Lord Dudley Mountcatten is a delicate flower. He doesn’t do rain, snow. loud noises, dogs or strange people entering his house. He’s scared of the UPS driver, the vacuum and the ironing board. Drop a book on the floor and you won’t see him for hours.
Wind? Yeah, he doesn’t like that either.
Which is why I had to share this clip of him exiting the house for his walk in 40 mph gusts.
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Where did he run?
Up on the deck where he cried to be let in the back door.
Since we’ve been having a warm winter and so little snow, Lord Dudley Mountcatten has been enjoying stretching his legs outside. And after a particularly warm spell where I took him for walkies everyday, he’s been antsy for exercise.
Even when it starts to snow.
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Crying and scratching at the door, he talked the husband into harnessing him up and heading out.
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But then? He had second thoughts.
Snow is cold, and more importantly… wet.
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Which is why he hightailed it to the shelter of the woodshed and left the husband out in the storm. Cats are a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them.
When the husband had enough and tugged him back out into uncovered territory?
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His Royal Highness beat feet for the back door.
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And assumed the position for a warm rub down and toweling off.
I think we’ve established Lord Dudley Mountcatten is not your average rough and tumble feline. For a cat we rescued from a shelter… who had been found as a stray wandering the streets, he’s quickly adapted to the finer comforts life at Casa River provides. And while he loves to go outside in fair weather? The winter walkies are proving troublesome.
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There are shoveled paths all around the house, garage and barn but this furry numbskull plows through the snow instead. And when he does? He shakes and shivers and mewls pitifully.
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Which means my husband (the man with an infinite amount of patience for the cat but not his wife) has to pick up his Lordship and deliver him upon a path.
The husband and I stopped into a local seafood place the other day for a drink and a bite.
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The bartender whipped me up a few fabulous Snowy White Cosmopolitans…
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And somehow we got to chatting about cats. A few cocktails in I was talking about putting the harness and leash on Dudley and told the bartender that as soon as I said “walkies!” in my best falsetto… he came running. She looked at me oddly, so I explained the origin of the term.
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Barbara was a British dog trainer who had a show on PBS in the 80’s. When I mentioned her name, the bartender didn’t have a clue. Which is when I apparently insulted her by saying “You remember that show”. I truly thought she would, because ya know… we looked about the same age and she had previously commiserated with me about hot flashes. Turns out she wasn’t my age, not even close and she was less than pleased I thought so.
It was then that I realized I had broken the age old drinking rule… never piss off the bartender.
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It’s a good thing she’d delivered my crab quesadillas before my I let loose my poisoned comment.
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But clearly we’ll never be able to go back to this establishment. Which is a shame because it was a fun place, complete with an “I prefer my pets” love meter sangria dispenser…
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And an outboard motor kegerator.
Me and my big liquored up mouth. It will never learn.
Lord Dudley Mountcatten used to love going outside. I’d say “walkies” in my best falsetto and he’d bound into the room anxiously awaiting the harness and leash. Now that full Maine winter has arrived?
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He’s still anxious to go out, but not so thrilled with staying there.
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And looks at us as if to say, “My feet are cold. What the hell?”
Walkies with Lord Dudley Mountcatten are continuing since the weather has been warm and cooperative. (It’s Maine. Anything over 10 degrees is considered warm.)
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Dudley enjoys his time outside.
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Though I have to admit there’s not a great deal of walking going on.
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These pics were taken over the course of an hour.
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And involved circling this flower bed two dozen times in search of mice.
Walkies are still proceeding nicely. And though I haven’t had to scramble up a tree after him again….
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That doesn’t mean he’s not thinking about it.
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And like the rest of us, Lord Dudley Mountcatten has put on a few extra Covid pounds. He used to be able to slink under this shelf, now he just gets stuck half way in.
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I’m not sure why, but Dudley will walk around the barn…
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But will never get on the porch. If I pick him up and put him there? He jumps down as if burned.
Conclusion: Cats be weird.
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And tired.
The beast must sleep 19 hours of every day. If I sound jealous, it’s because I am.
Lord Dudley Mountcatten…. walked. In the harness. On the leash. Of his own accord.
Be still my heart.
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After weeks of useless excursions when all he did was glance at me in disdain…. the other day he suited up and hit the door running.
Well, strolling is more accurate but I’ll take it. No fuss, no fight. He walked across the lawn, around the barn and woodshed, climbed the front stone wall, got tangled up in the bird bath and even lead me over to the apple trees.
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Which he found quite fascinating.
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I was happy to let him sit in the crook of the tree sniffing and scratching the bark, but then before I could react….
Bam!
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The little devil was scrambling up the tree with me still holding the leash. He wouldn’t come down, so I had to go up, and it wasn’t pretty.
Ever try to wrangle a leashed and harnessed cat out of a tree? It’s not a smooth process and I don’t recommend it.
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Upon retrieval, his Lordship was exhausted and happily plopped in the shade. I, on the other hand, examined my scratched arms, broken nail and twig infested hair.
And if that wasn’t bad enough? This morning I woke up with a wicked brown tail moth rash on my neck.
Needless to say we will be giving the apple trees a wide berth from now on.
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