Reflections - A Tabby-Corgi Christmas

Woods Walk - Ellen, Chris, Spence, Phoenix, and Lyra

Three nights before Christmas, Gilbert growled a little after nine. His feline ears twitched at tires crunching gravel on the driveway.

“He can’t smell the corgis from here, can he?” I asked Spence, glad my long wait had ended.

“Of course not.” Spence’s mustache scrunched into a frown.

“Then Gilbert’s in for a surprise.” Hoping to achieve the “all is calm,” of the Christmas carol during this visit, I opened the door to our son-in-law Chris, loaded down with tote bags and a container of dog kibble. He resembled a male bear with his thick black beard and large stature filling the doorway.

“Hello,” he boomed, set the gear down on the kitchen table, spun around, and strode out.

Our daughter Ellen, arms extended and straining to hold the leashes of tugging corgis, burst into the great room. She giggled and jiggled in her new purple coat and rubber boots.

Like Santa’s reindeer, the tabbies dashed out of sight.

The corgis, Lyra and Phoenix, escaping their back seat confinement from Indiana to Western Pennsylvania, scampered in opposite directions. They pawed my legs and licked Spence’s hands. Discovering the cats’ water fountain on the tile by the sliding glass door, the corgis slurped long, splashy drinks then raced to the nearby cat food bowls.

Ellen yanked them away from the forbidden rich food and offered them Greenies, teeth cleaning treats shaped like toothbrushes.

After multiple trips from car to kitchen then kitchen to loft, Chris panted and removed his winter jacket. He zigzagged a metal fence with plastic tipped bottoms to close off the hall and spiral stairs without risers. This prevented the corgis from scampering, sliding, and plummeting to the basement. Chris removed the dogs’ leashes and flopped onto his back on the great room floor. “I want to relax the puppies.”

The corgis pranced from his chest to his feet, wiggled their cute corgi butts, and planted their paws on his torso for observing the tabbies that crept back one by one.

Ande, normally an ambassador greeting guests at the door and following the newcomers everywhere, hovered by the fountain. He tip-pawed toward Phoenix, a red and white male. Phoenix took a cautious step forward. With twitching noses half an inch apart, Ande retreated to the safety of the fountain.

Rills, our explorer, perched on the steps to survey the situation from an overhead view.

Gilbert, the most timid, observed from the floor at the end of the sofa—ready to dive under in case a corgi approached.

Curious but cautious, the cats weren’t horrified like they had been during the Christmas visit of 2021 when Lyra, a red-headed tricolor female, had been a puppy. She hadn’t been around cats yet and considered the tabbies little dogs. Expecting the cats to wrestle, she chased them. Instead, the tabby brothers hissed and fled with raised hair. At the end of her literal and emotional tethers, Lyra whimpered in frustration.

The corgis hadn’t visited Christmas 2022. But the tabbies might have remembered meeting the corgis last June. Lyra had matured and acquired two kittens of her own. They scratched her muzzle to teach her cats needed proper respect. Lyra trained—rather paw-whipped Phoenix—into appropriate behavior around cats. He’d tip-pawed toward the tabbies, giving them plenty of time and room to escape.

Phoenix did the same this Christmas.

We still made accommodations to avoid the mass hysteria of dogs and cats living together predicted in Ghostbusters.

 

Phoenix Tugging Ellen's Sock Off, Ande Lounging, Lyra Lapping Water

Charlie and I stretched his foldout cot across the landing at the top of the spiral stairs because the corgis spent nights in the loft. The barriers let the dogs run leash-free and kept them safe from upstairs landing.

Not limited by six-inch legs like the corgis, the cats could easily have leapt the barriers. They chose to circumvent them instead—sneaking in to satisfy their curiosity and slipping out for comfort. Our son Charlie never had so much feline company in his basement man cave.

Top cat Ande had claimed this territory. He would cozy up to Charlie on the futon couch and glare at his brothers if they even set a claw in the doorway.

Christmas weekend, however, Rills and Gilbert braved their big brother’s ire and curled up on Charlie’s futon for hours one afternoon. Ande, who’d been monitoring the corgis in the great room, halted in Charlie’s doorway. The big cat scowled at his lounging brothers, arched his back, and growled.

Rills and Gilbert didn’t budge.

