You know, I don't think it's always about telling time or what day of the week it is. I think that in some cases it's just a connection they make with their pet humans.
My Dear Old Dad went off to the army in 1951, drafted, and was gone just one month shy of two years for his enlistment term. He never came home on leave or anything, just saved all his leave up to get the hell out of Dodge as early as he could when his enlistment got short.
So one month before his term was up, he cashed in his leave so he could be home before he got his actual separation. The Army was amenable, because they were, at about that time in 1953, putting an end to the unit he was in, the 15th Constabulary Squadron, guarding the German border against the godless commie Russians.
On the day dad came home - he had to walk from a bus station, as we don't have taxi service out here in the boonies - he intended to surprise everyone by just showing up, so he didn't write to anyone to let them know. Phoning in was out of the question, as there were no phones in Boonieville at that time, so he walked a few miles, from Grantsville WV to Rockdale, WV.
Granny, his ma, was hanging laundry out, and observed a weird reaction in his dog, Old Bunk. So she went into the house and told Gramps that dad was coming home that day. Gramps says "now how would you know that, Old Woman? Ain't nobody heard shit from him." Gramps could be a bit plain spoken upon occasion. Just about any occasion. So Granny told him that Bunk had gone out and sat on the point, overlooking the road that morning, and had just sat there watching the road all day.
Gramps was unconvinced - he figured Granny was just wishfully thinking.
In the afternoon, An indistinct figure appeared trudging up the road. Indistinct to everyone but Bunk, that is. He bailed off that point like his ass was on fire and his head was catching, going for all he was worth towards that indistinct figure trudging on the road.
That was the day Pap came home from the Army, and no one had a clue he was coming but Bunk.
It couldn't have been the time, since Bunk had no idea what time he was coming home - he waited a little better than half a day, watching. It couldn't have been the day of the week, because, ditto. It couldn't have been an even two years ringing the bell for Bunk, because it was a month short of the two years. The only thing we've ever been able to figure was that connection they had, across space, across time. Psychic, maybe, but in any event a connection of some sort.
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I've had a lot of critters in my time, mostly dogs. I'm really a dog person, and it is fate laughing at me that we have wound up with cats now, and no mutts. I've mourned the end of a lot more dogs than will ever mourn my end. These cat's don't care - they'd eat my carcass if given that chance, I'm pretty sure. I'm just another resource to them.
If they can't get what they want out of me - and that is a frequent occurrence - they go bug Grace. Only time they ever give a shit about me is when I go run off some other cat trying to kill them, which has happened more than once. Happened just today, as a matter of fact - Tiny Tom was enjoying the great outdoors when I stepped out onto the deck. Tom came barreling past me, and a big fuzzy black Persian hot in his heels... until the Persian saw me. Maybe he understood I don't mind killing Iranians. Wouldn't be the first time. Whatever the reason, he did a hand-flip immediately upon seeing me, and got scarce in an opposite direction. So Tom came on in onto the enclosed porch where he lives while I was on guard duty.
Don't get me wrong - Tiny Tom showed his appreciation by crawling up in my lap and doing his rubbing and wood-rasp-tongue-licking thing, but all else being equal, he wouldn't think twice about eating my dead-assed carcass if he found me just laying around dead.
Tom's balls ain't dropped yet, however much he thinks they have. He ain't but maybe 10 months old, just showed the hell up here as a two week old kitten last July, similarly to the way Cammie just showed up half grown 5 years ago. I've not had him fixed in hopes that his balls will drop and he learns how to tear a new ass off the strange cats that show up here. No idea where he came from. There ain't no other cats around here colored like he is, and his ma never showed up or came around looking for him. Just one of those mysteries. He stayed outside the first few months he was here, and I just fed him out there, until it got too cold for that shit.
Matter of fact, as I was typing this, Cammie - the indoor cat - gave an alert. She has a habit of sitting in the windows and watching. So, while I was typing, she was sitting in the kitchen window growling like a bear at 2 AM. That generally means there is a cat out there that don't belong. My guess this evening is that it was black Persian. He's been hanging around trying to get a chance at Tom. So I snatched up my pistol and went to do battle. Because if he can't figure out where his turf really is - and that this ain't it - I'll give him one square foot he can call his own, and no more. Posthumously.
