Bonz says Elvis is a cool ‘cat’ … and so are his sibs

There’s abso-woofin’-lutely No Chance I’ll EVER get bored in this job.

This week I innerviewed Elvis, a Treewalker Coonhound/Blue Heeler mix (yep, he climbs ackshull TREES: I saw a PICKshur); an his brothers, who are of the feline purrsuasion: Bingo, a gray an white Manx; an Yoda, a Mohave Bobcat. (Yoda, I admit, gave me PAWS.) They moved down here from Tennessee last August.

Soon as we knocked, there was clickety-clicking of toenails and some woofs. When their Mom opened the door, Elvis zoomed up, very frenly an excited. After the Wag-an-Sniff, he joyfully bounced up on my assistant, by way of greeting.

“HI, MR. BONZO! I’M SO EXCITED CUZ WE’RE HAVIN’ AN INNERVIEW! I NEVER HAD ONE BEFORE! Is it somethin’ to EAT? I hope it isn’t broccoli.”

His Mom told him sternly to get down, which he did. For 2 seconds. After a few jump up-get downs, he said, “I’m s’pose to be the spokespooch. Come’on, over here!” (We followed him into the living room and got situated.)

“No worries,” I assured Elvis. “It isn’t broccoli. See?” I showed him my notebook. “You tell me about yourselves an I write it down right here.” He friffled the pages with his wet nose.

“Cool!” In between bestowing frenly nose-bumps on my assistant, he said, “This is our Mom, Kimberley Mann, she’s a Navy vetter-run. We’re real proud of her. An over there,” (he indicated a tidy liddle cat with a tuxedo-lookin’ coat, who had settled in next to their Mom) “that’s Bingo.”

“Yo, Bonz, ’sup?” said the little cat.

“Great to meet you all,” I said. “Isn’t there another …”

“Oh, yeah, Yoda,” Elvis said. “He’s watchin’ us right this very minute. He’s miss-TEARY-us! An RARE: a special mix of Desert Lynx an Selkirk Rex. We all get along great, but,” Elvis leaned over and lowered his voice, “he’s got – SEE-cruts.”

“Yep!” nodded Bingo. “SEE-cruts!”

“Ah, so.” I got a little chill, an looked around, then up. At the very top of one of those cool kibbles cat tree thingys with the comfy, carpet platforms, two big, bright yellow eyes peered down at me from within what seemed like a dark cloud of fur. Very woo-woo.

“Welcome to our home, you are,” the fur cloud said.

“Thank you, Mr. Yoda, sir,” I replied. Before I could gather my thoughts enough to ask a question, he had vanished. “Woof! Is he always …”

“Yep,” replied Elvis. “Like I said – miss-TEARY-us! So, can I tell you about us so you can write stuff down?”

I looked back at the top of the cat tree where Yoda wasn’t, then told Elvis, “I’m ready. Go for it!” I opened my slightly moist notebook.

“Well, me an some other puppies were found inna box on the side of the road, in Tennessee. We got taken to a pet store to be re-homed (what the humans called it). That’s where Mom found me. I was so liddle, I got my very first bath in the kitchen sink. Mom named me Elvis cuzza a pick-shur she saw of that human called Elvis who usta sing. He was holding a pooch that looked zack-ly like me. PLUS, I’m a hound, an that human Elvis hadda song about a hound dog. Cool Kibbles, doncha think?”

“Totally.”

“I’m training to be Mom’s Emotional Support Dog cuz she has a Service-Connected Disability, like lotsa other humans from the military do. I’m attending a special school at Dogs for Life. I know I’m still pretty young and, maybe still a teeny bit bouncy, and I guess I do jump up on occasion. It’s just that I really love humans. But I’m getting bedder at remembering stuff. An I know my job’s Important. At Dogs For Life, we learn how to help our veteran moms or dads in special ways other humans can’t. It’s a Big Responsibility.”

“You’re so right, Elvis,” I told him, with sincerity. “That’s very muh-CHUR of you. Do you have any special pals?”

“We love Gramma Hoy; Bingo’s my Total Bestie; an I also hang out with Emma. We usta live together. Now we have lotsa play-dates. We look ’zactly alike.” (He showed me a pick-shur. They totally do.) “I also have playdates with Ari an Branco, Portuguese Wadder Dogs. Don’t tell (he lowered his voice again) … Ari’s my girlfren.”

“My lips are sealed,” I promised. “So, tell me about Bingo.”

“I’ll take it from here,” Bingo piped up. “Mom found me at the Humane Society. I’m a Manx, maybe you noticed (he turned around) … see? no tail.”

It was true.

“Wanna know how I got my name? See, Mom likes that ol’ song about a dog named Bingo, and she thought (equal opportunity, ya know) why shouldn’t a cat get that name, too? So here I am, Bingo! B.I.N.G.O.”

“Hey, Bing, tell Bonzo about the Sox Episode.”

“Seriously? You hadda bring THAT up?” Bingo said. “Fine then! So, I had this sorta THING: whenever I saw one of Mom’s sox, I had an overwhelming urge to drown it in my wadder bowl. So I kept snatching her sox and plopping them into the wadder bowl. Nobody knows why. An, by the way, ol’ Elvis here usta chew stuff up so bad (mostly Mom’s shoes, and the occasional table leg) that he hadda go in his crate when Mom wasn’t around.”

“But soggy sox and chewed-up shoes are (mostly) in the past,” said Elvis.

“A very happy, blended family, we are,” came a voice from atop the Cat Tree.

Heading home, I was feelin’ like a Very Lucky Dog, having such a fun job.

Till next time,

The Bonz