The Nose Knows (2 page)

“Okay, see you later.”

Mom had already headed back to her office. I stopped to say hello to Sweetie, who was curled up on the sofa. “So tell me, Sweetie, did you start this one or did Bobby?”

Sweetie swiped his paw across his whiskers. “Bobby deserved it; he was gloating. He was bragging that he got the most fish at breakfast. I had to knock him down a peg or two. Besides, we were just messing around. It’s not my fault Mom’s hearing is so underdeveloped. She can never tell the difference between play and serious!”

“Yeah, she doesn’t like squabbling. But tell me, why is Bobby always the scapegoat? I noticed once again he’s locked outside while Mom loved on you. Do you think that’s fair?”

Sweetie’s whiskers swept upward. “Well, let me put it this way, which of us do you think is going to get the most fish tonight?”

“Point well taken. Now do you think you can keep the noise down awhile? I was trying to take a nap.”

“Oh, Spunk, I’m sorry we woke you up. Go ahead and take your nap. I’ll keep the peace.”

Most days Sweetie is a sweetie, except when he’s teaching someone a lesson.

Luckily, my sun puddle still had some warmth left in it. As I settled into it, I thought of all the nonsense that goes on around here. It wasn’t always this way. When Dad was alive, there were no cats, only dogs. Moxie, a Golden Retriever, was their first puppy. They had her for two years before Dad brought me home from the shelter. I was only six weeks old. My first humans had abandoned me. I was one scared, tiny, scruffy mutt. The Humane Society labeled me part terrier and part Labrador. They said I’d grow up to be about fifty pounds. That was fine with Mom; she definitely didn’t want a small dog. Her opinion was small dogs were either sissies or yappers. Fifty pounds, huh? Well, that never came to be. Soaking wet, I weigh in at about twenty pounds. Labrador? True, my fur is black, but that’s where the similarity ends. There’s nothing sleek about me. From the top of my head to the tip of my tail, I have black scruffy fur sticking out in all directions. Absolutely no resemblance to a Labrador whatsoever. For years, my coat was solid black, except for four white stockings and a white patch on my muzzle. However, now that I’m twelve, there’s an increasing amount of white hairs showing up.

My ears are big and they stick straight up. When I was little, they looked even larger, and Mom said I must’ve been bred with a mule! From what I know, that’s certainly not true; but I am a M-U-T-T, which stands for Mixed Unknown Terrier Type. Given my terrier bloodlines, of course I’m very smart, with just the right amount of independent sass. It didn’t take long to show Mom my smaller size didn’t matter. She soon learned I was a big dog in a small package.

Three years after I arrived, Mom rescued another shelter dog. Her name was Molly. From her teeth they guessed she was already pretty old. She looked like Benji, the movie star. I liked her. She, Moxie, and I were friends for about four years. But by the time Dad died, it was down to just Molly and me. Then less than a year later, it was just us two girls, Mom and me. By then I was almost eight and Mom thought I was too old to contend with a new puppy. Truth of the matter, Mom was the one who wasn’t up to training a new pup. Whatever her excuse, I sure didn’t mind having her all to myself. The occasional visit from a canine rescue kept my social skills well honed.

In my heart of hearts, I knew my single critter status wouldn’t last long. At my annual physical, I heard Mom telling the vet, Dr. Steve, about all the stray cats in the neighborhood. The neighbors referred to it as “the cat problem”; Mom called it ignorance. There simply wasn’t enough spaying and neutering going on. Mom set up outside feeding stations and established her three-day rule. If a cat showed up to eat for three days, it became hers. She trapped the cat and took it to see Dr. Steve. Once she knew that they were healthy and fixed, she released them back into the same woods from which they’d emerged. After that if, they headed back to their original home that was fine, but at least this way there were fewer fights and a lot fewer babies.

However, almost all of them stuck around.