Charlie did. He unfolded the couch into its flat, queen bed form to accommodate all three cats. He patted an empty spot.

Ande glowered from the doorway.

Charlie gathered the pudgy pouter into his arms and rubbed the cat’s tummy until Ande relented, jumped onto the bed, and curled for a nap.

Food became a movable feast. Ellen set the cat bowls on a table. “That’s where our cats eat. The dogos can’t jump up there.” She lifted Ande and stroked his back.

He daintily ate two kibble from the bowl and fled. Since Ande normally eats by pawing kibbles to the floor, backing up, and gobbling, the table wasn't safe for the big fella.

“That won’t work.” Spence grabbed the bowls, maneuvered through the barrier, and marched to the end of the hall. There Ande could scatter food all he wanted. When Chris and Ellen carried the corgis to the loft for the night or took them out for walks, Spence toted the bowls back to the great room tiles.

Ande and Rills swarmed and munched. Gilbert waited until they finished.

Attention accommodating hugs abounded. Oh my gosh, the hugs. Ellen—a consummate cuddler—hugged, petted, and fussed over all the cats and dogs constantly. Chris petted and ear ruffled the gang. He also pulled on thick leather, arm-length gloves, plopped cross-legged onto the floor, and called. “Phoenix! Lyra!” Phoenix wrapped his teeth around one glove, shook his head, and snarled. Chris waved his free arm. “Lyra.” She trotted to Ellen for traditional cuddling.

Spence and I patted the corgis, cooed “You're so cute,” and cuddled our cats.

But the corgis growled at Charlie because he wore a hoodie. Not a problem. The corgis had four other humans fussing over them, and tabbies kept their familiar hooded-monster busy on cat snuggling duty.

With five people, each of the animals had as much or more attention than they desired.

And the corgis were patient. They didn't charge the tabbies. If the cats wanted to stay away, the dogs didn’t whine. If the cats came into the room, the dogs didn’t jump or bark. They never barked at the cats.

Lyra and Phoenix barked to protect the homestead. They barked at birds zooming into the feeder attached to the sliding glass door. From the satisfied cats’ faces, the felines appreciated this help. The corgis also ran to the glass door and barked at passing pickups—even after they drove out of sight. Though the cat faces turned to puzzlement, the tabbies didn’t argue with the corgis’ judgment on the matter.

The patience of the corgis waiting for the cats to approach worked. Ande and Rills crept close. Noses touched. Cats inched silently away. Not a single hair raised nor a hiss uttered.

Christmas Eve Day arrived and the Ghostbusters mass hysteria had been avoided. Mass mess hadn’t. Holiday paper crinkled, ribbons flew through the air, and five people sat in a circle petting passing cats and corgis. A half hour into the festivities with animals wading through wrappings, Lyra nested in crumpled paper to snooze. Ande settled between Ellen and Lyra to chew on ribbons. Rills watched from the fountain. Gilbert hid under a chair. Phoenix meandered from person to person. My “all is calm” wish prevailed.

That night in the loft, I collapsed into a recliner while Chris and Phoenix lounged on the bed. Ellen settled on the floor by Lyra in her dog bed. We watched the animated movie, The Queen’s Corgi. Unlike the previous night when the corgis barked at the real corgi barks in A Very Corgi Christmas, they ignored the barks of the actor voice-overs.

Rills Playing with Toy from Anita

Rills crept around the cot barrier at the top of the spiral stairs. Tail raised, he sidled round the room, jumped onto the bedside table, and perched beside Chris. He scratched Rills under the chin. Exchanging glances with Phoenix, Rills hunkered down for the rest of the movie. Six of us relaxed in harmony. Only three goggled at the pound dogs dousing the fire to rescue the Queen’s Corgi.

Christmas Day morning, Ellen had the corgis perform for treats in the great room. “Sit.” A command Lyra easily fulfilled. Phoenix squirmed, eyeing the treat in Ellen’s hand.

“Sit.”

Lyra remained sitting.

Phoenix eyed the treat. He didn’t plop to his butt.

Beside the corgis, Ande pawed a long black twist tie, a leftover from yesterday’s gift exchange and a treasure Spence would have taken from Ande if Spence discovered it.

Dogs leapt to snap treats from Ellen’s hands.

