After the Escape

Where did she go?
She was right there, over there, she was.
Wasn't she?
He sniffs the air, then dashes through the flower bed and past the parking lot, then back.
Where is she?
Oh! There!
He scrambles through the leaves in a joyous hurry.
Not her?
He freezes in surprise.
She left him?
Where, where, where?
His ears close and his anxiety expands like a big bubble filling him.
Oh, no!
Too many scents bombard him, the wrong scents, not her.
Bad dog!
But  to run is such happiness.
And now he is scared and not anywhere and why did he run?
Always running, whenever he can.
Running!
Then coming, to her with her frown, her beautiful frown.
Where did she go?
He floats inside his panic, whimpering.

Horseback

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To me, riding a horse is scary. Huge creature, very high. Long fall.

Horses don't stand still (like a car), don't wait for a treat (like a dog), don't snuggle in your lap (like a cat). A horse is worrisome. Being an unskilled rider, I add to this worry with my false starts, wishy-washy steering, and general anxiety, which the horse can feel right through the reins. It doesn't take a horse long to realize he is in charge, not me, and that he can have some fun. Or not. Some horses for hire are so bored that they just shuffle through their established paths without the slightest urge to prance or be willful. They don't even notice their chance to dominate this hapless rider. I'm good on these horses. I love these horses. Most horses are not like this.

"Let's go riding!" someone inevitably says with a big grin of enthusiasm.

Oh, no, is always my first thought. I immediately start thinking up excuses, good reasons why I can't go. But no matter how good my excuses are, I am talked into it anyway. I'm not sure how this happens.

I don't like to admit how many times I've been horseback riding because it's embarrassing. You'd think I would get better. But I don't, so I always say I'm a complete novice, which I've learned works much better than admitting I have some riding experience. Novices are treated more kindly, not scorned or prodded, and they are given those Old Nelly horses I love. But sometimes the 7-year olds take all the Old Nellys and I am expected to get up on one of the scary horses because I am, after all, an adult.

I tell myself to adjust my attitude, to set a better example. Look, everyone else likes horseback riding I say to myself persuasively. It's easy. My fourth grade daughter loves horses. She doesn't mind if the horse gets frisky or bounces her around. She wants her horse to run. Omigod, run?! Trot?! Noooooo. I get nervous if the horse even looks at me.

My friend has a horse, a beautiful horse with a white blaze on her forehead. Feeding the horse is doable, though horse teeth are extremely big in comparison to a carrot or an apple, or my hand. Maybe my friend hasn't noticed that I always bring my daughter along so she gets the riding lesson, not me. I watch as my friend coaches my child to steer this enormous animal, kick it in the sides, tug the reins harder. Be confident. Be boss. And my daughter does it.

"Go, Tina, go!" she yells at the horse, her little feet flailing away. And Tina obeys, turns right, starts trotting. I am amazed. I can see it in the kid's body language: "I am boss!" That's all there is to it?

Next time, next time.
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Thunder

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Cats hate thunder.

There goes Snowball, skittering away in panic as if a predator is after her. Huge eyes glitter green from beneath the couch.

Tiger is up on a chair, frozen in place. He looks like a big tabby dandelion with this fur sticking straight out.

Duke is more alarmed by the cats than by the thunder. They are behaving very strangely. There must be something wrong! He starts running up and down the hall barking.

The thunder stops.

Duke checks his food bowl.

Tiger's fur settles down and he begins licking his paw.

Snowball comes out from under the couch batting around her new dustball.

They come, they go, all the big and little alarms of life.

Like thunder.
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Truce

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I am pinned under the quilt, can't turn over. There is a dog snuggled up to my right side, breathing gently. One cat is curled against my feet, the other is stretched out along my left side. I am warm, rather I am hot, and I can't move. This apparently was not an issue when I was asleep, but I am now awake and starting to sweat. I wonder how my beloved animals come to swarm me in the night. They don't usually do this.

The cats do not like the dog; the dog is wary of both cats.

The cats do not like each other.

The dog is wary of both cats.

At bedtime, Tiger the tabby was roaming the neighborhood, nowhere to be seen, Snowball was camped at the foot of my bed guarding her territory, and Duke was on his doggie rug, resigned to the floor.

Come morning, predator and prey lie together with their human, asleep in truce.

I hate to disturb this small miracle, so I don't.
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Greed in His Head

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My dog does not have a preacher in his head.

• No inner voice to educate him about the seven deadly sins, including greed.
• No one to explain the virtues of sharing his good fortune, and food, with others.
• No one to sing his praises for not taking more than he needs.

My dog does not have a mom in his head.

• No inner voice to exhalt the wisdom of vegetables, and eating slowly.
• No one to instruct him on manners.
• No one to ask him whether he is sure it's a good idea to eat what he's about to eat.

My dog does not have a boss in his head.

