We started to get visits from local kennel owners. We were on our guard the first time it happened. But unlike Kennel Boy, they were all really nice, friendly and supportive. One generous woman opined that having a new and different kind of kennel was a good thing as it would make all of the other kennel owners step up their game. Of course, she could afford to be generous. She had just sold her kennel.
This lady insisted that we didn’t need to subdivide our cat room; that the cats could simply roam around the cat room together. This was how they did it at her kennel.
She then proceeded to tell us of the occasion when one of their staff had neglected to close the window in the communal cat room when they left for the night. The cats got the screen off and they all escaped. Some came back, they managed to find others, and some were never seen again.
One elderly lady whose cat escaped, came around for weeks and sat out on the front lawn, hoping her cat would see her and return. The kennel owner felt terrible of course, so she would go out and chat with the client, offering her tea or lemonade.
Finally the lady said, with icy politeness, “Thank you for your efforts dear, but I wish would go away. My cat is not going to come back as long as YOU are here!”
This story persuaded us that we needed to go ahead with subdividing the cat room, if for no other reason than that we could shut the cats safely in their condos when the windows were open. When a particular condo was empty, we would leave its window open if it was a nice day, so the other cats could enjoy the air. Once occupied however, mindful of the cautionary tale told by the other kennel owners, we were scrupulous about making sure that window was shut.
This turned out for the best, because once the kitty condos were finally finished, we learned the hard way not to underestimate the ingenuity of a cat determined to get away from a place they didn’t consent to occupying.
One of our neighbours up the hill from us booked a weekend boarding for Daisy, their Sheltie and Hank their cat. Hank was a huge grey cat with an extra toe on each foot, and an attitude. He was not aggressive or mean, but Hank was a cat who had definite views on how things should go in Hank World.
The morning after Hank arrived, we entered the cat room and found no sign of him. Closer examination showed that, although the window in Hank’s condo had been duly shut, it had not been locked. Hank had obviously spent the night working away on the latch, finally succeeding in getting the window to budge open. The screen had been pushed out. Like a bum in an old time boarding house who couldn’t pay his rent, Hank had squeezed his metaphorical suitcase out of the gap, teased his large bulk through behind it, and taken it on the lam.
This was a nightmare of the first order. If a dog escaped, it would be bad enough. But a dog is generally large enough to be seen from a distance, even in long grass. A cat is not. You can call a dog’s name and the command “Come!”, and have some hope that she may be well enough trained to obey. Some dogs might return when they get bored, or hungry, or scared.
But if a cat escapes, it’s because he wants to be elsewhere. He will treat with lofty indifference your attempts to call him back or chase him down. He can live off the mice in the fields and the birds in the trees. He’s not going to return until he is good and ready, if ever.
Of course we went out and started searching for him, because we were duty bound to do so. But in my heart I had no hope – none – that we would find him if he didn’t want to be found.
I had a very strong intuition that Hank had hightailed it across the road and up the hill back to his own house. I drove up there while John searched the kennel grounds and alerted our neighbours to be on the lookout. I walked Hank’s owner’s property and peered into outbuildings and under the porch, calling Hank’s name in a wheedling voice that I’m sure was laced with despair. Silence was my only reward. But I had a strong suspicion I was being watched and at one point, I could swear I feel the faint, far off sneer of a contemptuous cat mastermind.
We steeled ourselves to give the bad news to our neighbours. When they returned to the kennel that night to pick up their dog however, the first words they spoke were to thank us for returning Hank home. He had been relaxing on the porch when they arrived, and strolled in to his dinner bowl with the virtuous air of a cat with nothing on his conscience.
Needless to say, we confessed to the escape and waived the boarding fee for the few hours Hank had actually occupied his room.
Despite this unfortunate turn of events, a few weeks later these nice people left their Sheltie with us for another night (not Hank though). This time, we had very few dogs in the kennel, and because we knew Daisy very well even from before we had built the kennel, we kept her out and about with us for a good portion of the day. In the afternoon, John had her with him while he was doing some gardening. Daisy was off lead because she was a good and obedient dog who always came when she was called.
I’m guessing you can tell where this is heading.
