All of our pets are outside animals. Some find this disturbing, which makes little sense to me. They’re animals. They can handle it. We aren’t cruel; they are let into our safe, cozy garage in the winter or if there’s a thunderstorm.
Lucy is smart. She seems to know how to place blame on her brother, Thunder. I’m pretty sure she thinks. I scolded her once for getting into the trash, giving her a little smack on the butt. A minute passed and I was crouched down cleaning it up when Lucy walked over to me, sat down, looked me dead in the eyes, and pawed the hell out of my arm, running away before I had time to react. She’s smart.
Prince the Cat has lasted the longest of all our farm cats. A sad fact, but seeing as the majority of them self-adopted themselves to us from unknown areas, we tend not to get attached. Prince is different though. We’ve had him since he was a kitten, his name coming from the regal way in which he used to sit, like some spoiled little prince cat.
Thunder is the stupidest, yet most loving dog you’ll ever meet. You look into his eyes and see there’s not a lot going on inside that skull of his; yet he stares back with adoration.