• No inner voice to explain the consequences of stealing food off the table.
• No one to enforce the skills of sit, come, stay, drop it.
• No one to assure him of rewards at some future time.

My dog has greed in his head, pure and simple.
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Cat Show

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There go the cats, streaking urgently out the door.

"Don't pet me!" their intensity shouts in annoyance as I stoop to stroke the tip of a silky tail. Fwooosh, they're outahere.

Okay then, I say to myself. Go get the coffee, settle in to watch the cat show in the back yard. Ha. No cats. When I want to watch, they don't show. Sigh. I cannot even remotely imagine how a cat could be taught to perform on cue, like the tigers at Marine World. Cats only please themselves, unlike dogs who love to please their humans. If a cat happens to do what I'm trying to get her to do, it's coincidence only. I must remember that and not mistake her behavior for obedience. If I naively try to get her to repeat a particular action, like come, for instance, she gives me The Look, and either departs or does the statue thing.

I find the statue thing quite fascinating. Ah, there they are now, posing. Snowball is in the classic sphinx position on the fence, sleek in profile, pure white and sublimely decorative, not a whisker moving. Tiger crouches under the wrought iron table, eyes half shut. His puff tabby fur lifts gently in the breeze. When did they sneak back into view and why didn't I see them? Cats may be space travelers after all, beaming in and out at will while we and the scrutable animals plod around here in this other dimension. No wonder they wince at our noises. Their space is probably full of cat Mozart and silence.

Ah. There she goes after that squirrel I didn't see. White streak up the tree, leaves rustling wildly, briefly. Back she comes in defeat, as always. She licks her paw and flops in the dirt. Tiger never moved a muscle. They don't catch the squirrels, but they love that chase. I see the squirrel up high in the tree, shaking the leaves at her.

"Nyah, nyah, come and get me!" he teases. She ignores him. They only chase on their own terms. Well fed house cats don't have to chase if they don't feel like it. Their urge is strictly sport and instinct.

Tiger is at the sliding glass door , looking at me expectantly.

"Let me in," he mrowws. I get up and slide the door open for his royal self. He trots to the food dish. I close the door and sit down. Now Snowball is at the door.

"Let me in!" she mrowws with some urgency. Okay, okay, I get up, open the door. Snowball enters slowly as if to thunderous applause. I wait patiently for her tail to come in with her, close the door, sit down.

"Mroww?" He's back at the door now.

 I ignore him.

"MROWW!?" And again I'm up, opening the door. Snowball? I entreat her to consider going out at the same time as her brother.

"Crunch, crunch, crunch." She crouches intently over the kibble, ignoring me. I sit down. This is the signal, no?

"Crunch, crunch." Guess not. I pick up my pen, sip the coffee, stretch my feet into a sunbeam. Ahhh.

"Mroww." She glares at me from the door. "Let me out Now." And I do, resigned to my position as door opener. She gracefully glides out as he dashes in. They do this a few more times, then they're gone.

Well, maybe not gone, but not visible to me.

When I go out to water the plants I see her hidden in the ivy, little white ears poking up, ready for sleeping as cats are, off and on all day, every day.

But cat sleep is not like our sleep. Oh, no.
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In Sickness and in Health

No jumping, running,
whining, scratching,
wagging, gobbling,
prancing, snorting,
fetching, digging.
No cat menacing.
No big brown eyes begging.
No furry companion in my bed.
I tend in helplessness as he quivers
under the red blanket, eats pills like a
good dog, and floats in his pain.

Cats are healers.
That is their cosmic role with humans.
Most of the time cats are in their own world of sleep and vigilance.
We are interlopers, or providers of food and shelter, perhaps amusing, perhaps not.
But when their humans are sick or hurt, the cats nuzzle and nestle and stay close.
They are live pillows, droning with purr.
Their claws prick gently as they knead us in that feline acupuncture.
Their eyes look deeply into ours as if to hypnotize the cobra
of our disease.

Now it is Duke who is ill, a dog.
He whimpers in pain and lies trembling.
To my surprise, both cats appear.
They are with him, near but not touching---big cats gazing at small dog.
Though he is an enemy of sorts, Duke is their dog, or at least my dog.
And they are, after all, healers.
We sit vigil together.
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Tech Writer: Tiger or Duke

Meet my cat, Tiger. Notice his steady gaze and obvous intelligence. Tiger is determined, independent, and works well alone. He would make a great tech writer.

This is my dog, Duke.
He has a short attention span, no ability to be still unless asleep, and he chews things. Not a good tech writer candidate.

But wait. Today's tech writer is a new breed. Although Tiger might seem the better candidate at first glance, Duke has many stellar qualities which, perhaps, put him ahead of the natty feline.