One cold December afternoon, Mom and I heard a whole lot of meows coming from the front side of the house. Mom wouldn’t let me out front to see, but the cries told me a critter was in serious trouble. She took him straight to Dr. Steve. Later, I learned Mom had found a baby kitten that had a bad head injury and was very sick. The inside of his mouth was also torn so he couldn’t eat on his own. Mom said that since the kitten had made it to our yard she wanted to do all she could to give him a fighting chance.

The best thing that little critter ever did was to end up at our house. I knew it wasn’t by happenstance. The neighborhood dogs told me how he’d gotten to our house. Some momma cats banded together and took turns carrying the little one. Apparently, our place is famous for its bowls of cat chow. It was no accident that the baby found his way into the garden beneath Mom’s bedroom window.

A week later, I heard Mom on the speakerphone talking to Dr. Steve, who said the little boy had begun to eat and was making progress. But I heard him say this one couldn’t survive outside. He needed to live inside where it was safe.

That posed a problem. Why? At that point, I’d never met a cat. As I said, our home had always been a dog’s house. Mom didn’t know how I’d react. Outside, the cats always stayed out of my way or ran up a tree. I’d never been up close and personal, although I knew what they smelled like from a distance. Now, if it had been a new dog, we both would have known exactly what to do. But this was different. Mom did her research and then sat down and talked to me. She said something about smelling under a closed door so we’d get to know each other. I must admit, I didn’t know what the word “kitten” meant. But I did see her put a cage and a box filled with sand in the laundry room. She then repeatedly opened and closed the door and kept testing the lock. Maybe she was bringing home something ferocious!

Later when she returned, I immediately smelled the new critter. It certainly wasn’t a dog. I could hear Mom talking on the other side of the laundry room door.

“You’re fine now. This is going to be your new home. Well, it won’t always be just this room, but for now it will be so you’ll be safe. Hey, do you want to say hello to Spunky? See that little black nose sticking under the door? That’s Spunky. Come and say ‘Hi’.”

A critter’s paw appeared under the door. I sniffed. Smelled like a cat. I wagged my tail. It sure was a tiny paw. I could hear Mom’s happy tone. “Good girl Spunky, be gentle. Okay, you two, this is wonderful. Let me open the door just a smidgen so Spunky can see your face.”

She opened the door a crack. A furry blur rushed past my nose. The critter was loose! Mom panicked. In a very firm voice she said, “Spun—kee . . . you’d better be nice.”

The critter didn’t waste a single moment. He turned and walked straight at me. He stared me right in the eye. Bold little one. He was a cat all right—but a miniature one. But something was wrong with his head. It was on crooked! I moved in to get a good sniff—BAMM—his claw got me right in the nose! I went after some fur! Mom grabbed my harness.

She was laughing. “Don’t you even think about it! Besides, Spunk, I think he can take care of himself. He sure is fearless. . . .”

Yup, that was the day Fearless earned his name.

Once things settled down and he apologized for the unauthorized use of his claw, I asked him, “Hey, little guy why is your head on crooked?”

“I don’t know—
breath
—I wasn’t born like this—
breath
—I was at Dr. Steve’s—I didn’t like it there—
breath
—he’s really nice—
breath
—but I don’t like that place at all. . . .”

Boy, he could talk, and it took a lot of breaths to get all his words out. I had to interrupt.

“And what about your head?”

“Oh, yeah—one morning, I woke up and—it had tilted to the left. Just like that!—I can’t get it to go straight—It’s just kind of stuck that way.”

“Does it hurt? Is it a spasm?”

“Nope—it don’t hurt. I had a leg spasm once— now that hurt!—But not my head, it just tilts!”

“Will you grow out of it?”

“Don’t know.—Dr. Steve told your mom—sometimes a ‘head tilt’ will just go away and—sometimes it stays that way. I don’t know what—will happen to it.”

“Could it be like that forever?”

“Could be. Dr. Steve said it won’t matter—I can still grow up to be—a big strong cat—just like any other cat—except my head will be crooked.”

“Why do you have trouble catching your breath?”

“I got kicked in the face—by a man—it did something to my airway—makes me breath hard—but it don’t hurt either. Hey,—does my crooked head— make me look funny?”

