Most of my life I have considered myself a cat person.  Part of this comes from my Grandma Fish, who lived on a farm in east central Iowa.  When we would visit, we would see several cats around, with one, a tabby named Muckle, seemingly there forever.  She would have a litter of kittens, and this was useful on a farm with many small rodents to catch and keep from spoiling the grain that was stored there.  Granddad Fish would, when milking the cows, from time to time squirt a stream of (really) fresh milk to the cat who would be waiting with open mouth.

            When at Eastern Illinois University, I had to take a course in what was called by students, Kiddie Lit.  This was part of my teaching curriculum, and was taught by an older woman we called (not to her face, of course, Mother Mather).  She was well known for having a coven of cats at home.  More than once, we had class canceled because she was taking one of her minions to the vet.

            The true dimensions of my cat preference came when Jane and I got married in 1986.  She brought two cats to the union, Kashka and Marat.  They moved with us to the prairie when We bought a house out west of Paris; that was also when our cat population took off.

            Our first acquisition was a yellow cat we got when answering an ad in the Terre Haute paper.  Named Weederman, this feline fellow was a part of our home for several years.  Along the way, we managed to add several more cats to our menagerie.  With a barn for a home for most of our cats, we eventually had a total of 17 cats to care for.  Some of those were memorable; Missy heard a cat meowing in the tree line east of the house.  Rescued, Coalby lived for many years.  But added also were cats named Bailey, a house cat that lived for 22 years!.  Tiger, Tigger, Ming, Mindy, Thor, Tucker, Simba, and two Norwegian Forest cats, Freya and Loki, made our house their forever homes.  I found it very calming to have one or two cats on my lap after a hard day teaching in Junior High!

            When we moved into our new home in a Paris subdivision, we took our cats with us.  The family who bought our place on the prairie had some allergies, so staying there was not an option for our cat herd.  Since one house should not contain that many cats, we purchased a small shed and placed it in the back of our dwelling.  We converted it into a cat condo, and referred to it as our ‘cat house’.  Over the years we slowly lost many of our pets, mostly through old age, disease and disappearance.  Now we are down to just two of them, Thor, a timid creature badly named, and Tucker.  Both are yellow animals, with Thor being a long-haired kitty and really quite beautiful.

            Dogs were never on my radar for us.  But when we moved to the prairie, we acquired one, a stray we named Hobbes.  He was an independent fellow, roaming the neighborhood each day, only to return to get fed and spoiled.  Where he went we never knew, but he was just a precursor to a long line of canine inhabitants of our place.

            Next in line were two Great Pyrenees, Bergere and Monet.  These were BIG dogs, but gentle as lambs.  We added a Dalmation, who became the greatest mouser and ratter you would want.  Living on an old farm homestead with outbuildings, rats were quite numerous.  Feeding on the dregs of farming, they infested the old barn.  This dog, Ginny, would catch and kill them, and most mornings we could find her offerings to us lying around.  Once I did see what happened when she caught a rat  —  one snap of those jaws and one rat expired quickly!

            At Paris High, where Jane taught, I was trapped into getting our next dog.  Before classes started (I had already retired from my teaching, so was just visiting) a couple of her coworkers suggested that since our anniversary was quickly approaching, I should get Jane a special gift.  I agreed, but didn’t realize they meant a DOG!  This specimen we called Nettie, short for Antoinette (after a French queen of renown), and was a standard poodle.  She also was one dog that had a recurring health problem, for which we had her treated and the U. of I’s teaching vet hospital a couple of times.  She eventually succumbed to that malady, but before then, we were prompted to make another acquisition of the canine species.

            This one we still have.  We drove to Shelbyville to get her, and we named her Paddington (Paddy).  Her home there had three litters of pups, so all we saw was a sea of little puppies, Goldendoodles all.  If she were to eat with all her siblings and cousins, she had to be aggressive in getting to the dinner table.  Now, almost 14 years later, beware feeding her a treat; you might just get a nip.  I know, I have the scars to prove this.  She had become the perfect dog.  Most days all she does is eat, sleep, drink and look pretty.  After that, she will have another round of eating and sleeping and drinking in the afternoon, before repeating the sequence in the evening.  When danger lurks, she will bark, although any burglars don’t know she is a pacifist.

            But my descent into being overrun by dogs became more pronounced with the arrival of another Goldendoodle.  For some reason yet to be determined, Jane decided we needed a companion for Paddy after Nettie died.  She found one in Western Kentucky, at a price that looked to be a bargain.  We drove down there (hours on the road) to look at her, and made the deal.  At eight weeks of age, another trip to Kentucky saw us taking ‘possession’ of a small brown or auburn colored puppy.  We named her Dominique (Niki) and she became dog number two in the household.

