform the trick, her old enthusiasm for the game had surprisingly returned. Much to our son’s delight, she was back to her old self and eager to perform. He began his usual routine and all went well until she was asked to retrieve the one correct card. Her nose brushed over the cards once, then twice, and with a small hop forward, she gingerly removed a mouthful of cards from his hands and dropped them. Looking puzzled he asked her again and she grabbed another mouthful of cards, sat back down, tail wagging, panting pink tongue bouncing from the side of her mouth. She tilted her grinning face up at him to await his next command. As more cards fell to the ground, one by one their snickering audience began to drift away.
"I knew coming here was a waste of time," remarked one disgruntled visitor.
"Yeah, and I could have finished baling up my hay this afternoon. Now I gotta work 'til dark," said another.
In desperation while still trying to sound in control, he gave the command again and again she removed several cards at once and dropped them to the ground. He pleaded with her, "There's hardly any cards left… Pleeeez, ya dumb dog, just pick the right card!" By the time everyone had gone, she had pulled all but one card from his hands. There he stood holding one card, THE card. That was the last time she was ever asked to perform the ' trick.'
My best friend and I waited anxiously at the Air Freight Depot in Spokane, Washington, for the delivery of our Border Collie Pups, arriving all the way from McLeansborough, Illinois. Unrelated for future breeding purposes, both were from champion stock and were being ‘shipped together in a safe and light weight crate,’ as promised by the breeder.
Certain the pups were flown in one of those new fiberglass animal carriers, our conversation was starting to get a little heated over which one of us would get to keep the shipping crate. When from behind the counter and over the din of noise in the open freight hanger could be heard the unmistakable of sound growling animals.
“Well, here we are ladies. They look a little worse for wear, but it was a bit of long flight and after all, they were stuck in Chicago for a few extra hours,” said the attendant, pushing the crate with his foot from behind the counter. There they were in a wooden lettuce crate, water can wired to one corner, wet and soiled newspaper beneath the dirty black and white snarling pups, their teeth locked together in obvious loathing.
“Ah, it’s ok with me, you can keep the crate… really, I don’t mind,” pretending generosity.
“Yeah… sure,” she replied. “Which one is which do you think?” She opened the crate and bravely reached in to separate the scrapping puppies. Hers was the larger pup, a male she had already registered as ‘Bramble’ and mine was the small female, Chrissy, who was to become our 'hired hand', working goats and sheep on our small British Columbia farm.
At only eight weeks old, Chrissy demonstrated her superior Border Collie intellect. We would throw or hide different toys in separate places and when told to retrieve a specific toy, she’d fetch the correct item every time.
Our pups were sent to us with training instructions and although I did my best to follow the directions to the letter, I was a total failure. Training sessions usually ended up with either my mouth feeling like dry cotton from my futile attempts at various kinds of whistle commands described in the book, or I’d be left standing with my arms flailing around in the air trying to get her attention with supposed hand signals. Fortunately it was only me that ended up confused and exasperated for our little gal was a lot smarter than me and was able to figure out on her own what was required and off she’d go and do it.
When there was no work for her to do, she would invent her own entertainment, usually pitting her fine brain against that of the farm cat and mealtimes provided the greatest opportunity for outwitting the poor unsuspecting feline. She would hunker down behind the kitchen cabinet and stare unblinking at the cat’s food dish, quietly waiting for the cat. Queen Pine Cone would approach the kibble dish. Chrissy, holding her breath, body tense and frozen, would wait for the cat to be fully engaged in her repast when she would leap out from behind the cabinet and hit the bowl with both front paws, sending kibble and cat flying in all directions. After a few such encounters, Queen Pine Cone stopped coming to her kibble dish, but Chrissy wouldn’t allow the game to end that easily. Taking the edge of the cat’s bowl carefully between her teeth, dragging it to another place on the kitchen floor, and moving to a new hiding place behind the stove, the game was on once again. To save Queen Pine Cone from eventual starvation, we built her a special feeding table, elevating her well above the collie’s reach.
Our son had an uncanny talent for training dogs, and with such an enthusiastic pupil, his ability as a trainer excelled. First, he taught her the shell game using a dried pea and three small matching bowls. She picked the right bowl every time but soon lost interest. Ready to move on to something new, one afternoon he proudly demonstrated the new 'card' trick he had taught the keen-eyed little collie.
Whenever he had an audience, he would call her over and shuffle a deck of cards. Fanning the deck face down in front of her and in a firm voice he would command, "Pick one… Just one card!" Dutifully, and with the intense eye and focus Border Collies are well known for, she would step forward and gently pull one card from the deck spread before her. For dramatic effect, the boy would hold the card up for all to see. He would then place the card back in the deck and reshuffle. Once again he fanned the cards out face down before her and in his strongest voice commanded, "Chrissy, which card was it?" With the same intensity, she would run her nose over the cards and gently pull out the correct card between her teeth. With a theatrical flourish our son waved the card before their audience for all to see.
This went on for most of the summer and as word spread in our small farming community, the duo became mildly famous in a ‘big fish, small pond’ kind of way. Curious friends and neighbors came, eager to see the show but Chrissy was getting more and more reluctant to perform.
One afternoon as guests gathered to see the boy and his dog perform the trick, her old enthusiasm for the game had surprisingly returned. Much to our son’s delight, she was back to her old self and eager to perform. He began his usual routine and all went well until she was asked to retrieve the one correct card. Her nose brushed over the cards once, then twice, and with a small hop forward, she gingerly removed a mouthful of cards from his hands and dropped them. Looking puzzled he asked her again and she grabbed another mouthful of cards, sat back down, tail wagging, panting pink tongue bouncing from the side of her mouth. She tilted her grinning face up at him to await his next command. As more cards fell to the ground, one by one their snickering audience began to drift away.
"I knew coming here was a waste of time," remarked one disgruntled visitor.
"Yeah, and I could have finished baling up my hay this afternoon. Now I gotta work 'til dark," said another.
In desperation while still trying to sound in control, he gave the command again and again she removed several cards at once and dropped them to the ground. He pleaded with her, "There's hardly any cards left… Pleeeez, ya dumb dog, just pick the right card!" By the time everyone had gone, she had pulled all but one card from his hands. There he stood holding one card, THE card. That was the last time she was ever asked to perform the ' trick.'
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