John looked up from his weed pulling to see Daisy staring down the road with an intentness that signalled she was in the throes of deep thought. He said her name. Daisy looked at John and John looked at Daisy and in that moment it was clear what she meant to do. He lunged for her a second too late. She whirled around and raced up the road. It had occurred to her doggy mind that she wasn’t at home, that she knew where home was and furthermore, she knew how to get there. What was there to stay for?
John took off in hot pursuit, but stopped once she had crossed the road safely, well ahead of him. It was clear where she was going and clear that he was not going to catch her on foot. He came back for the car and drove up the hill, red-faced when he passed Clarence, laughing his ass off and pointing in the direction Daisy had gone. John retrieved Daisy who, unlike Hank, was not sneaky enough to hide when she saw him coming. Needless to say, we never let a dog off leash outside a fenced area again. No matter how good and virtuous they were.
****When we decided to build the kennel, we worried about whether we would get any business at all.
The one problem that had never occurred to us was that we would have more business than we could handle. We were unbelievably busy that first summer, overbooked by three dogs the first weekend in July and an incredible seven the next weekend. If we turned someone down who wanted three weeks because we were full on one of those weekends, we lost all that money for the sake a few days. We also worried that if we sent people away, they wouldn’t come back. What if it was someone who travelled often or who travelled in the off season, and we lost the chance to acquire them as a client?
So we kept taking the bookings, hoping for cancellations and making contingency plans for where we would keep the excess dogs. When we had designed the kennel with the innovation of an indoor play area, it had not occurred to us that it would be such a godsend when dealing with surplus dogs. There was always a dog who was happy to spend a night or three on the couch in the play room. We also had dogs in the interview room, we had dogs in the kitchen, we had dogs everywhere that July.
We were too exhausted to be deliriously happy that our business had not only survived but was flourishing. The drought broke big in July with what seemed to be a constant flood of torrential rain. It was hot, humid and overcast. In the morning there would be a miasma of mist and fog hanging over the fields from where all the water was meeting the hot air and condensing. I felt like Iolanthe, living at bottom of a well.
Walking was debilitating. Sometimes it rained too, seemingly always around three p.m., just as we were getting the afternoon dog walks underway. When that happened, you had a choice between letting the rain sheet down on you, soaking your clothes, or putting on a rain coat and suffocating in the heat and humidity. Daytime heating effect, the weatherman called it. We just called it hell.
On one of those awful mornings in mid-July, John returned to the kennel from a walk looking shaken and white. He sat down in a chair and put his head between his knees.
***Trigger Warning – Animal Death***
When John recovered enough to talk, he told me that he had been walking two Siberians when they suddenly dove under an old wood pile next to the walking path. One re-appeared with a newborn kitten in its jaws. Before John could react, the Siberian shook and then dropped the kitten. John saw to his absolute horror that the dog had seriously and gruesomely injured the kitten in a way that spelled certain death. Unfortunately the kitten had not yet succumbed to its injuries. Unable to cope, especially while trying to control dogs who were avid to return to this fine game they had discovered, he came back to the kennel as fast as he could to seek help.
I have already mentioned the peculiar makeup of my husband’s character. He was rough and tough in a fight, and never backed down. But he was painfully sensitive when it came to animals, plus he had a very queasy stomach and almost no tolerance for ‘medical stuff’, as he called it.
When our house was infested by mice, he got live traps, and would carefully remove the mouse caught in the trap, take it down to the barn and release it. One day I saw the mouse he had just released scampering back up the path. It actually beat him back to the house.
I would have no problem sharing my house with mice, if they weren’t so abysmally dirty and disease ridden. The droppings were too much of a health hazard. John finally had to agree that we could not go on with mice in the pantry and food cupboards. At that point I took over, bought a bunch of the old reliable Victory mouse traps, and commenced war to the literal death on the mice population. John’s agreement to this savagery was on condition that I would be the one to dispose of all trapped mice, dead or alive.
So a badly injured kitten was the perfect storm for John: an injured animal whose insides were pretty much outside.