1. Sociability---The most obvious advantage Duke has is social. He is being cuddled by a pretty girl who seems delighted with his company. Tiger's claws and aloofness can be liabilities in teamwork and collaboration.
2. Honesty---Duke looks straight at you. He is who he is, with no sudden mood shifts or mysterious agendas.
3. Pragmatism---Duke aims to please, as all dogs do. He is not a prima dona. He will do whatever gets him a treat.
4. Skills---Duke has a number of valuable performance skills:
1. Sit: With proper incentives and clear leadership, Duke follows instructions and can be relied upon.
2. Stay: Given those proper incentives, Duke is quite attentive. Sometimes patient.
3. Shake: A nice social skill, though muddy paws could be an issue.
4. Roll over: This might not be that valuable in tech writing. Better for management.
5. Potential---While Duke is not so very brainy, or focussed, or detail-oriented, and he can't type, he far outshines Tiger in potential. This guy can learn what you want him to learn! Tiger, on the other hand, only learns what he feels like learning, when he's interested in learning it, maybe. And he is not motivated by treats.

So, be honest. Which candidate would you want on your documentation team?
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Snowball the Editor

Meet the perfect editor: my cat, Snowball. I believe Snowball is an exceptional candidate for the position of technical editor, for the following reasons:

1. Perfection is her motto. Snowball is very neat and elegant, effortlessly. Not a hair is ever out of place, or if it is, not for long. No matting, no mud. Even her shedding is neat.
2. Snowball loves predictability, order, and silence. Occasionally mice. Clean mice.
3. Although Snowball does chew pencils and certain plants, her destruction is quite inadvertent. Her clawings are very subtle, though she is no stranger to red ink, or blood, whatever.
4. She believes that dogs, children, and all other undisciplined life forms need to shape up, and she does her part to see that they do.
5. She is very focused when she wants something, rather, when she wants someone to do something her way. Relentless loud meowing or a little nip can be quite persuasive, and those persuasion skills are always highly valued in the workplace.
6. She has many years of experience thinking "You idiots" but not saying it.

In my house, Snowball rules. Duke the dog is afraid of her, her brother Tiger has deep respect, and I am her beloved servant. She keeps us in line. Plus, she is very affectionate and appreciative when things are correct and as they should be.

Here at Sun Microsystems, our editors are polite with their suggestions, are quite understanding when we do not do their markup, and don't order writers around. To Snowball this is just wrong, wrong, wrong, and sorely lacking in consequences. Although her philosophy might seem to be somewhat atypical for the Sun culture, I feel sure that Snowball's piercing look (above) will keep disagreements to a minimum and contribute to the highest quality.

Scarlet

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Scarlet was one of those dogs with a story. Some animals are like that. They pass through the human realm and leave something wonderful behind. Dogs are especially inclined to affect us this way, because they are so much in our company. There were many chapters to Scarlet's life, but I only knew about one.

I met Scarlet when she was an older dog, maybe 10, but I heard stories about her from the people I worked with in the Welfare Department, and also from Candace herself, Scarlet's owner. I saw pictures of Scarlet, and it was true, young Scarlet was ridiculously cute. She was carmel colored, a curly cocker spaniel mix, with huge brown eyes that oozed devotion. When she wagged, her whole body wriggled, her ears fluttered, and her toenails twittered on the sidewalk as she did her doggie dance. Of course, everyone loved her. Scarlet went everywhere with Candace. Usually dogs are not allowed in the office, but when Candace came in, Scarlet was greeted happily by all of us, including the director. We had treats for Scarlet at our desks, and doggie toys. In fact, Scarlet got so much attention, Candace might be overlooked, which seemed fine with Candace as she headed out the door with Scarlet, perfectly happy to avoid explaining herself to some dutiful social worker.

Candace was not a street person, though she hung out there a lot. She was not homeless. She had an apartment. At one time, she worked as a clerk at the Welfare Department and was included in the many-roomates houses that the girls in their 20's shared. But somewhere along the line, Candace started to crumble. She spent more and more time alone. She got fat. She had trouble at work. The lives of girls in their 20's are so busy and chaotic that only a few people noticed the changes. Candace went on disability and withdrew into an apartment alone. It was Scarlet who stopped the free-fall for Candace.

Scarlet supposedly had a "bad temperament," or so her owners said when they turned her over to the dog pound. Candace's neighbor was an Animal Rescue volunteer who forced Scarlet on her, "just for a week until we place her." Past the chewing puppy stage, but not yet full grown, Scarlet was a little wild, a little spooked, and in need of some serious grooming. Candace had no idea about what to do with a dog, but she tried, and somewhere between a bath and a walk, she was smitten. When the week was up, Scarlet stayed, and a long period of contentment began for both of them. Candace was no longer odd or tragic. Instead, she was welcome everywhere with her patchwork backpack and her magical dog. Sometimes they seemed a little like Dorothy and Toto, shuffling down the yellow brick road with various eccentric companions at their side. Once they even had their picture in the paper, right on the front page of Section 2.

As it turned out, Scarlett outlived Candace, but that's another story.
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