Maower

Maower completed a Chicago neighborhood rite of passage last week by falling off the second story back porch. A routine breath of fresh air while I traipsed to the dumpster turned near-deadly when the dog next door broke through a screen door to get a sniff of the poor fatso, who cowered and ultimately tumbled to the sidewalk. Miraculously -- considering his bulk -- he survived with but a few scratches and bruises. And while I don't purport to be an expert on animal psychology, I think he's got a touch of feline PTSD. Won't even go in the kitchen because the back door to the porch happens to be there. He and his little feline accoutrements are gated in the study, where he seems to feel safe. I say "seems" because it is there where his tail doesn't puff up at noises and where he doesn't attempt to cram himself behind and/or under furniture. I caught him on the desk the other day, lying on the keyboard and searching Google for something called "zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz."

Animal 911 of Skokie is deserving of thanks for their speedy and kind care, and also for not jacking me on cost. Its waiting room is a sorry sight when full of sniffling pet owners who until that moment were not aware how much they loved their goofy little animals.