It’s been nearly a week since Manchas was curled up next to me at 11 pm and then didn’t come for breakfast at 5 am. I have no idea where she might be. We’ve searched all her regular hiding places in the house and anyplace she might have gotten stuck. Thinking she may have gotten out somehow, we’ve searched the perimeter of the house and around her mom Garfield’s home down the street and the abandoned house where she was born.
All of the cats in La Yacata are gone. My father-in-law’s two gray tomcats, the neighbor below’s orange tabby, Pumpkin generation 7 (or 8). The little yappy dog we nicknamed Ferocious was poisoned about two weeks ago, so I expect that’s what happened to the cats.
Manchas was an incredible comfort to me these last couple of years. She was MY cat. She chose me as her hoo-man and wouldn’t have anything to do with my husband. In fact, she’d often get up and leave the room when he entered. She tolerated my son if he was non-threatening and moved slowly. But me, me, she loved.
Fuzz has been running around in the mornings, continuing the game of hide and seek he and Manchas would play. Even when she was here, Fuzz hardly ever found her being visually challenged and all. She’d perch on the top of the cabinet and watch him run back and forth searching.
I haven’t quite gotten up the nerve to put Manchas’ food dish away. As long as we don’t find a body, perhaps there is hope?
About a month ago, my husband brought home two very large pregnant goats that my son christened Betty and Marge. Instead of easing into things, my husband shooed them out to make nice with the other goats. Well, they weren’t having that. Before you could say Jack Robinson, they were off and running, and it was up to my son to hunt them down.
He tracked them to the defunct water tower, where he spied both peering from behind one of the supports. Bear in mind that my son was a stranger to them, and Betty and Marge had been schooled in the perils of stranger danger. So even though he tried to calmly work his way to their location, they were having none of that. They took off in opposite directions.
Fortunately, their size meant they left an easily followed trail. He was able to find Marge up the hill and in the tall grass. He wrestled her part-way down the hill toward the house and stopped at my father-in-law’s house to ask to borrow a rope to tie up Marge temporarily so he could track down Betty.
Betty was on the other side of the fence that borders La Yacata. She and my son regarded each other for a bit. Finally, my son started talking to her, introducing himself and the like, so that stranger danger would no longer be an issue. Finally, he was able to approach close enough to lasso her. He tied her to a fence post and set about trying to find a way to get her back over the fence. She weighed too much for him to throw over his neck and haul back.
No opening big enough for Betty presented itself. However, she loosened the post enough in her struggle to escape that he was able to knock the post down, pull her across, and then set it back up again.
Triumphant, he collected Marge and brought both white behemoths back to the house. They weren’t going to have outdoor privileges the rest of the day. The next day, Betty had her baby, and a few days after that, my husband sold the trio.
Jolina, Longshanks, and Runaway
Our herd of goats has undergone other drastic changes recently as well. All the baby boys were exchanged for a new macho, which my husband likes to do periodically to maintain genetic diversity. This macho is a bit strange looking, in my opinion. His face is so long and angular that I’ve dubbed him Longshanks (from Braveheart), although my husband keeps trying to call him Barbas (bearded). Anyway, Longshanks has revealed himself to be a quest-giver.
What’s a quest giver? You may well ask. Every time my son and I loop the block with the dogs, Longshanks pops out of nowhere and approaches. So my son said he must have a backstory. In our warped humor, we’ve imagined that he comes out to give us a side quest. He begins with, “Long ago my kingdom was stolen from me. An evil witch turned me into a goat. Now I wait until….,” and we take turns making up the conditions of the quest. It tickles our funny bones and adds to the enjoyment of the dog walks. We haven’t had a good “walk game” since Spot the Cat. (Sadly, washed-out Garfield is no longer a resident in La Yacata.)
Big Mama, with Brown Mama and babies and in the back Furry Mama.
Then, every so often, my husband gets a bee in his bonnet about having borregas (sheep) even though every time we’ve tried, it’s been an unmitigated failure. The terrain in La Yacata isn’t conducive to the more delicate sensibilities of borregas. They don’t like what there is to forage, they easily scare and run off, and they are generally unhappy campers.
Notwithstanding this recent adventure, my husband brought more borregas into the mix this week. Big Mama, Brown Mama, and Furry Mama are HUGE! Big Mama was obviously the leader of the crew of pregnant ewes. Nobody messes with Big Mama! I suppose my husband learned something from Betty and Marge’s great escape because he hasn’t tried to integrate the borregas with the goats. He even divided the corral so that each species had its own space.
Brown Mama, the smallest of the posse, was the first to give birth. She had twins, a boy and a girl, which have yet to be named. I expect it won’t be too long before Big Mama’s crew becomes an unmanageable number. Sigh.
Last week while we were on our regular dog walk, this scrawny but determined puppy came out of nowhere and demanded to be brought into our pack. He would not be chased off even though it was obvious he was terrified. Cocoa, the least well-behaved of the group, was freaking out completely, so I backtracked the other way with him. Fred and George were startled, and a bit concerned but didn’t seem to feel overly threatened by this interloper. They allowed him to follow them the rest of the way around the block.
Once Cocoa was removed to the house, the little guy bounded over and looked at me with such intelligence that I knew it was a hopeless case. My son texted my sister-in-law and asked if we could temporarily house him in her empty house across the street. She said yes, and that was that.
He was in bad shape. We could count his ribs, but once he understood he could stay, he could not stop smiling.
We set up a doggy daycare situation complete with a snoodle towel, Cocoa’s castoff toys, and a box for extra hominess. He stays outside during the day but on the back porch during the rain and at night.
He sits when you tell him to. He comes when called. He is SO excited to see anyone every time. He loves his toys and dog food. He is agreeable to putting on the harness for a walk, although he’s very nervous about the actual walk and will walk so close to your heel that he gets bumped with your foot.
Slowly, we are trying to acclimate the other dogs to Bruce Goodboy’s presence (GB). He’s been christened Bruce because he’s the color of Batman’s suit, AKA Bruce Wayne. And Goodboy, well, because he’s such a good boy. Although, with the size of his head and paws, I’m pretty sure he’s going to be Big Boy before the month is out.
Surviving Mexico 