Nobody can eat just one

She was a pound puppy - white, fluffy and cute. Her big brown eyes stared mournfully out at us from her cage at the animal shelter. And now, three weeks later, she's sleeping by our bed at night.

Her long fur is as soft as silk. Her eyes dance with mischief, both real and imagined. She has energy for two dogs. She's a two-year-old American Eskimo who even came with registration papers. We've named her Laika (pronounced "LIE-kah") after the first dog in space. The first Laika was a Russian puppy who never returned to earth. This Laika, though at times she seems a space-case, will always have her four paws firmly planted on the ground.

But all is not well with our pound puppy. As with many dogs received from animal shelters, our's comes with her own baggage. Most of her problems, like extreme shyness and ignorance of basic commands, will be taken care of in obedience class set to start in two weeks. However, her biggest problem - her addiction really - is a much more severe difficulty. It's a gross obsession, but not unheard of in dogdom.

Laika loves cat-sicles.

Yes, cat-sicles (like a Popsicle ice cream treat, only disgusting) are what you're probably thinking they are. Found in a cat's litter box, some dogs can't keep their minds off of them. Cat-sicles are to some dogs what chocolate is to some humans. And Laika has the canine equivalent of a chocolate fetish.

We first discovered Laika's addiction when my husband heard her crunching something near our cat's litter box. He called her over, and the tell-tale grains of litter still stuck to her black lips. She looked at him with a satisfied grin.

"We have a big problem," my husband yelled. This turned out to be a bit of an understatement.

Being humans and the more intelligent species, we decided we could stop this invasion of our cat's privacy by getting a litter box with a lid. The very next day, I went to the local pet store and found the perfect box. It would even be color coordinated with the room. I brought it home, loaded it up with litter and set it down, confident our cat-sicle problem had ended.

A day later, I heard Laika in the room where the litter box resides. It seems her addiction had overtaken her again. Before I could reach the room, she sauntered out, tail wagging, lips covered in litter.

We were not willing to admit intellectual defeat to a supposed lesser creature, so we put our minds again to the problem. We decided to turn the litter box around, so that the opening faced a corner of the room, giving enough room for the cat to enter and exit, but no room for Laika to stick her head in the opening.

All went well for several days. Laika's lips remained litter free, and it seemed the human intellect had again risen to the occasion. But after four days, I again heard Laika digging in the cat's litter box. This time I caught her red handed, or rather "mouthed."

She was walking away from the litter box with what looked to be a brown stogie with sand on it sticking straight out of her mouth. Upon seeing me, she immediately dropped the cat-sicle and her tail in the same moment. She received a verbal reprimand.

We again have set our little gray cells working on the cat-sicle wars. The solution this time is to put the litter box opening even closer to the wall. It is hoped the cat (who thankfully is very small) can still enter while keeping our addicted dog out. I hold little hope for our eventual victory.

It seems - as with humans - an addicted canine must first admit there is a problem before she can let others help her. Unfortunately, dogs don't view cat-sicles like people do. To them, such a delicacy could never be classified a disgusting problem to be talked about in whispers. And until we convince her that her addiction to cat-sicles is a problem, her desire will continually draw her back to the litter box.

And the cat-sicle wars will never end.

Life along the food chain

Isn't it great to be at the top of the food chain? Although the movies like to scare us by showing humans getting eaten by everything from large grasshoppers to Godzilla, the fact is, we eat but are rarely eaten.

It's a wonderful life.

A few months ago when it was just turning cold and wildlife were seeking warmth in our house, a cricket wandered into our living room. It was a very stupid decision. Our cat loves insects - as snacks. I spotted the cricket first. He was a little fellow - very black against our beige carpet. I knew it was just a matter of seconds before he would be seen by Samson, the cat. The cricket joyfully hopped across the room, seemingly pleased to have found such a warm spot to spend the cold winter months.

I tried to move quickly to catch the cricket before Samson, but I move much more slowly than my cat, who had discovered the cricket upon my first movement toward it. Samson wasted no time in jumping upon the hapless creature. Within a second, the cricket was partially dismembered. The events that followed I shall omit because of the family focus of this newspaper, but suffice it to say, the cricket did not get to enjoy a warm winter.

While many people complain of spending early morning hours hunting down elusive crickets chirping in the dark, I can say we have never had such an opportunity. Samson, the snacker, has kept our abode as cricket, roach and spider free as the Orkin man would. And rarely do we find the corpses.

My cat isn't the only domestic hunter in our household, though. Our dog, Razz, surpasses Samson on a larger scale, preferring rodents over the smaller prey. Razz is a terrier mix of some sort, and terriers were originally bred to hunt rodents and small mammals. And, unfortunately for rodents, Razz revels in his heritage.

