Cats and Dogs

My mom calls me the cat-whisperer.  Okay, no she doesn't.  I don't know why I lied to you just now.  But my mom does say that I have a special way with cats.  A couple of summers ago, when I was home in Canada visiting my parents, I caught, rescued, and tamed, a little orphaned kitten who otherwise would have died.  It came to think of me as its mommy (seriously, it used to try to suckle on my sleeve every time I'd pick it up and cuddle it).  Then, the next summer, also while I was home visiting, my rescued cat who was my baby disappeared for a few days.  In my family, when a cat goes missing, this is never cause for concern, since my family lives in the country, and cats come and go all the time.  Sometimes they come back all scratched up, as though they've been in a massive Tom-fight.  Sometimes they come back bearing a giant prairie chicken (that actually happened with my childhood cat).  Sometimes they come back pregnant and six weeks later we've got a new little of kittens.  Sometimes they don't come back, but that's how life is with farm cats.  But, when my little baby disappeared, I was understandably worried because she was my baby (it turned out later, when a neighbour noticed its massive fuzzy balls, that it was actually a he, but we always thought it was a she because when it was a kitten, we mistook it for a girl).  Well, one day, as I stepped outside to take my dog out for a walk, I heard a tiny meow from behind a bush.  That sounds like Whitey's meow, I thought (my mom named the cat, in case you're wondering), so I did some investigating.  Turns out that Whitey was, indeed, behind the bush.  She was also totally bloody and one of her hind legs was mangled badly.  Also, "her" balls were inflamed to three times their normal size.  We thought maybe someone had caught her and tortured her (people around my hometown can be sickos) or that maybe someone had tried (and partially succeeded) to run her over (it's a stupid pastime, but I know for certain that people around my hometown enjoy trying to hit small animals on country roads).  Whitey hung on for two weeks, but, since she was "just" a farm cat, we never brought her to a vet.  That's the way it is with farm cats.  Whitey hung on until her mangled leg actually started to heal and she could put weight on it.  She ung on until maggots started living in her festering wounds.  When we saw the maggots, we took a substance similar to Dettol, and we cleaned her up.  I think she thought we were trying to be cruel.  she disappeared, and we never found her again.  I kept looking for Whitey (or for her body) for a few months after that (this was the period of time when I was fat, unemployed, and stuck at my parents' house).   It was very sad.  Before she disappeared, she would crawl into my lap, and I would let her, despite the blood and the maggots.  This time, I let her suckle on my sleeves.  It was devastating to see the kitten that I had rescued just one year previously in such a sad state.  I felt like I had let her down somehow, but there was really nothing I could do.

What my mom doesn't know about me is that I'm also kind of a dog-whisperer.  I guess my mom might not realise this about me because I've had a massive fear of dogs for most of my life (extending well into adulthood).  It was only when my brother got Cujo (a loveable little shihtzu with a huge personality to match his name) and forced him on the entire family (and, of course, we all fell in love-- it was impossible to not love Cujo), that I came to enjoy all dogs.  Now, every time I see a dog, I have an urge to reach out and pet him.  Scratch behind his little ears.  Tickle his chin.  Talk baby-talk to him.  Tell him he's a good boy.  There are a lot of dogs in Ulaanbaatar.  There are a lot of street dogs in Ulaanbaatar.  Here's a picture of two of the dogs that live on the street where I live.  I have a big soft spot for the white dog.  I haven't petted him yet, but I'm pretty sure he would let me.  I'm going to make it my mission this year to befriend this dog.  He just seems like a little sweetheart.  Sometimes when I walk past him, he walks up to me and looks up into my eyes with his big brown doggy eyes, and you can just tell that he's a nice dog.  I feel bad that he lives on the street.