Maggie's Trick is no Treat for Murray

There's no question that Murray outranks Maggie in our three-horse-herd. He's less bossy than he used to be, but he still spends much of his days herding her from hay pile to hay pile, or forcing her to keep him company in the run-in shed while he naps. Overall Maggie doesn't seem to mind, but lately she has found a way to exert a bit of revenge.

Early one October Morning:

It's a morning like any other. As I walk into the feed room to prepare the grain, the horses begin their "feed me" rituals. Jaava pins her ears, shakes her head, trots around her stall, and rears several times. Maggie pins her ears and starts biting and licking the metal bars on Murray's stall wall. Murray stands patiently, but his nostrils quiver as he emits his "I'm hungry" noise. It's a whisper-like, high-pitched, not-at-all-masculine whinny.

Murray gets the most grain, and he's a slow eater, so he always gets fed first. I walk into his stall with a bucket of crumbly, soaked beet pulp in one hand, and a bucket of dry, hard, green pellets in the other. Murray spins around and follows excitedly as I walk toward the feed tub in the back corner of his stall. When he's halfway there, and at the point closest to Maggie's door, she stretches her head and neck close to him, then exhales abruptly through her nose to let out a sharp, loud snort. It's the noise horses make when they sense danger.

Murray, who's paranoid on the best of days, wastes no time in reacting to this call-to-arms. He abandons his breakfast, leaps sideways, sprints out the backdoor of his stall, and takes up an alert position in the centre of his paddock. His head is raised high. His ears are pricked, and his eyes scan the horizon for the invading army of enemies.

I turn back to Maggie to see if I can figure out what's caused this state of high anxiety. But she doesn't have the wide-eyed gaze of an anxious, spooked horse. The only thing she's staring at is me, and my buckets of grain. She shakes her head at me imploringly, rattling the long braids of her mane, so I give a shrug and go about dishing out the rest of the morning meal.

Murray, however, is determined not to be caught off guard. He stands outside for a few minutes, then eventually trots back into his stall. He picks at his breakfast distractedly, turning to look out his door between mouthfuls.

I forget about the incident until the same thing happens again a few days later. Just as Murray turns to follow me to his feed tub, Maggie again lets out a loud, urgent snort, and the whole scenario repeats itself. I start to wonder whether perhaps Maggie is frightening Murray on purpose.

Then, a few days after that, on a warm, sunny morning, it happens again, though in a different context. This time, the horses are out together in the larger paddock. I'm in the riding ring below, driving our truck around, and around, and around, in an effort to drag the ring and smooth the footing. I look up at the paddock and smile when I see Murray laying down for a snooze in a pile of hay. With his legs tucked under his body, he rests his chin on the ground, and closes his eyes. Maggie stands nearby to "guard" him. It's a peaceful scene.

The peace doesn't last long. After a few minutes, Maggie steps in even closer to the unsuspecting, dozing Murray. She then stretches out her head, closes her mouth, and snorts loudly through her nose. Murray's head snaps up instantly. Then, for dramatic effect, Maggie widens her eyes and trots two steps forward toward the fence-- purportedly staring at some immediate threat lurking beyond the treeline. Without any care for his arthritic joints, poor, old Murray leaps to his feet. The moment he does, Maggie relaxes. She turns back toward the hay pile and starts eating, as though nothing has happened. Murray simply stares perplexedly at the woods in search of a non-existent enemy. I swear there's a smirk on Maggie's face.

That was a few weeks ago. I don't know how often Maggie employs her decoy snort outside. But inside, she now gives a hearty "breakfast snort" every few days. And poor Murray falls for it every single time.

Are Nine Lives Enough? (Updated)

Monday July 25, 2011
9:30 pm
It's that in-between time of night. It's past dusk, but the sky is not yet completely envelopped by darkness. We trudge outside for a quick check on the horses, even though they're turned out for the night. Dave's in flip flops, and I'm in my winter-lined rubber boots-- because they're easy to pull on in a hurry.

We step out the front door with Muscade in toe. Within seconds, we hear the jackel-like cries. A pack of coyotes is yipping, and shrieking nearby. The bone-chilling sound is coming from somewhere down the hill-- though it's difficult to distinguish exactly where, and how far away (though definitely not far at all). Whenever I hear them like this, I always assume they've made a fresh kill and that they're gleefully tearing apart their prey.