I was just as horrified as anyone would have been, but clearly someone had to deal with the injured kitten and clearly that someone would be me, since this was way beyond what could realistically be expected of John.
Down I went to the wood pile hoping, hoping that the kitten would have died of its injuries in the five minutes it took for John to get back and relate the story to me. No such luck. One look at the kitten was enough to see it was beyond all aid. I took it to the vet, and it was put it out of its misery as quickly and painlessly as possible. The nightmares took weeks to subside.
***End Trigger Warning***
When this ordeal was over, we buried the poor pathetic mite in a grassy spot under an old apple tree. Then, as our experience with litters of kittens suggested that where there is one, there are usually more, we searched for others. I got down on my belly and felt around under the wood pile. I came up with two more.
The poor things were stone cold and just crawling, with their eyes barely opened. Listening intently, I heard the sounds of more faint mewing. I tracked it down to its source and found a third kitten, who had crawled some distance away.
I named them Indus, Tigris and Euphrates after the three rivers in the cradle of middle eastern civilisation.
We put some towels in a box and left the kittens in it in the sun. We hoped they would warm up and their mother would find them.
I returned to the house to wash up before returning to the kennel and found that Annie, our only remaining dog, had contributed to what was shaping up to be the worst day ever, by pooping copiously all over the living room floor. When I returned to the kennel, it was to discover that two St. Bernards who were sharing a room had also pooped. They had added to the fun by running through it. The floor and walls were coloured brown.
As I passed through the front of the kennel on my return, I had registered that something bad was going down between John and someone who had just arrived to board her cats. John was clearly about to explode. When I came back out, John shoved the cats’ boarding card at me and said “You deal with it”. He went off to take charge of a visitor.
And thus we come to the cat lady I’ll call Loony McNuttington.
A few months previously, Loony had called from a small town about a hundred miles away, to inquire about boarding two cats for several months. She and her family were building a house in Ottawa, and were going to be camping out at a nearby provincial park all summer while the house was under construction. They would keep their dog with them at the campground, but needed a place for two cats. She emphasized several times that she wasn’t concerned about price. As long as her cats were well looked after, the cost was simply not an issue.
I had discussed with John whether the cat room would be finished by July so that we wouldn’t have to have two cats in the house for several months. Loony had made it clear that if she booked her cats with us, she expected to be able to come and visit them from time to time. This was a long booking. It was clear that there were going to be multiple visits from Loony. I was so done with having our privacy at home invaded by kennel clients.
“No problem,” John said. “The cat room will be finished by then.”
Would it though? Would it really?
Refraining from pushing that point, I asked John’s views on what we should charge. Specifically, should we offer a discount, as this was a long term booking for more than one cat? When Loony called, we were still new enough and insecure enough to be excited at the prospect of a long term booking, so we decided we would offer her a 10% discount off our princely regular combined charge for two cats.
I called Loony back and described the cat room, but by then having a fair idea of the value of John’s assurances about the cat room being finished, I also told her that there was a chance the cat room would not be ready, in which case, we would keep the cats in a spare room in the house. Loony thought it all sounded marvelous, including the discounted price I offered her without being asked. I stupidly added that maybe we could even do a little better on the price. She thanked me, but reiterated that she didn’t care about price. Her cats were her babies and she just wanted them in a nice place.
Her insistence that price was no object ought to have been a tip off. In my law career I quickly became wary of the people who protested they didn’t care about how many tens or even hundreds of thousands of dollars I estimated that their litigation was going to cost. They were almost always the ones who couldn’t or wouldn’t pay. As soon as the bill was presented, they predictably got all self-righteous about the ‘ridiculous’ prices we charged.
Loony made the booking in early June. I explained about our drop off and pick up hours, but she expressed concern about the timing, as they were driving from a distance and wanted to drop the cats off on their way to the campground. She insisted that she simply could not be expected to arrive during our regular hours. She had way too many other exigencies dictating her schedule for that day. Three p.m. was the only time she could possibly make it to us. When this conversation took place, we had just instituted regular hours and had not learned to insist upon them. Anxious to obtain the booking, I agreed that she could bring the cats at 3:00 in the afternoon, before we opened on the day in question.