            I am not sure I completely understood that a Goldendoodle puppy is not the ideal house dog.  She had huge paws and quickly grew into them, becoming a large puppy who ran around, chewing on things, swiping stuff from our bedrooms and from Missy’s upstairs apartment and leaving them around the house.  In addition, she wanted to play with Paddy, but was not appreciated by the older dog.  Of course, training her was a top priority for us; however, the pandemic interfered with that program, so we have a friendly, semi-trained 77 pound puppy.  Not exactly the kind of lap dog I would prefer.

            Paddy is getting older, and is having some physical problems.  Arthritis in her hips and other ailments caused me to believe she would not survive last winter.  A 13 year old dog, especially a larger breed as she was, does not have too long a lifespan.  So, reluctantly, I agreed to allow Jane to pursue another puppy for Niki to have as a companion.  One was found, part of an accidental breeding from two dogs of friends of ours.  This time, we got another doodle, only paired with an Australian Sheep dog.

            In February we took ‘possession’ of this little puppy; she was the largest of the litter of nine.  You can guess what has happened since then.  She has grown and is now eight months old, still a puppy, but a 70 pound puppy.  She has more energy than three dogs should have and this has made for some interesting times.  She and Niki do play a lot, but the older puppy, now three years old, either can’t or won’t keep up with her.  We call her Cami (Camille), and most days, the mantra is “Cami, NO!”  She is a very smart dog, and knows what NO means; she just ignores it.  Being a sheep herding dog, she has taken to herding her flock in our house; mostly me.  She wants to ‘guide’ me where she thinks I should go, so my walking from room to room is dodging this herder.  One of her favorite things  —  NOT OURS  —  is chewing on furniture and any kind of wood she can find.  Fortunately, she has not found a load-bearing part of the building, or we would have a house collapsing!

            When she doesn’t get Niki to play with her, she will get close to her face and bark incessantly, usually without getting the desired result.  Niki’s collar and tail are favorite targets as Cami tries to get her to go with her.  If they get outside into our back yard, both are often seen racing, wrestling and tackling each other.

            By now I would have thought that we would be down to the two younger dogs.  Nope!  It seems that the introduction into the house of younger canine blood has rejuvenated the older canine blood.  Paddy is now more active, and even tries to play with the young kid (when she isn’t eating, sleeping and drinking).   What I feared has now come to fruition.  Perhaps when I was younger I thought I would end up like Mother Mather, surrounded by dozens of cats in my old age; instead, I am inundated with dogs, all weighing 70 or more pounds, and causing us to set our social calendar around them.

            Is there any rationale for having this wild bunch live with us?  Well, it seems there is.  When we were getting our concealed carry license, we had the trainer, Tom, speak to the Edgar County Retired Teachers Association, of which Jane is President, and I am Executive Vice-President.  He informed us that, if we lived in the countryside, or in a secluded area, that the first line of self-defense was to have a large dog with a large bark.  According to veteran burglars, those who have such are passed by when looking for a place to burgle.  And our three dogs do a good job of warning us of impending danger.  First to bark is Niki.  If there is danger, she will run from window to window to face the danger.  Usually then Cami takes up the challenge and begins to serenade all with her voice.  At times, she will think peril is imminent, and will come and sit on my lap while barking.  Paddy waits until she believes her voice will make a difference; this is not often, but when it happens, we have three big dogs, with big barks make a cacophony of noise.

            One instance stands out.  When we had firewood delivered and stacked in our shed out back, the workers had to walk past our front windows.  Now these workers were not shrinking violets; they worked for a firm that hired former convicts.  Yet with three barkers setting up a very loud bark and growling storm, even inside the house, these stout men took a wider route to the shed.  Perhaps our canine carers realized that we were in mortal danger.

            What do they bark at?  Since we have lived here, we have been vandalized three times, but none since the barkers have been our defense.  They bark at deer, rabbits, squirrels, wild turkeys, tiny ground squirrels, moles, birds, insects, worms (not really sure about the worms).  In addition, barking is assured when the mail person comes, the trash men arrive, when the pizza is delivered, when neighbors walk around the area, the occasional car drives by  —  and during the July 4 celebration when fireworks abound.  Not a day goes by without a chorus of dog voices being heard.

            To paraphrase a famous quote, Who will rescue me from this carnivorous clan?