Several years ago we lived on the outskirts of a Southeast Kansas town. Bordering our back yard was an open field that was home to numerous field mice. They would mistakenly burrow into our back yard where our rodent-killing dog awaited a good game. For many months, we thought Razz was coming up empty in the mice-dog wars. He would dig hole after hole, but we never found any dead mice.

It was later that our dog's deadly tendencies came to light.

I had discovered a mouse hole beneath Razz's never-used doghouse. We were busy figuring out how best to rid ourselves of the cute little nuisances when my husband lifted the doghouse for a final look. Razz, curious as to our interest in his useless home, was standing nearby. As my husband lifted the doghouse, a mouse fled, lightning-quick, from the hole. Razz matched the mouse's speed, and moving faster than my eye could follow, had the poor thing by its tail. He flipped it expertly up in the air, and in less than a second, the mouse was dead - his neck snapped in the attack. Razz dropped it at our feet, wagging his tail and expecting high praise for destroying the obvious object of our concern.

Previously, we had watched our cute, fuzzy dog playing with an old tennis shoe, holding the shoe by its tongue and flipping it in the air. After the mouse incident, we realized that the game with the shoe was only preparation for the hunt. We never again saw another mouse in our yard.

I tremble for these little creatures, though, when I think of what it would be like if my role was proportionally akin to theirs. To imagine a gray, striped cat, about 250 feet tall, standing menacingly over me with one clawed paw pinning my leg to the ground as he hungrily stares with those green cat-eyes is almost more than I can bear. I know how cats toy with their food. It would be a terrible fate, indeed. And how horrible it would be to have a smiling, panting 300 foot terrier pounce on me, grabbing a leg or an arm, and flipping me in the air with enough force to break my spine.

It must really be a drag to be low on the food chain.

The best $6 ever spent

As I begin to write, a soft, graying head leans lovingly against my stomach and a tail beats an even rhythm against the computer printer.

There is nothing to compare with the grace, beauty and loyalty of an old dog.

For 12 years, my terrier mix, Razz, has been my faithful companion. He came to me at eight weeks old, filled with fleas and worms - a victim of a heartless and cold sub-human who left him and his two sisters to die on a highway near Oklahoma City. Found by a good Samaritan, I purchased him for six dollars, and my return on the dollar has been immeasurable. I soon discovered his intelligence was beyond compare. He learned quickly and became an indispensable part of my life.

In the lonely days after college before I found friends and a mate, I only had Razz. I would come home from my new job as a newspaper reporter in a small Southeast Kansas town to a furry, six-month old puppy who was so excited to see me that it seemed his skin wouldn't be able to contain his exuberance. In the evening, he would sit quietly and listen to my stories of the day. We would spend weekends together traipsing through the countryside, learning about our new surroundings.

As time passed in the small town, I developed friends. One of these friends became very interested in me. This friend couldn't have animals in his apartment, and he often came over to my apartment with the expressed purpose of petting and playing with my dog. The fact was, he was using my dog to spend time with me. As friends, we spent hours together, the three of us, strolling down the sidewalks of the town, getting to know each other.

Soon, the three of us became four with the addition of a cat, and after a wedding ceremony, we all lived happily together in that Southeast Kansas town. We learned that Razz was an excellent watch dog and mouser. We still spent leisure time with our dog, walking through the fields and dirt roads near our rented country home.

Then Razz and the cat moved with us to Kansas City and a new life. Three years later, a move to Massachusetts taught me that my dog detests snow. Three years after that, a move back to Southeast Kansas and the town of Girard gave my dog the chance to again enjoy the country. Then another move back to Kansas City. And then later, a move to Oklahoma City. This should be the last move for our widely traveled pup.

As is the way with all animals, age is beginning to show in the old pup. This is very distressing. My dog has seen me through times of loneliness and times of celebration. He has never failed to be the companion, the protector, the friend. And I am all too aware of the limits of his lifespan slowly creeping upon me.

Although puppies are irresistibly cute, I think the joy of ownership of a dog is at its peak when a dog is past his "prime." An old dog has an innate understanding of his owners. I hardly have to voice commands to our terrier anymore. He automatically knows my desires for his behavior. And he can read my moods, knowing exactly how to comfort when I am in physical or emotional distress. He knows the rules of the house, and how they are best obeyed. He knows how to look endearing to get the most attention. He knows how best to sit when cuddling next to me for a time of hugs.

In short, he has learned over 12 years how best to be my dog. And the thought of my future loss is almost beyond bearing.

So, after consultation with his veterinarian, I have decided to find Razz a sister - a little terrier to follow in the footsteps of her big brother. To learn from him, and perhaps gather, in her own way, some of his wisdom from his lifetime of learning.

I do not expect the new pup to be a Razz copy. No one can heap such expectations upon another living thing. She will take my heart with her own ways and her own personality. Still, I do hope she can learn from her brother a few of the tricks of the trade.

And someday, when she is old, she can instill in yet another puppy some of the skills taught to her by the master - Razz - on how best to be my dog.