The person John was having the altercation with at 10:30 in the morning? Loony. Surprise! Not only had the 3:00 p.m. special arrangement she insisted on gone out the window, she hadn’t bothered to notify us in advance of her new, revised, off-hours arrival time.
Gee, this was starting out well. It says something about our experience by this time with people who insisted on special accommodations, that all I felt was a sort of weary resignation.
Not only was she nearly five hours early, she was in an ugly humour for reasons best known to her, although she did tell me repeatedly in the course of the lengthy time I spent with her, that her sister had cancer. This evidently was not having the effect of making her appreciate the preciousness of life, or any mellow bullshit like that. She was not in a mood to be pleased. Nothing was good enough. Nothing was right. Nothing could please her.
I realise I sound callous about her sister having cancer. I wasn’t at the time. I was as sympathetic as I could be. But over the period of time I dealt with Loony, I came to conclude that her sister having cancer was nothing more to her than a convenient stick to beat people with. That’s a horrible thing to say about anyone, but as Elizabeth Bennet said, “I speak as I find.”
I spent at least 45 minutes calming her down and offering solutions to the myriad problems she invented. I held on to my temper, even though the spectacularly awful experience with the kittens had left me shaking and on the verge of tears. I held onto my temper even though every single issue Loony raised during our marathon negotiations that morning had already been dealt with and agreed upon during our many telephone discussions before she even arrived.
She was one of those people who are determined to argue with you, even when you are agreeing with them.
Another big surprise – the cat room condos were not finished.
But the cat room itself was a sunny, open space that would have been very suitable for her two cats, and they would have the run of the kennel when the dogs were napping.
I offered to dedicate the entire space to them, but also told her they could stay in a spare bedroom at the house, if she preferred. The answer was that she expected to visit with her cats. Her sister had cancer. If her cats were going to stay in the kennel, she made it clear that we could not expect her visits to take place during our regular open hours or visiting times.
If they were in the house, she didn’t want to be told that she had to limit the length of her visits (raising the question of what one does on a visit with a cat anyway?) Her sister had cancer. Since they were staying at a campground and had apparently never heard of cell phones, communications were going to be impossible. She decreed imperiously that we must expect her, like the Ghost of Christmas Future, to come and go at her own whim. Her sister had cancer after all.
After she raised numerous problems that she expected to occur with the cats being in the kennel (her sister had cancer), I again suggested the house. She had problems with that too. In the end, she finally decided on the house. Her sister had cancer.
So we packed up the cats and trooped over to the house, where the smell of Annie’s offerings still lingered aromatically. We (being me, Loony, her daughters and the two cats) went upstairs to a spare bedroom that was piled up with unpacked boxes, but which did have some furniture and cat beds. And of course two big windows with lovely deep window sills. Her sister had cancer.
She decided the pull cords for the venetian blinds posed a lethal danger to her cats, and told me a long story about how one day at work she had been seized with a terrible premonition that her cats were in danger. She had raced home to find – actually I forget what she found, because by then I had lapsed into a state of semi-catatonia. Something about the pull cords and her cats attempting to commit seppuku I guess. I was clear on this much – her sister had cancer.
I managed to secure the pull cords in such a way that she was finally, reluctantly, satisfied her cats would not hang themselves. The more time I spent with this woman, the more sympathy I would have had for her cats, had they chosen to go ahead and end it all.
She and her daughters lingered for another half hour “getting the cats settled”. This seemed to consist of jumping around, screeching their names, thrusting toys at them, and generally scaring them out of their wits. Any sane cat owner would anticipate that their cats would be freaked out from being thrust into their carriers and taken for a car ride. When they arrive at their destination, cats need to be left alone to compose themselves and become secure enough to come out and play.
But that would be any sane cat owner. You know, one who was genuinely focused on the well-being of their cats. Looney was clearly not interested in what her cats needed, only what she needed. Because, you know, her sister had cancer.
Loony eventually got around to remarking that John had seemed upset. I think I should get points for not screaming at her “You think??” I told her we had had an incredibly stressful morning, pointed out that she had arrived unexpectedly, off hours, but not at the agreed up off hours time and gave a very brief, strictly edited version of the kitten story. She made no comment or sympathetic noises either about the plight of the kittens or our ordeal. After all, her sister had cancer.
