Call Me Doolittle

I never did get around to introducing the blogosphere to Vern (or Laverne, the jury is still out,) the porch kitty. He's been living under our house since at least fall. That's when we started seeing him sneaking around the garden patch and finding little kitty foot prints everywhere. I told T.A. he could stay, but he had to be an outside cat.

I am not fond of litter boxes. One cat creating a massive, nose hair eating stink in the house at a time is enough.

She does bring him in occasionally and he makes his rounds, getting snuggles and chin scritches from everyone. I have to admit, he is the sweetest, lovingest stray kitty I've ever met.

T.A. has promised to take him to the vet and get his shots. If he is a he, he's already fixed. There are no man berries that I can find. I still think he's a she.

Is it sad that three adult women can't figure out the sex of a cat? I think I've been living in the holler too long. Maybe he's been drinking Mountain Dew and the man berries shrunk.



This is the face I wake up to every morning. If you wondered what a Boston Baked Beagle looked like, now you know. This is Sammy's "Mommy, that thing you call a puppy tried to chew off my back leg again" face.

Notice the gimp ear on the right. It's like a divining rod, constantly looking for danger. When it senses someone in distress, it stands straight up.

That's right. My dog is a super hero. Don't tell anyone, it's a secret.


Look at that face. Just look at it. Do not be fooled by the cuteness. As I type this, T.A. can be heard bellowing from the other room, "AYLA!! AYLA NO!! AYLA PUT THAT DOWN!!

She turned four months old yesterday. I don't know how much she weighs now, I just know it's more.

While she does enjoy terrorizing the entire house, I have to admit she's a pretty good dog. Housebroken, crate trained .. well sort of. She had outgrown the puppy crate I had set up for her before I ever brought her home. My bedroom, which is only slightly bigger than a crate anyway, serves as her "crate." So far it seems to work out well.

This is the boss. Yoda takes no crap from anyone, except Ma. He will go Kudjo on Ayla without thinking twice about, even though he would easily fit in her mouth.

He's also a tattler. If Ma gets out of bed and starts getting dressed, he'll come find me or T.A. and totally go all Lassie and do the "Timmy's down the well" thing. He barks and jumps around like he's lost his mind and tries to make you follow him. If anyone in the house, animal or human, is play fighting, he tries to break it up.

We say he has a hard life, because he's always "on duty," making sure everyone behaves. At the same time, he's also the baby. I blame Ma, she used to hold him in the bed and feed him a bite of everything she had.

He is rotten.

This isn't all the critters, I'll work on getting a new picture of Miss Kittypuss and Merlin.

I hope ya'll are enjoying your weekend. I'll be back tomorrow with an exciting recap of my weekend here in the holler.

We'll talk again soon.

Later Taters!!

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