I yell at Muscade to follow me "now!", and I practically shove her back in through the front door of the house. Meanwhile, Dave kneels in the driveway, coaxing the always timid Lilly out from under the car. As soon as she's within reach, he scoops her up in his arms, and we drop her off in the house as well. And then the high pitched cries stop. They stop suddenly, as though someone has muted the volume on their awful voices. We stand stock-still. We hear the distant barking of the fssive white-haired dog who guards the goat-farm down the hill. The farm is only a kilometre away, and the reassuring voice of the dog sounds much, much further off that that of the coyotes. When the coyotes fail to re-start their discussion, we stop holding our breaths, and head out to the pastures to check on the horses.

The horses have their noses buried deep within the dew-covered blades of grass. They're so intent on their eating, that they barely acknowledge our presence. But as we turn off the lights, my heart sinks. All the animals are accounted for-- except one. Zorro is nowhere to be seen. Normally, I would barely register his late-evening absence, but in the wake of what we just heard, I'm worried, and so is Dave. I start calling Zorro's name, and Dave goes back into the house in search of a flashlight. When he finally finds one (and replaces the dead batteries), we walk down the driveway, peering across the road into the black fields in search of glowing, green eyes. Nothing.

We change course and walk the length of our largest pasture, but the flashlight illuminates only weeds, and the large mounds of dirt which will soon cover the pipes leading away from our new septic tanks. We walk out to the garden, but find only undersized rainbow chard, and lush green potato plants. Still no Zorro.

We check the barn again, and Dave even climbs into the hayloft to see whether our tuxedo-cat may be in the midst of a particularily good nap on a sweet-smelling bale of our newest hay. He's not there. At my insistance, we get in the car and drive down the road. I open my window and call his name. At the corner, we turn around and drive back. Part of me is sure Zorro will be in the driveway when we pull in. But he's not.

10:30pm
If Zorro were around he would have found us by now. We call off the search for the night. As we resignedly re-enter the house, we pause in the mudroom to hug and hold Lilly. She squirms and struggles to get free-- to run out the front door. But we're not taking any chances. Tonight, Lilly's an indoor cat. All we can do for Zorro though is hope and pray that he's out hunting-- huddled in the grass somewhere, his body bunched, and ready to pounce. I hope against hope that he'll turn up on our doorstep in the morning, begging for his breakfast.

Tuesday July 26, 2011
1:30 am
I wake up as Dave peels back the blankets and gets up out of bed.
"What are you doing?" I ask groggily, though I already know why he can't sleep.
"It's hot," he says.
"Sure," I respond.

Then we hear it. It's not a pack of coyotes this time, it's a lone animal howling. Again, the goat-guard-dog down the road barks a response, but again the coyote sounds much closer. It sounds as though it could be in the bottom of our field.

Dave pulls on shorts and shoes as the coyote howls again. Then, I hear the door chime as he heads out into the night with a flashlight. He wonders around the property until swooping bats send him back inside. Still, no sign of Zorro. That's unusual. He does occasionally seem to roam, but he rarely disappears for more than an hour or so.

Dave crawls back into bed. "What if Zorro's not there in the morning?" I ask.
"He'll be there," says Dave, but I can tell he doesn't mean it. There's much tossing and turning before either of us falls back into a fitful sleep.

5:30am
Dave's alarm wakes us both. Normally, he would hit the snooze button for another 20 minutes before crawling sleepily out of bed; but despite the restless night, he's on his feet right away. I hear him walking through the house-- from window to window. Normally Zorro has a sixth sense about movement in the house. Normally he's at the picture window or the front door meowing the moment one of us is awake. A few minutes later I hear the shower spluttering and I know there's no sign of our lively little cat.

6:20am.
In the kitchen, Dave is pouring cereal, and putting his lunch together.
It's my day off, so I try to doze a bit longer before heading out to the barn to feed the horses. If Zorro's not around by then, I'll know his fate. He never misses a meal.

Then, the sound of a spoon scraping against a cereal bowl stops, and moments later I hear the front door chime. Moments later, I hear Dave walking toward the bedroom. I'm hoping against hope for good news, but I don't expect any. Suddenly, I feel a thud against my side and I open my eyes to see Zorro scrambling across the covers. I look up at Dave and he's smiling. So am I.

Dave: "I truely didn't think I'd see him again".
Me: "Me neither".
Dave: "I went around to all the windows this morning and there was no sign of him. After I got out of the shower, I checked again. When he wasn't there, I figured that was it. He's always up by the time I get out of the shower."
Me: "I know."