Ande pawed under tissue paper—oblivious to the dogs, focused on the forbidden toy.

Ellen dusted her hands on her pants and walked over to the sofa. She sat cross legged. Lyra lay on the sofa with eyes shut. When Gilbert strolled past, Ellen gathered him into one of her famous hugs and pulled him across her lap for copious pets.

Gilbert faced the sleeping corgi.

Lyra’s eyes blinked open.

The dog and cat eyed each other. Lyra quarter-inched closer to Gilbert.

Ellen kept petting Gilbert.

Noses touched. The dog and cat eased away.

Chris, not a morning person, finished breakfast, and packing for their trip to his mother’s house ensued. Final hugs, pats, and goodbyes followed.

“Another day and they’d be curled up for naps, sleeping together.” Ellen waved her hand to encircle the tabbies and her corgis before stepping outside.

We’ll still apply the barriers, movable cat food, and human attention on their next visit, of course. But the corgis and tabbies have the situation under control. Dogs and cats living together is a delightful holiday treat.

  

Lyra and Gilbert Touch Noses While Ellen Watches

 

 Reflections - Little Things Make the Season

Janet Writing Cards

 

I should relax. But the pressure of preparing for the holidays can close my throat which makes swallowing a challenge. It’s a price I’m willing to pay for the pleasure of hearing from distant friends and relatives once a year. 

One person I hadn’t heard from since last December, for example, was Jamie, a Pennwriter who exchanged writing feedback at past Meadville meetings. I reveled in the photos and season greetings that arrived Saturday, December 2. Jamie had traveled to the south, discovered a swarm of bees in her shrubs, and still had her cat Iggy. She’d also tucked in a handwritten note which began “I hope you’ve had a productive writing year . . .” 

Penning a Christmas card Sunday, I included a message to thank Jamie for the holiday letter and wish her good health. I ended by answering, “I published one story, submitted five, and am working on two.”

Monday, December 4, Spence volunteered in Cleveland to make homes lead safe. I gathered Jamie’s card, another card, and three boxes of presents. The boxes weren’t heavy, but stacked they covered my front from waist to chin. I set them on a porch chair to lock the cats inside. Thankful for a purse with a strap to drape over shoulder and chest, I toted the boxes—letters balanced on top—and walked, without too many wibble-wobbles from my essential tremors, down the road to our detached garage.

Dave Brubeck’s “Winter Wonderland” tinkled through the speakers while I maneuvered the Subaru around curves, past dried seed heads, and under ominous dark clouds. I parked in the Cochranton post office lot and collected the boxes. Slipping the letters on top again, I secured them with my chin to slam and locked the door. 

Straightening up, I inched toward the crosswalk and waited for traffic to clear on North Franklin. Instead, a white pickup slowed to a crawl and stopped. 

I stepped as briskly as I could and braved lifting one hand from under the packages to wave thanks. 

After I passed the truck, the driver beeped—I assumed to return my wave. I didn't dare stop.

A gray haired woman with a hand full of letters jauntily strode out of the post office. She stepped back, grabbed the door, and waited for me to cross the wide sidewalk in front of the building.

“Thank you.” I entered the lobby. “I appreciate the help.”

Cochranton Post Office

“My pleasure.” Over her shoulder she called, “Merry Christmas.”

Shifting the boxes, I opened the inside door to the empty service area and set them on the counter. The tall male clerk hustled from the back. He lifted the box I’d addressed for my brother. A letter slid off.

I picked up the envelope and searched for the other card I’d intended to mail. Not there. Yikes! “I must have dropped the other letter. I’ll be right back.”

The clerk’s lips curled slightly at the edges. He nodded and set the box on the scale.

Hurrying, I passed through both doors to the outside sidewalk where a man I’d never seen extended his hand to me. In it was the envelope addressed to Jamie. “You dropped your letter in the street.”

Caught by surprise, I squeaked, “Bless you.”

“I honked and honked. You didn’t stop.” His words scolded but his voice and eyes were forgiving.

The unseen man in the white pickup hadn’t been returning my wave. He’d been warning me. Even if I’d understood, with my wibble-wobbles and the load, I couldn’t have bent over in the street to pick up the letter. 

