Leo the Lionheart came barging into Mischievous Mookie's house in March -- disinterested in anything resembling a pecking order. Like Mookie himself, Leo raced in arrogantly and immediately assumed pack leader status.
Mookie wasn't into this at all.
Mookie wasn't into sharing the bed, the couch, the attention, the water dish, the taunting of Laney (the female dog). He did nothing. He's a cat. So he plotted.
For months, Leo tunneled under blankets and Mookie crept forward to sniff. Leo knocked Mookie out of the way when racing in and Mookie acted like he had planned on that all along. Leo ran off with not only his own toys, but Mookie's as well. Mookie decided those weren't his toys. Lying on his back, Leo answered Mookie's tentative curiosity with a low growl. As Leo raced past, Mookie swatted at him. If Leo was in The Prime Spot in the bed, Mookie sate on him on top of the covers. All very passive-agressive on Mookie's part.
And then: a break-through. I saw them close together outside, I thought they might be kissing. I thought they were in love. I thought wrong. In truth, they were disposing of a body. Proudly arriving home with his Kill, Mookie presented the nearly-lifeless chipmunk to Leo, who ate it, thereby destroying the evidence.
This was their bond. They were partners in crime. The one who captured and tortured and the one who disposed of the body. Or tried to (sometimes The Cop came running outside in a green bathrobe and fuzzy slippers to save the body for a more dignified burial: over the fence in the neighbor's yard).
At least it drew them together. I guessed that was something. At least they were friends.
And the friendship continued.
Leo stinks (not enough bath time in the world to deodorize this little hound). A month ago, I bought new bedding for Leo's cage. Because it stank. And something interesting started to happen: Mookie would rest in the cage. After Mookie became so filthy he needed a bath, he recovered in the cage. When he got stuck outside in the rain because he's stupid and decided it would be a great way to spend his day, he dried off in the cage. One would think the cat, who never ever stinks, would hate that warm, musky, vaguely-reminiscent-of-teenage-boy odor repulsive. Nope.
I decided they were definitely in love. They were sharing a bed! Love.
Saturday night, I put Leo to bed. I went upstairs, put on my pajamas, brushed my teeth, examined my wrinkles in the mirror, got into bed, turned on the TV, surfed, had a conversation with Jamie about Excel (we're really exciting) and started to read a few pages of my book. And then we heard a horrible, frightening sound. The dog was squealing with fear, howling and screeching and barking. As we flew from the bed down the steps I fully expected to see a dirty, demented, old man cutting Leo into little pieces (in defense of my morbid imagination, it was Halloween). But I did not see a dirty, demented, old man (we don't have those in Brighton). I knelt down in front of the cage and I saw .....
Mookie.
Mookie: standing tall and proud and dignified by the door. And way in the back, in the dark, curled up and cowering, was Leo. Leo the beagle mutt, the breed bred to fearlessly go into holes and flush out badgers. Have you seen a badger? You have to be some sort of crazy brave determined dog to get into a hole with that. Or with a white cat.
Apparently, Mookie was sleeping in the back when we put Leo to bed. And apparently Mookie was not so keen on sharing the cage.
Leo has a slice on his nose, a deep gash in his ear, and he cried for an hour.
Mookie was fine.
And so I have decided they were not lovers.
But then I started thinking: maybe only lovers could have such a violent fight.
Yesterday, Mookie killed two deer mice outside. Leo didn't eat them. He had run and hid in his crate at the site of Mookie an hour earlier. And at this very moment, Mookie is in teh cage and Leo is under the blanket next to me. Badger chaser indeed.
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