The Continuing Tale of the Cat and the Husky

Who me? Photo by Max Baskakov on Unsplash

Now come morning, Layla gets into high strut mode half a block from the gray cat’s home, so sure she’ll be rewarded by just one false move. Tail fully arched over her back, paws dancing, pulling at her lead like she’s been dreaming of this all the previous night.

To recap, we’ve now encountered the gray fur ball on half a dozen times, both D and myself. Sarah advised not to use toxic sprays one uses on miscreants of larger heft. OK, I shan’t Sarah’s rescue group, Pet Harbor, was how we came by our princess. Pam, our previous rottweiler whisperer, commented on the community list server how the cat was likely to be struck by a car, and she hadn’t heard the halve of it. This was a cat heading for destiny, though not the one she probably preferred. And our ever so gentle husky who loves everybody—except cats, maybe foxes and seriously interested in deer—was committed to help Gray Cat fulfill her dream.

We’d gotten by the house days when the cat sat up on the timber wall out of reach, although no self-respecting husky would forget that kind of challenge. Game on, Layla thought. Oh crap.

Layla’s our fourth of her ancient breed and she carries all the genes of her ancestors from a not gentle country, then to now, Siberia.

On our first near-fatal engagement, the cat trotted right up to Layla like they’d be good buds. Are you f---ing kidding me? It’s possible I said something to that effect. I about lost it, lifting Layla by her harness so she couldn’t lay teeth to flesh, while screaming at full dog-threatening volume to urge the eight-pounder to go chase a mouse.

But what puzzled me was the cat’s owner who soon arrived and with total sincerity said, “Don’t worry, she can’t hurt you,’ a line that goes down in husky infamy. Hurt a husky when the cat’s her easy prey?

I went home to put ice on my yanked elbow, and Layla to take her mid-morning nap, dreaming no doubt of cat conquests, while I muttered imprecations at the not-so-bright owner, dubbing him an idiot.

But what I couldn’t grasp, regardless of clueless human, why would any self-respecting cat ever put herself at such risk? Cat pride alone should convince her, right? Being chased up a tree is downright embarrassing. Cats are small—the domestic ones—but they hardly want to be reminded of it by a damn dog.

…

Last week, Gray Cat let us slip by her haunt staying a ways up the driveway. Ah, done. Then, as we were heading back the other way—me dragging Layla away from her breakfast of champions, Gray Cat ran across the street and down the median strip to join up. Whether it was my yelling or Layla’s scramble to the end of her leash, the cat reversed directions and did her best 100 yard dash back to her yard. A victory of sorts. That was the first time the fur ball had thought to retreat.

It took the rest of the way down the block, with Layla dancing, whipping her self in tight circles, for us to make our way back. Same shoulder, same pain, and my husky had gotten too close.

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We live on the south side of a lake—thus Lakeview—and have but two ways to walk leaving the house, east and west, one of which directions leads to the cat’s abode. Long before Gray Cat arrived on the scene, Layla had been getting her morning walks in that direction, a brief twenty minute outing. I could go further, and she’d be most willing, but the coffee back at the house is always calling me, along with kibbles and bits for her. We’ve been doing this routine since forever. Before Layla, Maddie and Mojo paced this same asphalt byway come mornings—an even longer time before Gray Cat lived there. We have precedence.

So about a week ago, as we were making our turn, Gray Cat’s owner crosses over the street, stands by the guardrail to tell me he didn’t appreciate my yelling at his precious fur ball. Saying further, I was scaring his wife and kids. I’ve seen a wife-like person there a few times though have never actually spoken to her, and I would think if she had a problem, she’d tell me herself. It’s been a while since women took shelter behind their men, though I could be wrong.

My response was to explain the yelling wouldn’t compare to Layla’s eating his cat, at which point he growled, “then we’d be having a much bigger problem.”

Because Layla wouldn’t be hungry for her morning kibbles being full of fur ball?

We continued to exchange such pleasantries for easily ten minutes or more, before he made an interesting comment about how all the other dogs in the neighborhood liked his cat. Right, I’m buying that one.

Layla likes his cat, too. She’d like very much to have his cat as an expression of her love of felines. So I explained again the concept of huskies being prey-driven, even if he wasn’t listening.

The following morning, passing yet again the same house, I was happy to encounter neither idiot nor cat. Only just at our turn-around point we see another dog walker climbing the rise with a poodle mix, who supposed his dog would enjoy a little mutual ass sniffing, only Layla decided the mutt needed etiquette lessons. Both parties adopted a bit of sneering and snarling of teeth. So we backed off, and they went off toward the house of Gray Cat.

I headed down the other side of the street, Layla still interested in giving the mutt instructions.

As we moved off, the dog walker called out cheerfully, “Maybe we’ll just say hello to the gray cat who’s always so friendly,” and proceeded up the driveway to do exactly that.

Oh.

…

What originally had drawn us to the community—beyond the hidden lake—was the surrounding forest. So it shouldn’t have surprised me to learn there are committed tree-huggers living here. Even the conservatives endorse the green summer canopy. We also live in a passionately animal-friendly community. There’s even a border collie trained to chase the Canadian geese from nesting on folks’ lawns so as not to require culling them the old-fashioned way.

But a man who believes dogs and cats hope to live peaceably such that he actively promotes it? Huh.

I woke last night from a startling dream. A parade was passing the house. Complete with marching band, and led by Gray Cat, high stepping like a drum major, her small proud chin thrust forward, canted busby atop her head. Layla was beside herself, and it wasn’t even her dream.

At least now I know why Gray Cat thought Layla could be her best bud.