I grab Zorro behind the front legs and pull him close to me. He's unimpressed, but I don't care. I hold him tight for a few minutes, then Dave pulls him onto his lap and mauls him some more.

"That's it," I say, "from now on Zorro's an indoor cat." But we both know that will never be the case. As much as Zorro likes to sneak inside, he'd be miserable if he had to stay here all the time. However, I vow to force him into the house at night--every night.

Update on Zorro-- A Visit with the Vet

I didn't get much sleep last night. I spent most of it tossing and turning, worrying about Zorro, and trying to figure out how to get him to the vet.

At 11:00pm, I tiptoed into the mudroom for one last check on him. The bits of dry food I'd placed on his bed earlier were still there. Clearly, he wasn't feeling well. The "normal" Zorro never leaves a scrap of food behind. He barely stirs as I stroke and brush his hair and search for any injuries I might have missed. When I reach his left hind leg, it feels as though bubbles are popping underneath my fingers. It feels like rice-crispies. I start palpating his leg and searching for a cuts, scratches or swellings in that area. I find what I think may be another puncture wound, but Zorro starts growling and squirming in his bed, so I decide to leave him alone for the night.

Friday June 17th
6:00am
I turn off my alarm and drag my weary self out from under the duvet. I head straight for the mudroom. I don't think Zorro's injuries were life threatening, but I'm a worrier and I'm a bit afraid of what I might find on the other side of the door. Thankfully, when I open it, he's there, curled up in his bed, his rib cage rising and falling with every breath. The kibbles are gone and his water dish is empty. He purrs as I stroke his fur. Unfortunately, his leg still has that rice-crispies feel.

I leave Zorro and rush through my barn chores. By 7:30 I'm showered and ready to head to work. But first, I plan to stop at the vet's office and drop off the patient. They told me on the phone last night that I'd have to be there with Zorro for them to examine him, but of course I can't be, because I work. Surely though, if I show up with him, they'll take him and care for him-- for a fee of course. If they won't, then I figure I'll bring him to work with me, and take him to the Truro clinic on my lunch break. It's not a great plan, but if I don't get him antibiotics today, then I'll likely have to pay for an emergency call on the weekend, or wait until Monday.

I open the door to the cat-carrier and Zorro obligingly limps inside, where he curls up contentedly until the truck starts moving. Then he yowls at top volume for the entire 25 minute drive. Finally we arrive at the vet's, just as they're opening for the day. I gently maneuver the loaded cat-carrier through the front doors, then I announce that I don't have an appointment, but I do have an injured cat, and a dilemma.

The woman behind the desk (Kelly, I believe), recognizes me (sadly, I come here a lot). She has me sign a form, then tells me to go ahead and leave him, they'll make sure he is taken care of, and they'll call me with any questions or instructions.

1:00pm
I call the vet to see whether Zorro is ok. He is, and they've given him a long-acting antibiotic so I won't have to force daily doses of medicine down his throat.

4:15pm
Kelly rings up my bill as another girl brings Zorro out to me. They tell me he was pretty easy to work with. I'm not surprised. He never once tried to scratch or bite me last night, despite my poking and prodding. The vet rounds the corner and I ask whether she found the source of the "rice-crispies" on Zorro's hind leg. She gives me a blank look. "His hind leg? I must have missed that." The younger assistant pipes up: "no, we didn't find anything, but remember, he was the cat that didn't like us to touch his hind legs" (now to me, this would be a cue that there might be something wrong with his hind legs, but that's just me). "Well," says the vet, "bring him back here, lets take another quick look." Then she looks at me "this is why we like owners to be here when the animals are examined." Point taken.

A few minutes later, and I'm holding Zorro's cat carrier again. They found puncture wounds on each of his hind legs. They tell me the antibiotics should take care of them. It's time to take him home.


9:00pm
Zorro still spends much of his time in bed, but he has done some mudroom exploring, and he definitely has his appetite back. So, hopefully after a few more days inside, he'll be fine. I just worry that this all might happen again. Before leaving the vet's office, I asked whether there was anything I could do to deter the Tom cat from picking anymore fights. Kelly said no, but she told me that if I'm sure he's a stray, I can bring him in and they'll euthanize him for me. I just don't think that I can bring myself to do that though.