We live in a small condo: just me, two Cavalier spaniels (Murphy and Alki), and Grace the Cat. Well, okay, let’s include my crystal partner, Fallon, and Raymond, a fifty-something jade tree who spreads out like an oak.
Yes, our condo is small. Still, it’s plenty of room for my head and Grace the Cat’s tail to be in two separate places at the same time.
So why aren’t they always?
Granted, my animal family and I are close. They all spend time in my lap, and we cuddle as often as we can. But there’s that peculiar cat tail.
Grace lounges on the back of my chair, defying both gravity and my opinion. She’s a small cat (her tail is long, 10 inches long), but she has a distinct knack for putting it in the exact spot of the chair where the back of my head hits. And she won’t move it.
There’s no other place for my head. It belongs in the center of the chair. If I sit straight it’s the only place my head goes. I know, I’ve tried to accommodate Grace’s tail, but I can’t. And won’t.
Yes, I move Grace’s tail out of the way so I can put my head in that spot. But the tail moves. A lot. Even when Grace doesn’t. Her tail will flop on my head, or whack my head, or poke my ear, all while Grace herself is busy pretending she’s busy doing something else. Grace simply doesn’t move, but, then, why should she? Her tail does all the work.
When I get tired of this, I move my head to turn around and complain. You guessed it. When I settle back in, Grace’s tail is back in the spot where my head belongs. We collide.
Is this a weird physics thing? Or plain dumb luck?
Oh, wait, I know! My cat has an attitude. Everybody knows that about cats.
It can’t be me.
(c) 2011 Robyn M Fritz
Have you always wanted to talk with an animal? And hear it talk back?
Toys are a big part of the magical goofy fun side of family life. In our case, it’s a multi-species family life, which means we are a woman, two Cavaliers, and a goofy eight-pound cat.
I was Cat’s Eye Writer’s first guest poster!
There are so many people doing animal communication that they’ve begun to specialize. I don’t do animal communication exclusively. I communicate with all life, from animals to businesses, homes, and nature, including wild/domestic land and weather systems.
This week we’ve all heard how incompetent we are: according to the media, none of us pee enough or understand that nuclear power was idiotic to begin with. Some of us do and did. That includes me. How about you?


If you’re going to New York and have to leave your own dogs (and cat) at home, there’s one sure way to get your dog fix: arrange to be there in February, when New York goes doggy for the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show at Madison Square Garden in Manhattan.
At the Affinia Hotel I followed the sign to the dog exercise room. That’s where the people from Jog a Dog had set up two of their dog treadmills. Established 40 years ago by an inventor who trained German Shepherds for rigorous police and protection work (called schutzhund), today it’s a thriving business catering to canine athletes, from conformation specialists (show dogs) to agility or tracking experts.
The show circuit for these two was an afterthought. Marlene purchased Gideon when he was 11 weeks old, to train as a search and rescue dog. Together they work for Klamath Search and Rescue in Klamath Falls, Oregon. When people suggested his conformation might make him a show dog, Marlene decided to go for it, which is how Gideon became a champion and was at Westminster (he did not win this year).
All morning long I snapped photos of dogs being primped for their big moment, their hair wrapped or snipped, while others snoozed or greeted visitors. Their humans educated people about their breed, whether they herded sheep or held down a lap in style. Their emphasis? While showing dogs is a sport they enjoy, the dogs are family first and foremost.
On the left is Julie Reck, DVM, a young vet who owns 