He inclined his head toward Mercer Bank catty-corner from the post office. “I parked in the bank lot.”

Tongue tied at his kindness, I muttered, “You are such a blessing. Such a blessing.”

He touched his baseball cap and walked away.

I watched the back of his plaid flannel jacket. He’d taken the trouble to park his truck, fetch my card in the street, and find me. I wish I’d found the words “Thank you” in time. 

In the post office, the clerk’s slight smile had expanded into an ear to ear grin. “He had the card for you.” A witness to the scene through the glass wall, the clerk shared the delight which bubbled like a babbling brook inside me. 

I handed him Jamie’s card. 

Tossing it into a bin behind him, he picked up the second box addressed to an aunt in New York and chanted the familiar, “Are there any liquids, flammable, or hazardous . . . ”

Later, two fellas chatted behind me. I freed my VISA from the credit card machine. 

The clerk marked the paper receipt to indicate the dates each box would be delivered before addressing the first guy. “What’s your post box number?”

The fella swirled and barged toward the counter.

Glad I didn’t hold the boxes, I dodged away from him.

The friend grabbed the barging fella by the shoulders. “Whoa, boy. Don’t knock the little lady down.”

“Oh, I didn’t see her there.” He doffed an imaginary hat and bowed. “Sorry, Ma’am.”

“No worries. I was just dancing to get out of your way.”

And I waltzed out of the post office. The kindness of strangers and the postal clerk kindled Christmas cheer, breezing through my open throat and tickling every cell in my body. Little things make the season.

Cards and Christmas Tree

 

 Reflections - Occam’s Razor

Spence Tinkering with his Mahindra

 

Kathy’s weary voice came through the land line receiver the first Monday of November. “I’ve got an auditor question for you.”

Phone against my ear, I gazed through the kitchen window. Spence strolled past milkweed floss sparkling with sunshine. He planned to spend an afternoon hauling logs in his tractor bucket to the woodshed.

A sigh, stronger than the wind bending the dried milkweed stalks, brought my attention back to Kathy, one of our township supervisors. “Jill’s resigning. She’s pregnant with twins. We need to find a new secretary.”

“Oh, no!” Not kind, I admit. However, our township has suffered through four new secretaries in the past four years—two worse than incompetent and two competent novices. We’d just got stabilized only to need another new secretary?

“Gretchen might take the job again. But she’s expecting in January. Jill’s due in May. She says she’ll wait until Gretchen delivers. If not, Jill will quit December thirty-first. Do we need one audit or two?”

Gretchen, a real sweetie, was the third in the string of secretaries. “Two audits if you hire Gretchen—the yearly audit and an audit for the time Jill is secretary in the new year.” I paused while Kathy’s pen was scratching. “If you hire a new secretary starting January first, then one audit.”

From there our conversation diverged to other township dramas. I wondered why Spence hadn’t driven the tractor out of the garage. And I hadn’t seen Kathy’s husband driving his pickup past the house lately. “How’s Tom?”

“O-o-oh” she strung the word into three syllables. “He hasn’t felt well for about a month. He mostly watches TV,” she chortled, “or talks to his bull.” Her voice softened. “I wish he’d go to the doctor but he won't. You know men.”

We disconnected and Spence walked back from the garage.

“The tractor won’t start.” He pushed his lip up, wrinkling his mustache. “I waited and tried again. No click. The engine wouldn’t start.”

He turned the key to start the tractor several times during the week. Then he tossed papers around his coffee table desk in search of the battery charger instructions. “I need to charge the charger,” he mumbled, grabbed the pages he wanted, and propped his feet up to read.

With the charger on the tractor battery, he attended the township meeting the Monday after I’d talked to Kathy. Back home, he slapped the minutes in front of me. “Tom’s in the hospital.”

“What?” I dropped the dish towel I’d used to wipe the kitchen table and picked up the papers.

“It’s not there.” He pointed at the minutes. “Kathy told me. She drove Tom to emergency Sunday. I’ll call her tomorrow.”

“Good idea.” I scanned the minutes. Spence had scribbled Kelli in the margin. “Whose Kelli?”

“Someone considering the secretary job.”

Kathy didn’t answer Spence’s call the next day. He left a message. “Hi, Kathy. This is Spencer. I was checking on Tom. Call when you can.”

