Na'ilah has blood on her paws today, and I have blood on my t-shirt.
Sam, the neighbors' orange tabby cat, rests in peace on their doorstep, decently covered.
Sam has been the neighborhood cat for years. Owned by a family on the next block over, he frequented all the back yards on the south side of the street.
We should have put up a sign on our back fence that read "Beware of Rhodesian Ridgeback." Not that Sam would have been able to read it.
Stormy and our previous dogs--Mocha and Corky--enjoyed barking at Sam but respected him. After he jumped back up to stand on the fence, they were content.
I haven't seen Sam in our yard since we got Na'ilah six months ago.
Today is beautiful and sunny after rain yesterday. I walk Stormy and Na'ilah before eating breakfast, and apparently Sam takes advantage of their absence to do a little marking or exploring.
Afterward I'm cleaning up the poop of the last 24 hours and notice Na'ilah's rear end and back paws sticking out from a hole in the foundation of a shed in the back yard. I realize she's after some animal under there but assume it's a squirrel, possum, raccoon or rat. I haul her away from the shed, lay a section of wire fencing over the hole, and go into the house.
I hear some barking and figure Na'ilah's having a conversation with some dog on the other side of the fence, though she's usually a quiet dog.
But suddenly I hear the snarling of a cat. I run to the back yard and find Na'ilah with her jaws clamped on a big orange tabby.
"No! No!" I shout. "Drop it! Leave it alone!"
I grab her collar and she releases the cat, who falls on the ground and remains lying there.
I haul Na'ilah thirty yards across the grass and onto the back porch. She won't let me drag her into the house. She keeps turning her head to go back to the cat, but I wrap one arm around her middle and succeed in getting her inside.
Snatching a towel from the cleaning closet, I run back to the cat, who is still lying there but moving. It's the cat who has been hanging out in our yard for years. All the neighbors know him.
He lets me pet him, and I lift him onto the towel, then run to the front yard to put him in the car.
As I'm banging on the front door for John to bring my car keys and purse, Sam releases a long moan. His last words.
Like an ambulance driver, I race five blocks to the Kenneth Jones Animal Rights Hospital and park on the red curb in front. http://www.jonesanimalhospital.com/
I lift Sam on his towel in my arms and run inside shouting "Emergency! My dog attacked this cat!"
Immediately they admit us to an examination room, and I'm thinking the cat can be saved, just like the previous one that Na'ilah attacked on Thanksgiving.
After examining him, however, Dr. Ramona Forelle soon pronounces the cat dead.
We look at the tag on his collar, which has a phone number and the name Sam, which I recognize.
Sadly I carry the towel with Sam in it back to the car, thinking the owners probably would rather see him than just hear a report that he was DOA at the vet's office.
I drive home to get my cell and sit in the car as the owner's phone rings. A woman answers it.
"Is this the owner of a cat named Sam?" I ask soberly.
"Yes," she says.
"I'm sorry to tell you that my dog attacked your cat this morning in my back yard, and the vet pronounced him dead. I'll bring him to your house if you tell me the address."
"Oh, I'm in the hospital," she answers. "I just delivered. But I'll tell my mom. Her name is Pat. What's your name?"
"My name is Anne. I'm so sorry to tell you this."
"These things happen," she says.
We hang up, and I drive around the corner to her address. As I ring the doorbell, a big orange tabby emerges out of some bushes, startling me.
I worry about the safety of Sam's remains with other animals around, so I walk around to the back door and lay him down there on his towel. I leave a note.
As I'm leaving, someone drives up but it turns out to be the dog walker. I explain to her, and as soon as I say "Rhodesian ridgeback," she understands.
Then a youngish man drives up, and I explain to him but he's already been told. I apologize but he's not angry at me.
"It happens," he says.
Back home, Roz tells me that
I have blood on my t-shirt.
A sad day.
 |
| Sam's last trip to the vet |
Sam, the neighbors' orange tabby cat, rests in peace on their doorstep, decently covered.
Sam has been the neighborhood cat for years. Owned by a family on the next block over, he frequented all the back yards on the south side of the street.
We should have put up a sign on our back fence that read "Beware of Rhodesian Ridgeback." Not that Sam would have been able to read it.
Stormy and our previous dogs--Mocha and Corky--enjoyed barking at Sam but respected him. After he jumped back up to stand on the fence, they were content.
I haven't seen Sam in our yard since we got Na'ilah six months ago.
Today is beautiful and sunny after rain yesterday. I walk Stormy and Na'ilah before eating breakfast, and apparently Sam takes advantage of their absence to do a little marking or exploring.
Afterward I'm cleaning up the poop of the last 24 hours and notice Na'ilah's rear end and back paws sticking out from a hole in the foundation of a shed in the back yard. I realize she's after some animal under there but assume it's a squirrel, possum, raccoon or rat. I haul her away from the shed, lay a section of wire fencing over the hole, and go into the house.
I hear some barking and figure Na'ilah's having a conversation with some dog on the other side of the fence, though she's usually a quiet dog.
But suddenly I hear the snarling of a cat. I run to the back yard and find Na'ilah with her jaws clamped on a big orange tabby.
"No! No!" I shout. "Drop it! Leave it alone!"
I grab her collar and she releases the cat, who falls on the ground and remains lying there.
I haul Na'ilah thirty yards across the grass and onto the back porch. She won't let me drag her into the house. She keeps turning her head to go back to the cat, but I wrap one arm around her middle and succeed in getting her inside.
Snatching a towel from the cleaning closet, I run back to the cat, who is still lying there but moving. It's the cat who has been hanging out in our yard for years. All the neighbors know him.
He lets me pet him, and I lift him onto the towel, then run to the front yard to put him in the car.
As I'm banging on the front door for John to bring my car keys and purse, Sam releases a long moan. His last words.
Like an ambulance driver, I race five blocks to the Kenneth Jones Animal Rights Hospital and park on the red curb in front. http://www.jonesanimalhospital.com/
I lift Sam on his towel in my arms and run inside shouting "Emergency! My dog attacked this cat!"
Immediately they admit us to an examination room, and I'm thinking the cat can be saved, just like the previous one that Na'ilah attacked on Thanksgiving.
After examining him, however, Dr. Ramona Forelle soon pronounces the cat dead.
 |
| Rest in peace, Sam. |
We look at the tag on his collar, which has a phone number and the name Sam, which I recognize.
Sadly I carry the towel with Sam in it back to the car, thinking the owners probably would rather see him than just hear a report that he was DOA at the vet's office.
I drive home to get my cell and sit in the car as the owner's phone rings. A woman answers it.
"Is this the owner of a cat named Sam?" I ask soberly.
"Yes," she says.
"I'm sorry to tell you that my dog attacked your cat this morning in my back yard, and the vet pronounced him dead. I'll bring him to your house if you tell me the address."
"Oh, I'm in the hospital," she answers. "I just delivered. But I'll tell my mom. Her name is Pat. What's your name?"
"My name is Anne. I'm so sorry to tell you this."
"These things happen," she says.
We hang up, and I drive around the corner to her address. As I ring the doorbell, a big orange tabby emerges out of some bushes, startling me.
I worry about the safety of Sam's remains with other animals around, so I walk around to the back door and lay him down there on his towel. I leave a note.
As I'm leaving, someone drives up but it turns out to be the dog walker. I explain to her, and as soon as I say "Rhodesian ridgeback," she understands.
Then a youngish man drives up, and I explain to him but he's already been told. I apologize but he's not angry at me.
"It happens," he says.
Back home, Roz tells me that
I have blood on my t-shirt.
A sad day.
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