But of course he heard the door open, and got gone.
Now, middle of the night gunshots don't mean much to me. Wouldn't be the first time I heard them. If it bugs the neighbors, they're welcome to come over and find out what it was about. If they take exception to having their cats shot, that ain't my problem - they should've kept them off my turf. Pretty sure I know where the Persian belongs, and also pretty sure I won't hear any shit if he simply vanished. One day I was out test firing Betsy, my black poswder revolver, to check the loads for accuracy, and the "owner" of that cat was walking on the bridge, and the only comment I got from him was "did you get him?" He ain't gonna care if old Iran simply disappears one dark night.
There is a stray tabby that has taken up residence under my house, same deal - ain't nobody gonna care if he vanishes. One thing neither of those cats is gonna do is harass the cats that are here under my protection, the cats that actually belong here.
I don't give a crap about cats, any more than they give a crap about me. BUT - if they're under my protection, they get the same as anyone else under it. Cats are not like dogs. Dogs bond with you. Cats tolerate you, barely.
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The last dog I had was a Mountain Cur, named Blackie. He was the dumbassed dog that tangled with a bear that I have mentioned in other posts. I got Blackie from a Brazilian couple - she was a Venezuelan that I worked with - and he was a pretty smart dog, to be such a dumbass. I think he was probably just stubborn. Anyhow, when we first moved in here, my sister still lived in the house,and she had an outdoor cat named Shadow, Coincidentally, a black Persian.
Blackie could not leave that cat be. Chased it all over the place.
So one day I went out on the deck and sat down on the steps. Blackie came up to me, expecting to get his rears scrubbed. I took his head between my hands and looked him in the eyes, and said "leave that cat be, he lives here, same as you do now, so leave him alone".
Blackie, from that day forward, never chased Shadow again, and adopted a live and let live attitude until the day he disappeared into the woods.
.
My Dear Old Dad went off to the army in 1951, drafted, and was gone just one month shy of two years for his enlistment term. He never came home on leave or anything, just saved all his leave up to get the hell out of Dodge as early as he could when his enlistment got short.
So one month before his term was up, he cashed in his leave so he could be home before he got his actual separation. The Army was amenable, because they were, at about that time in 1953, putting an end to the unit he was in, the 15th Constabulary Squadron, guarding the German border against the godless commie Russians.
On the day dad came home - he had to walk from a bus station, as we don't have taxi service out here in the boonies - he intended to surprise everyone by just showing up, so he didn't write to anyone to let them know. Phoning in was out of the question, as there were no phones in Boonieville at that time, so he walked a few miles, from Grantsville WV to Rockdale, WV.
Granny, his ma, was hanging laundry out, and observed a weird reaction in his dog, Old Bunk. So she went into the house and told Gramps that dad was coming home that day. Gramps says "now how would you know that, Old Woman? Ain't nobody heard shit from him." Gramps could be a bit plain spoken upon occasion. Just about any occasion. So Granny told him that Bunk had gone out and sat on the point, overlooking the road that morning, and had just sat there watching the road all day.
Gramps was unconvinced - he figured Granny was just wishfully thinking.
In the afternoon, An indistinct figure appeared trudging up the road. Indistinct to everyone but Bunk, that is. He bailed off that point like his ass was on fire and his head was catching, going for all he was worth towards that indistinct figure trudging on the road.
That was the day Pap came home from the Army, and no one had a clue he was coming but Bunk.
It couldn't have been the time, since Bunk had no idea what time he was coming home - he waited a little better than half a day, watching. It couldn't have been the day of the week, because, ditto. It couldn't have been an even two years ringing the bell for Bunk, because it was a month short of the two years. The only thing we've ever been able to figure was that connection they had, across space, across time. Psychic, maybe, but in any event a connection of some sort.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
I've had a lot of critters in my time, mostly dogs. I'm really a dog person, and it is fate laughing at me that we have wound up with cats now, and no mutts. I've mourned the end of a lot more dogs than will ever mourn my end. These cat's don't care - they'd eat my carcass if given that chance, I'm pretty sure. I'm just another resource to them.