And charging the battery didn’t get the familiar click for starting the tractor. Grumbling unintelligible words, he settled his butt on the sofa, feet on the coffee table, and laptop on his belly to find the online Mahindra Manual. “I connected the charger right. I’ll do it again.” Growling about needing to pull off the front of the tractor and replace the battery if charging didn’t work, he trudged out.

Wednesday, the tractor battery charged and Spence grocery shopped in Meadville. Kathy returned his call. “They’re giving Tom fluids. He’s had blood tests, an MRI, a CT scan . . . ” She took a deep breath. “They have no idea what’s wrong.”

“Is he any better?”

“No. He’s lost his affect. He gives one word answers. He doesn’t even want to watch TV.”

“Whoa!”

“I know. In our house the TV is on from morning till bedtime. Sometimes I find him asleep in the middle of the night in front of the TV.” She paused. “I even told him his bull misses him. Tom didn’t react at all.”

Tom and His Short Legged Baby Bull

“He must really feel horrible.”

“Yeah. When I go back, I’m gonna tell them to check for Lyme disease. There have been so many ticks this year.”

While I helped Spence put away groceries, I shared Kathy’s update and her idea about Lyme disease.

Spence stuffed sausages into the refrigerator meat drawer. “Makes sense this year. We both got multiple tick bites.” He left to investigate how to replace the tractor battery.

On a sunny walk the following Saturday, Spence and I studied wild cucumber seeds.

Kathy stopped her car and rolled down her window. “Tom came home last night.” She smirked. “He has Lyme disease.”

“All those tests the hospital gave him.” I shook my head slowly. “You’d think living in the country—”

“I know,” Kathy blurted. “Ticks are bad this year! He goes to the disease center Wednesday to find out which of the two hundred varieties he has.” A white pickup crept up behind her.

“I’ll see, ya.” She drove off.

The next week Spence slipped into his winter vest. “I’m going to Daryl’s. He might diagnose the tractor issue.” Spence fastened his boots’ Velcro. “Could save pulling off the front bars.”

Spence returned a half hour later, stepped inside, and slapped his palm against his forehead.

“What?” I looked up from scraping roasted pumpkin pulp into the food mill.

In his outdoor gear, he assumed his wide-legged country road conversation stance. “Daryl asked, ‘Were the dashboard lights on?’” Spence touched his left index finger with his right. “Yes.”

“He asked, ‘Did you hear a click?’” Spence touched his middle finger. “No.”

“‘Was the safety lock engaged?’” Spence threw his arms in the air. “I never checked that.”

“That’s why Daryl’s the tractor repairman and you're not.” I swirled the food mill handle. Pumpkin aroma tickled my nostrils. “No worries.”

He groaned and trudged outside.

I bagged the pumpkin puree, wiped orange splotches off the table, and listened to the tractor engine rumble outside.

Wind and rain kept Spence off his tractor the third Tuesday of November. Booted and carrying umbrellas, Spence and I braved the downpour for a health walk.

Kathy stopped her car. “What are ya doing out in this rain?”

Spence asked, “How’s Tom?”

“Getting better.” She pressed her lips together as if remembering the long struggle at the hospital.

“Did I tell you about my tractor?” Spence repeated the questions Daryl had asked.

Kathy grasped the steering wheel. “Was it in gear?” 

We bent over laughing. “Yes.”

“I do that all the time with my riding mower.” She let go of the steering wheel and fluttered her fingers.

“And the secretary? Did Kelli take the job?” As auditor I hoped we had someone in place even though it meant the fifth secretary in five years.

“Yeah. We’ve asked Mary to be an advisor. She’s been the secretary of two other townships for years.”

An experienced secretary—rather than one pregnant with twins and only a year on the job—giving advice made sense. Though no vehicle crept up behind Kathy, she said, “I’m going.” She added in a mock scold, “Yins need to get out of this rain.”

Despite the umbrellas and boots, Spence and I arrived home soaked. He let his clothes dry on him and headed for his sofa. I hung mine in the bathroom and snuggled into warm, dry ones.

Like drying out after the rain, Occam’s razor—testing country folk for Lyme disease in a year of abundant ticks and checking if a tractor is in gear rather than complicated fixes—proved best.

 

West Creek Road