The Dog Is Not a Toy

This is the eighth episode on Ellie Mae the dog, and her adjustment to farm life, in which a truce is formed between Ellie Mae and Toby, the orange tabby cat.

If you cannot get along with your neighbors on a farm, you are the odd critter out. When we were communicating about Ellie Mae the dog with those nice folks at the Humane Society of Inland Mendocino County, prior to her joining us, Gluten-Free Mama and I stipulated that it would be nice if our adoptee were cat-friendly, but that it was not a deal breaker.

I don’t know about the felines in your ‘hood, but the cats around here chew dogs up for breakfast, and spit them out afterwards. I saw a kitten take Emma the Great Dane mix down, with one hiss combined with one swipe of a tiny paw. It was an example of “know your opponent.”

This is the same Emma who flushed an adult mountain lion from out of the creek bed behind our house, three days ago, and chased her until she crested the hill on the north side. 

Needless to say, a domestic cat that can’t merck a dog around here is in a world of hurt. With that in mind, GF Mama and I went about the task of introducing Ellie Mae to Toby, the designated indoors cat here at the farm house, carefully. We weren’t worried about Toby, mind you, so much as poor Ellie Mae, who would learn soon enough who ran the show.

Nonetheless, for the first couple of weeks, all interactions between Ellie and Toby were supervised, with only two sputtering chase scenes occurring. I say sputtering because whereas Ellie Mae had enthusiasm on her side, she was on tiled surface so all she could do was spin her paws. 

If sound and fury equated to speed, Ellie could have won the Indy 500. The second time with her legs gyrating furiously, all Ellie could manage was to run into one of the table legs. Meanwhile, Toby sneered at her from halfway up the stairs. 

You see, Toby glides right through that child-proof gate, leaving Ellie Mae on the bottom looking up triumphantly, as if to say, “Just where I want you, you little pointy-eared fiend. Go upstairs before I am forced to chew off your head.”

“If you try to chew off my head, you’ll never hear the man count ten,” Toby might reply, not moving until I clap my hands at him to roust him along. In doing so, I remind him once more that the dog is not his toy.

Ellie Mae and Emma

Thus far matters between Ellie Mae and Toby have proceeded beyond my highest expectations, with the culminating moment arriving yesterday morning. As Ellie burst out the front door for a sprint, she came eye-to-eye with the Tobester, sunning himself on the petite red deck chair. 

As I stood inside the door and observed, Ellie presented her usual taut willingness to engage in that little dance she does so well, but all Toby could manage was a leisurely rollover onto his back, and the most exaggerated stretch possible, ignoring Ellie Mae completely.

“Chew my head off, huh? Well, here’s your opportunity,” Toby might have been saying.

I waited for the fireworks but they fizzled when Ellie Mae capitulated. “What? Now? With my Designated Human watching? My mama didn’t raise no fool. Chew your own head off-I’m planning to escape this joint-wanna come?”

Amusement might have escaped Toby’s eye if it weren’t for the contempt. “I am not in jail-you are. I can get out of this sieve in more ways than you have brains.”

Will beg for bacon...

“BraIns? I’ll have you know my DH and my trainer think I am gifted,” and it’s true, Ellie is a quick study.

“Gifted? Can you catch a mouse, torture it indefinitely, chew it up and then deliver it to to your human?” The gleam from Toby’s narrow eyes made Ellie Mae take note.

“You got me there. All I get is bacon treats,” and she walked away, without a backward glance, knowing the debate was over.

 A truce for any reason, is still a truce.

Did someone mention bacon?