THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1997, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, February 23, 1997 TAG: 9702230313
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: NORTH CAROLINA
TYPE: Column
SOURCE: Paul South
LENGTH: 58 lines
One thing you quickly learn about the Outer Banks is that folks love dogs and cats.
In my neighborhood in Manteo, a friendly dog is as common as a sunny day in July. One dog, a big, white, fluffy pooch named Lady, has been adopted by a local radio station.
And down on the waterfront, there's a stout, rust-colored Irish setter who doesn't get his jollys by fetching lowly sticks. He fishes whole planks of wood from the quiet waters of Shallowbag Bay, and drops them at the feet of passing pedestrians. With soulful brown eyes, the pup can coax a complete stranger into chucking the wood into the water. Then, he's off, diving into the chilly water. Within minutes, he emerges, lumber in his mouth.
What a great dog.
Cats also occupy a princely position. At the local bookstore, folks come in as often to pat the head of Stunt, the white bookstore cat, as they do to peruse the latest Patricia Cornwell novel.
In my middle years, I had forgotten what magic pets can bring to life. For a brief period, I had partial custody of a beagle. But when the human relationship went, so did the dog.
Last August, however, I adopted a fluffy feline named Catfish.
When the good folks at the SPCA found her, she had a fishhook in her mouth, no doubt the product of some angler's unskillful catch.
Since Catfish came, I have no need for an alarm clock. Every morning at around 7, I am awakened by the jab of a fat paw to the head from her perch on the bedside table, and a loud meow that urges me to get a move on.
Last week, the four-footed clock went on the fritz. I took Catfish to the vet, and got another glimpse of how much folks love their animals. One woman was waiting with a three-legged black and tan hound named Jake in tow. Another woman, with a huge fluffy calico that weighed 15 pounds if it weighed an ounce, also waited patiently. The dog and the cats, considered natural enemies most times, opted to remain put and just stared each other down. The tension was there. I could feel it. Not because of a sixth sense, but because the cat's claws were digging into my leg.
In minutes, Catfish was in the examining room. Turns out she had a slight infection. After a couple of shots, some fluids, and a prescription, we were on our way.
The next battle was trying to get Catfish to swallow the tiny purple pills. That's another story for another Sunday. But trying to get a cat to take his medicine is like trying to get Madonna into a convent. It ain't happenin'.
Catfish is back in form today, thanks in large measure to her veterinarian. Vets often get overlooked. But they are part magician and part doctor. Their patients can't tell them where it hurts, or open their mouths and say ``Ahhhh.''
But with gentle hands, sharp minds and large hearts, vets somehow find out what the problem is, and more often than not, they fix it. It doesn't matter if their patient is a cat or dog, seagull or turtle, goat or guppy.
I don't know how they do it.
But this I do know: Come 7 this morning, Catfish will be on her table, paws prepared to punch. And all will be right with the world.