Finally they left, but not before Loony raised the issue of price. You know, the price she didn’t care about before she got there. She now reminded me of the “little more” discount I had foolishly offered. I gave her another 5% just to get rid of her. She was now down to paying just under $10 per day for boarding both cats.
John told me later that while I had been in the kennel talking to this woman, her daughter, who was waiting in the car with the dog at that point, decided to get out and let their dog roam free. He immediately spotted one of our cats in the meadow and gave chase, scaring the life out of our cat and putting her up a tree from where she didn’t venture down for several hours.
With Loony blessedly disappearing down the driveway, we finally were able to finish up at the kennel and go back to look at the three kittens in the box. Time was marching on. It seemed that Mama wasn’t coming back for these kittens, at least not any time soon. They had now been without sustenance for a good part of the day. We decided we’d have to find a way to feed them ourselves. We took them into the house so they would be safe from any random predators and drove into town to consult with our vet. She offered us kitten specific formula at $20 for two small packages. Yikes. We swallowed our dismay at the projected expense of feeding this liquid gold to three kittens for weeks on end, and stocked up.
On our return home, we loaded the formula into eyedroppers and tried to hand feed the kittens. This sounds like a straightforward proposition, but believe me, it is not. The kittens squirmed and fought us and wouldn’t open their mouths. When one of us did manage to get a drop of formula in, they wouldn’t swallow and it dribbled out. It probably took the better part of an hour to get something into all three, and hours were something we had precious few of these days. We returned them to the box outside, now really fervently praying for Mom to re-appear. She didn’t. The box full of kittens came back in the house for the night. More hand feeding marathons ensued.
That night, an electrical storm fried the hot water heater in the house as well as the modem for the computer. Yes, we were in the days when, if you lived in the country and you wanted any sort of internet, you had a modem. The electrical storm did not, thank all the gods, zing the air conditioner. It was still in the 30s (low 90s Fahrenheit) with 80% to 90% humidity. We might as well have been living in New Orleans.
Both of us were seriously wondering if we had the strength for this.
The next day, Loony called and left a message in a loud hectoring voice informing us that they would be visiting the cats on Monday. Her sister had cancer. Furthermore, we would have to talk about the fee, as $10 a day was far too high. She had never paid more than $8 for two cats. There was a strong suggestion that we were ripoff artists.
I was starting to get pissed off. We had talked about prices weeks ago, and again when she arrived. She had repeatedly asserted that she didn’t care about price. But once she had her foot in the door, not only was nothing good enough for her, she decided we were gouging her on the price. I had officially reached the limit of the concessions I was willing to make to Loony.
I called her back at the number I had for the campground and left a message, but of course she didn’t call back. We decided we would tell McNuttington to take her cats elsewhere when she showed up on Monday, if she showed any recalcitrance about our fee, or anything else for that matter.
The weekend arrived. The very hot and humid weather lingered on. None of our special snowflake teenage staff showed up to work. Between us, John and I on our own managed the feeding and walking of 36 dogs, not to mention the playtimes. We were also struggling to hand feed the three kittens several times a day. Mom never showed up, so it seemed we were going to be their permanent home.
Monday arrived and with it Loony McNuttington. We had decided unilaterally to move the cats to the kennel, at least for the duration of this visit from Mommy. We didn’t want her in our house.
In the discussion about price, we had stipulated a payment schedule because the booking was so long. Accordingly, when she arrived for her visit, John presented her with a bill for the first month. Gee, big surprise, she informed us she would need time to pay it. Her sister has cancer. She would pay at the end of the month. Like Wimpy in the Popeye comic strip, she’d “gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today”. John told her she would need to pay at least a certain amount of this bill up front. He would put her on a schedule for the rest. She kept arguing with him.
I walked into it and decided on the spot that I was all done with Loony, her cats, her lack of access to phones, her arguing over the price and generally, all her complaints about service that she apparently didn’t even intend to pay for. I told her to find another place for her cats. We were no longer interested in keeping them. We would give her to the end of the month to make other arrangements, but the cats would have to be gone by then.
