A Little Bit of Ivey. Lorelei JD Branam
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and went to the kitchen to rustle up some vittles. After about twenty minutes or so I went to check on him, and what did I find? He was licking himself, cone and all. So against, my own wishes, I took a further look at the situation.
Then I placed a call to the veterinarian’s office.
“Hello, this is Ivey Mae. I just picked up Hacksaw from his surgery. Isn’t the cone supposed to keep him from licking himself?” I ask.
“Yes, it is. Why?”
“Well, I have to come back to the office. He needs a bigger cone. He may weigh barely four pounds, but it looks like over half of that is below the waist.”
Another trip to the vet’s office and now I have a toy poodle wearing a cone twice the size of his body because he is apparently built like a Rottweiler. Now I see why he is so confident. No little man syndrome for him!
Weeks later, all is well on both ends of our regal little old man: no more odor or irritation. We had him groomed, and he is feelin’ ‘fine as frog hair,’ while he has the run of the house. In between his napping, he cruises around our floor like a Roomba. Slowly he walks around, swinging out that leg. When he bumps into the wall or furniture, he doesn’t miss a beat and just turns whichever way he can and keeps walking.
Every once in awhile, we have to go over and help him. Our big Lab, Gracie Burns, will start barking to alert us that he is stuck like Chuck. Hacksaw will be standing in a corner, waiting patiently. When he gets in a corner and turns left or right, with a wall blocking him at each turn, he will stand there and wait for someone to pick him up and move him.
I pick him up, place him in a new spot on the floor, and he simply starts walking again.
Enter Beezer.
A year and a half after Hacksaw joined the family, I rescued an abandoned kitten, and you know how playful (i.e.crazed) they are.
This little cat would prance around Hacksaw and often pounce on him, trying to engage him in play. But Hacksaw would simply stand there, patiently waiting for this energetic kitten to stop his playful assault, and then mosey off along his way, swinging his leg out in a circle.
One day I was writing in the back room, and heard a horrible yelp-type scream from the family room. I ran into the room to find HS standing up, all alone and crying. By the time I grabbed a hold of my shoes and car-keys to whisk him to the vet, he was calm. As he had calmed down so quickly, my common sense told me that whatever immediate danger there was had passed, and if there were still a problem, it would get worse. I waited and kept a close watch, but he was acting completely normal: he drank some water, went for a walk, then took a nap.
Sure enough, he is not completely all right because he has lost his appetite.
Oh no! This is not good. I always heard that when an animal loses his appetite, it means the end is near. I prepared myself for the worst because if he was suffering, I would have to put him down.
Off to the vet we went.
I told the veterinarian that “when this first happened, after the initial screech, he seemed normal, so I thought maybe he had a bad cramp or something sudden, but certainly not dangerous.”
I watched closely as Dr. Drop Dead Gorgeous, gently checked him out.
Then he looked up at me and asked, “Where is that little kitten you found? Does he have access to The Saw?”
“Well, sure: they all roam at free will. Why?”
Then he took a little flashlight and directed it downward at Hacksaw’s left eye and pointed.
“Do you see that?” he asked. “The kitten apparently scratched hell out of his cornea. Now we know why he screamed, that is really painful.”
Mystery solved.
On the way home I looked over at the lucky little guy as he stood straight in his seat, looking more like a little lamb than a poodle.
Poor Hacksaw! I know what he’d say if he could, and he would be right on the money:
“This is a great place to be rescued to. They take you in, fix your problems, feed you, and love you. They buy you toys and give you Boar’s Head ham and sausage. They bathe you, give you medicine and keep you free of itchy fleas and disgusting ticks. I am nice and comfortable in my little blue bed. These new masters must be related to my Green Beret, because they are being so nice to me, even though they are kinda loud.
“But damn! You could be dazed as a goose with a nail in its head, but whatever you do, don’t stop eatin’! I’m tellin ya’ll, don’t even slow down when you are full. ‘Cause if you lose your appetite around here, they will put you to sleep quicker ‘en shit!
Three: The Pink House
When I was in grade school, my parents hired an architect and designed their very own dream house. The new house echoed. It was huge. Rolling over on the lush, powder blue carpet, I came right up to my reflection in the mirrored doors that covered my closet. Looking past my eyes and staring at the vastness around me, I thought, “Wow, I can fill this whole place up with stuff.”
I loved the smell, too. Our new mansion on the lake had a brand-spankin’-new smell, like a furniture store or a new car or the bag of summer clothes from Belks that Mother bought us each year for vacation. My wonderful blue room held my very own antiqued white bedroom set, hand painted with the slightest etch of powder blue to match the carpet, and thick linen drapes that flowed all the way down to the floor. Amongst all of these new household furnishings I didn’t feel displaced though, because the smell of dinner cooking on the stove found its way up to my room, followed by mother’s Leu de Temps perfume, as she poked her nose in the door to say good night. “Good night, Ivey Mae. Sweet dreams. I love you and don’t worry. Do what your sister tells you. We are going out to dinner with Auntie and Uncle. See you in the morning.”
After lining my brand new closet with Wacky Pack stickers and chewing all fifteen big slabs of gum at once, this room I didn't have to share started feeling a little too big and way too quiet. Jumping up, I looked for Lucy. Running down the hall I turned left and skipped awhile down another long, forest green hallway. The thick softness beneath my feet was great. I couldn't resist and dropped to roll the complete distance to her door. I wondered if she felt scared way back there. I would have.
"Hey, what ya doin’ mildoin?" I asked, probably a little too loudly, as I rolled through her door, pushing it aside with my feet.
My sister, with her long blonde hair, smiled, while peering over her book at me. I continued to roll on her carpet, just as plush as mine, but soft daffodil yellow.
"I'm reading,” she said, amusement obvious in her tone. “What are you doing? Rolling around the house? Be careful of the stairs, Ivey Mae. That’s all we need—for you to fall on your head, the first night here."
My sister then closed her book to watch me in amazement as I maneuvered the huge wad of gum in my mouth and continued to roll on her floor, as if no one was watching. Chuckling she asked me, “What in the world do you have in your mouth? Is that gum?”
“Bubblegum,” I laboriously replied around the wad, and she laughed.
“How many pieces are you chewing?”
Pausing only momentarily, I rolled over to her matching, mirrored closet doors and admired the bright pink wad of sugar in my mouth. “Well, I opened fifteen packs of stickers to line my shelves, and I’m chewin’ the gum.”
“At once? Those are not pieces of gum: those are thick slabs of gum. I don’t see how you fit it all in there together,” she told me, still smiling, but shaking her head. Then she added, “Didn’t