If they can't get what they want out of me - and that is a frequent occurrence - they go bug Grace. Only time they ever give a shit about me is when I go run off some other cat trying to kill them, which has happened more than once. Happened just today, as a matter of fact - Tiny Tom was enjoying the great outdoors when I stepped out onto the deck. Tom came barreling past me, and a big fuzzy black Persian hot in his heels... until the Persian saw me. Maybe he understood I don't mind killing Iranians. Wouldn't be the first time. Whatever the reason, he did a hand-flip immediately upon seeing me, and got scarce in an opposite direction. So Tom came on in onto the enclosed porch where he lives while I was on guard duty.
Don't get me wrong - Tiny Tom showed his appreciation by crawling up in my lap and doing his rubbing and wood-rasp-tongue-licking thing, but all else being equal, he wouldn't think twice about eating my dead-assed carcass if he found me just laying around dead.
Tom's balls ain't dropped yet, however much he thinks they have. He ain't but maybe 10 months old, just showed the hell up here as a two week old kitten last July, similarly to the way Cammie just showed up half grown 5 years ago. I've not had him fixed in hopes that his balls will drop and he learns how to tear a new ass off the strange cats that show up here. No idea where he came from. There ain't no other cats around here colored like he is, and his ma never showed up or came around looking for him. Just one of those mysteries. He stayed outside the first few months he was here, and I just fed him out there, until it got too cold for that shit.
Matter of fact, as I was typing this, Cammie - the indoor cat - gave an alert. She has a habit of sitting in the windows and watching. So, while I was typing, she was sitting in the kitchen window growling like a bear at 2 AM. That generally means there is a cat out there that don't belong. My guess this evening is that it was black Persian. He's been hanging around trying to get a chance at Tom. So I snatched up my pistol and went to do battle. Because if he can't figure out where his turf really is - and that this ain't it - I'll give him one square foot he can call his own, and no more. Posthumously.
But of course he heard the door open, and got gone.
Now, middle of the night gunshots don't mean much to me. Wouldn't be the first time I heard them. If it bugs the neighbors, they're welcome to come over and find out what it was about. If they take exception to having their cats shot, that ain't my problem - they should've kept them off my turf. Pretty sure I know where the Persian belongs, and also pretty sure I won't hear any shit if he simply vanished. One day I was out test firing Betsy, my black poswder revolver, to check the loads for accuracy, and the "owner" of that cat was walking on the bridge, and the only comment I got from him was "did you get him?" He ain't gonna care if old Iran simply disappears one dark night.
There is a stray tabby that has taken up residence under my house, same deal - ain't nobody gonna care if he vanishes. One thing neither of those cats is gonna do is harass the cats that are here under my protection, the cats that actually belong here.
I don't give a crap about cats, any more than they give a crap about me. BUT - if they're under my protection, they get the same as anyone else under it. Cats are not like dogs. Dogs bond with you. Cats tolerate you, barely.
----------------------------------------------------------
The last dog I had was a Mountain Cur, named Blackie. He was the dumbassed dog that tangled with a bear that I have mentioned in other posts. I got Blackie from a Brazilian couple - she was a Venezuelan that I worked with - and he was a pretty smart dog, to be such a dumbass. I think he was probably just stubborn. Anyhow, when we first moved in here, my sister still lived in the house,and she had an outdoor cat named Shadow, Coincidentally, a black Persian.
Blackie could not leave that cat be. Chased it all over the place.
So one day I went out on the deck and sat down on the steps. Blackie came up to me, expecting to get his rears scrubbed. I took his head between my hands and looked him in the eyes, and said "leave that cat be, he lives here, same as you do now, so leave him alone".
Blackie, from that day forward, never chased Shadow again, and adopted a live and let live attitude until the day he disappeared into the woods.
.
Diogenes was eating bread and lentils for supper. He was seen by the philosopher Aristippus, who lived comfortably by flattering the king.
Said Aristippus, ‘If you would learn to be subservient to the king you would not have to live on lentils.’ Said Diogenes, ‘Learn to live on lentils and you will not have to be subservient to the king.’
Said Aristippus, ‘If you would learn to be subservient to the king you would not have to live on lentils.’ Said Diogenes, ‘Learn to live on lentils and you will not have to be subservient to the king.’