I left.
To my surprise, when I came back a little while later she was still there, crying all over John. Why was Heather being so mean to her? What had she ever done to earn this callous treatment? Her sister has cancer. As I came in, John was shaking his head with a sort of satisfied smile on his face. Usually it was the clients crying all over me, telling me how badly he had treated them. He was kind of enjoying not being the bad guy for once.
I heard him tell her that Heather’s store of patience is quite famous. You have to go really far before you piss Heather off, he said, but once you do, she is implacable (his word, not mine). Loony tried to appeal to me. Her sister has cancer! I told her in a studiously calm voice that I didn’t want to argue with her. It was clear the relationship was not working, and could she please just accept that she would have to find another place for her cats?
She finally straggled out, still sniffing damply, to rejoin her weasel of a husband in the van. They headed off down the driveway. Two seconds later, the van screeched to a stop, then came screaming back up the driveway at about 60 mph.
In came Mr. Weasel McNuttington, all red faced and furious, with his sunken little chest thrust out as far as he could get it. What had we done to make his poor, fragile flower of a wife cry? Her sister has cancer you know!
I stated firmly that we were not going to have this discussion. “The situation is not working for us. Please make other arrangements.”
He wouldn’t go. He clearly intended to have a scene and he was not leaving until he got one. So, in the interests of always giving the customer what they want, I granted his wish.
I finally told him exactly, and in copious detail, why I didn’t want him or his wife ever darkening our door again. He told me what a horrible person I was. And not just because of our vulgar insistence on being paid. No, I was a monster because I’d told his wife about the kitten getting killed by a dog. This was apparently more than her frail psyche could bear. She’s very sensitive, and anyway didn’t I realize her sister has cancer? I upset her and, well, her sister has cancer.
I asked him, if his wife was upset by a very brief and very edited version of the story, which I only told to her in the first place because she complained about John being upset and demanded an explanation, how did he think we felt that day? Did he think perhaps we were a little upset over having to put down a kitten? That John was maybe a little traumatized by seeing that kitten almost killed by dogs he was walking? That was of no concern to him. He waved off our right to have any feelings in the matter at all, because, after all, Loony’s sister has cancer. Top that if you can.
Loony reappeared at some point and joined in the rant.
I informed them that believe it or not, I had grasped the fact of the cancerous sister pretty soon after Loony arrived. I had been as nice to Loony as I knew how to be, which frankly, ask anyone, is pretty damned freaking nice. I said that in return for my kindness and patience, I had been on the receiving end of Loony’s swinish temper, rude demands and fixed determination to find fault in advance with everything we were doing or contemplated doing.
I seem to recall that I ended by saying that he and his wife thought life was just a big story all about them but guess what, I didn’t care.
At intervals throughout this contretemps, we told them repeatedly to leave. They just went on screaming at us.
Weasel threatened to destroy our business by telling “everyone” how horrible we were.
By this time, both John and I had let ourselves off the chain. I put my hand over my heart and fluttered it up and down rapidly while batting my eyelashes.
“Ooohh,” I mocked derisively, “Be still my heart! I’m so scared that a guy who is living in a tent and can’t pay us $10 a day for a week of boarding is going to destroy our business by telling everyone he knows how awful we are.”
John chimed in. “Yeah, who would that be you’re going to tell? The guy in the tent next to yours? Do your worst, Sunshine, and don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out.”
Finally I told them that in light of their present behaviour, we were no longer willing to give them to the end of the month to make other arrangements. They could take their cats right now and get the hell out of our lives. In earnest of this, I marched around the pass through, across the foyer and into the cat room. I picked up the surprised cats, inserted them into their carry crates and placed the crates outside the door. Then I poured the litter, crap and all, into a plastic bag and thrust it into Looney’s hands, while she wept and sniffled.
The last we saw of them was taillights going down the driveway.
After we calmed down, we both felt bad for the cats. We knew we ought to have also been ashamed of unleashing it to that degree with clients.
But honestly? Mostly, we just felt bad for the cats.
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