I paused. “Naw. In fact I think it makes you look . . . special.”

Truth of the matter, he did look funny. But that little head tilted on that little body made a cute package. I may be tough, but I’m still a girl, and cute is cute.

As it turned out, Fearless never did stay very long in the laundry room, except when Mom wasn’t home. For months, she never left us alone together by ourselves. Good thing too, or Fearless might have ended up being a bobtail. He was cute and I certainly gave him a lot of leeway since he was so little and handicapped, but apparently cats think stalking you is a good thing. Dogs do not. His ability to jump onto things and stay out of my reach saved him on many occasion. I will admit he was smart. He quickly learned the meanings of my different growls, so he knew when to back off.

At night, Mom shut him out of our bedroom. He always wanted to play instead of sleep! He didn’t mind being on his own at night. I think he liked to do his nightly stalking without anyone watching. Over time, we got used to each other. With his tilted head and the rough start to his life, I cut him a lot of slack. Truth of the matter, I also admired the little guy’s courage.

Fearless was my first cat buddy.

Y
ou would call our Mom Dr. Hannah Richards. She’s a licensed psychologist. She used to see clients the old-fashioned way, face-to-face talking together in an office. But then eleven years ago everything changed. Mom stopped seeing clients. Mom stopped practicing. Mom stopped feeling in control of her life. In fact, Mom stopped doing too many things.

A patient had held her hostage. It brought her life to a screeching halt.

The circle of her life shrunk to just Dad, a few trusted friends and of course her ever-expanding family of critters. For six years, she lived a simplified life. She took care of the house, the garden, Dad, and her rescue dogs. We had no cats back then. Right after the traumatic event, she saw a therapist, but eventually she stopped. She told Dad she was fine with her life just the way it was. Dad told her he thought she was wrong to quit therapy. He said she still needed help learning how to cope with what had happened. Mom listened for a while, but then she wouldn’t discuss it anymore. When Mom draws a line there isn’t much that can get her to move it. Finally Dad quit trying to change her mind and went on doing what he did best—he just loved her.

Then five years ago Dad suddenly died. Mom had to draw on every ounce of her energy and will to keep on living. It took time for her to learn how to live without him. Besides learning how to survive her terrible grief, she also had to learn how to be comfortable living alone. When Dad had been in the house, she’d known he’d keep her safe. After he died, even the doorbell would make her jump. One time, the bell rang and she dropped a box of cereal right on my head. To this day, whenever I hear someone coming up the walk, I check to see if I’m in harm’s way.

Over time, she adapted to being alone. For example, now when she hears a strange noise, she’ll look in my direction. If I’m not reacting to the sound, she figures all is well. When humans are anxious, their hearing is heightened. They notice the sounds we critters hear every day. Like the house settling or the branch scratching the roof. It scares them. Mom has now learned that if I’m not on alert status, she can relax.

Gradually, Mom began to focus on more things outside of herself. However, years passed before she decided to resume her practice.

Money wasn’t the reason she decided to work again. Dad had made sure Mom would be financially secure. Mom’s a caregiver by nature. She likes to take care of people and animals. When Dad was alive, she could get this need met by taking care of him. After he was gone, well, she simply became intolerable.

Take the brushing situation. Previously, Mom only brushed me every now and then. I’m a scruffy dog so I don’t need it and I certainly don’t like it. Heck, one day she went nuts and started brushing the cats and me every day! I thought I’d go bald!

It was her friend, Judy, who saved my butt from becoming hairless. One afternoon when she was over having coffee, she said, “Hannah, today when we were in the grocery store, you crossed a line. You know I love you, but someone has to tell you when enough is enough.”

Mom looked clueless. “What are you talking about?”

“Hannah Richards, you know darn well what I’m talking about. You walked right up to those two women in the produce department, butted into their conversation, and gave them your opinion about what they should do about that woman’s daughter. They didn’t ask for your advice or for you to eavesdrop on their conversation.”