The Battle
Dogs vs. Cats.
Not the preference thing again. No, I mean literally dogs vs. cats--the real deal. It's my belief that if you mix dogs and cats, at some point, it is inevitable--you're going to have at least one skirmish--one feline/canine encounter of the hissing/growling/scratching/biting kind.
That's not to say that dogs and cats can't live together--peacefully, tranquilly, even lovingly. They can, they do --I've seen it for myself. Most of the time, in our household of animals, harmony is the order of the day. I wouldn't call it love exactly, but more a wary tolerance. The cats pretty much go their way and the dog goes hers--most of the time. Still, everyone once in awhile, when those prospective paths converge, there are squabbles. Most of the time, it's a lot of bluster and show--for the sake of pride, I would imagine--but no real permanent damage is done, at least not the kind requiring frantic trips to the vet and endless applications of various pills, ointments and salves. There is usually some hissing and swiping (most misses) and some barking and chasing (not very serious) then it's over and the offended parties retreat to their neutral corners--under the bed and in front of the fireplace. Equal amounts of admonishment and affection generally soothe any remaining ruffled feathers, er, I mean, fur.
To be honest, I never thought there would ever come a day when
Chelsea, our much-pampered Keeshond, would ever accept another animal into her house, much less--a CAT!!! Still, when Murphy came along--with patience, plenty of attention, and an occasional threat, she eventually relented. Murphy, the resident Maine Coon cat, on the other hand, took to Chelsea pretty much from the start. When she had to be confined to one room, she would reach her paw under the door and play with Chelsea's feet. Those times I sat down with the two of them--a baby gate separating them--Murphy would reach between the slats of the gate and "pet" Chelsea, then rub against her with the gate still between them. Occasionally Murphy would get bold and slip by the gate, prompting a few mad chases around the house--with Murphy frantically trying to climb anything and Chelsea running behind, barking all the way. Still, there eventually came a day when Murphy simply hopped right over that gate--she and Chelsea touched noses and each went their own way.
Peace prevailed, for the most part. It worked so well, in fact, that
three more cats made their way successfully into the household--all acclimating in much less than the three months it took before Murphy could be left with Chelsea unattended. I'm sure that only confirmed Chelsea's worst fears (that they were replicating themselves) but she has been pretty gracious about it.
But all good things, they say, must come to an end, and so it is that every multi-species household must never grow too comfortable with the tranquility. Sometimes there are those circumstances that will ultimately lead to a critical, serious and costly breakdown in feline-canine relations. And those skirmishes are guaranteed to turn the most tranquil households completely upside down.
It started simply enough. Murphy loves to lie in the window. An open window is a whole day for her--she stretches herself along the length of the sill and basks in the fresh air. A harmless enough feline pastime--or so it would seem--that is until you add a rival for the view into the mix. If anyone--feline, canine or human--comes near Murphy when she's basking in the glow of nature and she feels like they might attempt to dislodge her--she reacts, shall we say, badly.
There you have it, Murphy, an open window under the kneehole of a small desk, quiet Saturday afternoon (always on a Saturday), and a dog--all the makings for a disaster.
I clearly remember Chelsea heading for the window and thinking to myself, "I wonder if Murphy is still under there?" Then I heard the scuffle and saw Chelsea come scooting back out, too quickly. "Uh oh," was the only thought that registered, that and that sinking feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when something really, really bad has just happened. She had one eye closed tightly shut and was wincing (as best as a dog can wince). My worst fear was finally realized--Murphy had gotten her good and gotten her right in the eye.
It never ceases to amaze me how quickly humans who are normally quite reasonable, rational and otherwise together can fall apart at the first hint of a crisis. One look at the nasty white welt that stretched across Chelsea's eye and chaos became the order of the day. My roommate was on the phone when it happened, so I immediately started shrieking for her to hang up--trying to imagine who to call or where to go on a weekend. What followed was a really good rendition of every Three Stooges movie that you can imagine as two frantic humans fumbled with phone books and answering services trying to reach our vet.
All the while--two very distinct thoughts kept rolling through my befuddled brain:
+ 
Being the prince that he is, our vet called back almost immediately and agreed to meet us at his office (which is practically across the street). After doing a corneal stain--which made Chelsea's eye glow an eerie green for a couple of days--he announced that she would definitely live to see another day. In his words, "close, but a near-miss." Thank HEAVENS!! He also proclaimed Chelsea to be "one tough cookie," since she hardly seemed phased by something that would leave most dogs yelping without end. After a sturdy dose of antibiotic and armed with a barrage of ointment and pills, he sent us on our way--poorer but much relieved.
I'm happy to say that there is but the barest trace of a scar and Chelsea seems none the worse for the ordeal. And, thankfully, she seems to bear Murphy no ill will either. She hasn't learned to her lesson since she still tries to muscle her way into the window every now and then--but Murphy seems to have resolved some of her issues about "personal space" and we haven't had a rematch.
Yet.