Four Legged and Feathered Family

I'm sure the title of this blog has made certain of my family members wonder what kind of names I'm calling them now! Don't worry Mom, I'm not talking about Dad :)

In the little bit of spare time I've had this last week, I started writing a story of sorts for my kids.
David has always told me I should write children's books, but I've never had a good inspiring subject.

However, as I was watching David chase the cat out the window for the fourth time that evening, and the parakeet was sqwaking away in support, I realized that there is a whole host of characters living in my house. Yes, my family is a bit odd, but not odd enough. My pets however... that's another story.

So here is the first chapter of my family book. Nothing worth publishing, but something that will perhaps become a verbal scrapbook of sorts for all the funny stories we have of our pets. Read on if you are interested...and if you aren't that's okay as well!

THE HOUSE ON PRESIDENT STREET

The house on President Street was no ordinary house. Besides the fact that it peaked knowingly from behind a cluster very leafy green trees , and that it was the only house in the neighborhood capped with a crown of rich brown thatch which gave roost to every bird in the neighborhood, it housed a most extraordinary group of beings.

Mr. and Mrs. Jones were ordinary enough. Their offspring, while beautiful and smart, were also not of the stock that one would call unusual. They went about their days in the usual, common place way. Up with the sun… a quick breakfast on the go..the usual hustle and bustle to get out the door. Nothing unexpected, nothing astonishing.

So, you are wondering, what was so amazing about this house on President Street if the people inside were so….normal?

It took a seeing eye..someone who was at careful watch to catch a peek at who indeed brought the house alive. This observant one would see, out of the corner of his eye, the secret goings on of the truly unique characters of this house.

In the early morning hours, when all were still slumbering, the fun and games began with a little mumbling “cheep!”. The family’s blue budgie, Cheeky in name, was a mad little bird with more luck than a leprechaun. After surviving not one but three near death experiences in one day, she had decided that her purpose in life was to keep each and every being in the house in line. Her nature was not sweet, nor was her “cheep”, but one could see that she dearly loved those she considered worthy.

Unfortunately, Mario was not considered worthy. He, the slinky sly cat, was the instigator of Cheeky’s first near death experience. Fortunately for the bird, the cage held fast, and the cat gave up, but not after having a proper one on one conversation with the bird from up on high.

Now each morning, with Cheeky’s first “cheep” Mario comes running from afar, waiting for the window that will open and allow him access to palace of much goodness, where nibbles and dribbles are found.

This little habit of Mr. Mario’s did not put him in good stead with the Mrs. of the house.

It all started out innocently enough in the beginning with a friendly rub against the leg as he entered the kitchen. Then it became not just a rub but an affable stretch up the side of the cupboard, as if to say “I am awfully glad to see you today!” But in reality, the sneaky and clever feline was inspecting the contents of the food that was being prepared, and weighing carefully the dangers of a daring advance in full view, versus a subversive reconnaissance once the room was clear.

Mr Jones, being the protective husband, had waged a silent war on Mario’s tactics, hoping to teach him the boundaries of his domain. However, Mario, being the creative creature he was, instead found much delight in outwitting his persistent opponent at every turn. It became a bit of a game between the two, each trying to anticipate the move of the other, even while Mario continued his quest for the perfect moment to grab the evening’s leftovers, or take a luscious lick of butter while no one was looking.

Watching the mayhem that occasionally ensued inside, were the lively trio of dogs who lived just beyond the glass. Alex, the matron of the three, was the self appointed queen. She and Mario had been previous pals, and occasionally shared a moment or two of communiqué while Mario regained his dignity after being unceremoniously thrown out the window for one of his misdeeds. She was the decided dictator of whom, what and when, and should her “subjects” not align with her wishes, she unequivocally put them back into their place with a yap and a bark that was not quickly forgotten. Her regal-ness aside, she was also the one who fully recognized her role in the larger family of the Jones’. A proper lady, she would most pleasingly approach the humans of the house, and poise herself in such a way that even the busiest of Jones’ could not resist the urge to pet and coo over her loveliness. This of course drove the younger, less pedigreed pets wild.

Roscoe, the middle sized of the three, deemed himself the protector of all. Roscoe, the Rascal was his nickname, and he earned it very well. Barks of alarm were sounded if anything was amiss, including the very large beetle that tried so very hard to have a peaceful existence in the back of the yard. He strutted and he strode, keeping those he loved safe. He was proud of his role, and took it very seriously, much to the chagrin of a repairman or two. However, in all his bravado, he had one fault. In the middle of the day, most notably, as the sun was high, and the air was still, he found one thing that melted his brave heart into mush – the sun blocking, ear piercing, hourly pass of the airplane overhead. As soon as his sensitive ears picked up the sound, he ducked under any cover he could find, be it the laundry, the table, or best of all the house. This of course was a delightful discovery, as the new land before him held so many wonderful things to be explored. If the Mr and the Mrs were away, then the children of the house would look the other way, or even occasionally offer a consolatory pat and a pet. But if the Mrs was home…it was a secondary moment of fear. For his bumbling and tumbling ways usually resulted in something of value being up turned, knocked over or spilled out. This of course, gave the Mrs a good bit of anguish, and poor Roscoe would flee realizing that perhaps the airplane wasn’t quite as bad as the consequences within.

Now the last of the boisterous band of canine friends was Zoey. Zoey was definitely the baby..in size and in mind. Her big brown eyes set into a too small head with floppy ears that hung sadly, her very face cried out for pity. The eldest Jones child fell first for her clever performance, and Zoey was quickly rewarded with a comfy bed inside the house, while the rest of the animals shivered in the winter wind. Next the second Jones child succumbed to Zoey’s pleading eyes, and she was offered a sympathetic cuddle and an extra treat when no one was looking. But worst of all, the youngest Jones child surrendered heart and soul to Zoey and her droopy tail and its sad but hopeful wag. Hours upon hours were spent by the young girl, cuddling, coddling and cooing over this smallest puppy. But was she really as pitiful as she seemed? Was her life as pathetic as she made it out to be? It was only in the late hours of the night, or the wee hours of the morning that one could see Zoey, with her mask removed, romping playfully with her pal Roscoe, or joyfully chewing on the wrapper from the rubbish bin. It was only the appearance of any of the family inside that made Zoey quickly reclaim her status as the saddest of sad puppies alive.