Thoughts of the Furry Ones

I decided to stop begging for food and waited for permission so diligently that I started missing my own meals. That morning I was lying beside my bowl in the kitchen while my human sliced cheese for breakfast. I wanted a piece without the usual snuffling at her knee. “Astrid, what a polite dog,” she said when I sat up and moved my nose away from the table. Some cheese promptly appeared in front of my paws. So first you sit and ask for nothing. Clear instructions at last.

At lunchtime, my human filled my bowl. I sat in front of it and waited for her to look at me and give me permission to start. Meanwhile, she ate her borscht and read a book. I moved a little closer so she could notice my good manners more easily. Then a little closer still. The bowl stayed behind, because I needed to watch the person, not the food. My human scratched behind my ear. That didn’t count as permission: that morning, she had personally placed the cheese in front of me.

When my human got up to wash her plate, I got up too and sat politely beside the sink. She moved to the table; I moved there as well. Following her around on an empty stomach wasn’t making me feel any better behaved. So I decided to help her understand the procedure: I went back to my food, gripped the bowl by its rim, and carried it right up to her slippers. A few pieces spilled along the way. My human put the bowl on the floor, pointed at the food, and said, “Go on, eat.” I agreed immediately.

That evening, the empty bowl was still beside the table. My human picked up the food bag and patted her knee. “Astrid, bring your bowl!” Delivery was required. She filled it with dinner, set it in front of me, and gave permission straight away. I started eating without hesitation. Now every meal required a little work with my teeth, but at least I no longer had to wait beside someone else’s borscht.

I tried so hard to impress the keeper with my tidiness that I buried my own sleeping spot under apples. The apples on the tree in my enclosure at the animal rescue centre were ripe, and I was planning a nap on my low wooden platform. The keeper came in to collect the windfalls and set a bucket beside the gate. I picked up an apple and put it on the platform: sometimes a fox wants praise for something other than not stealing. Especially when the human has arrived without a brush and isn’t in a hurry.

“Taras, you’re such a good helper,” she said, picking the apple up off the boards. That was enough. While she carried the full bucket out through the gate, I brought over a second apple, then a third. I carried them carefully, one at a time, so she could see she was dealing with a responsible fox, not simply someone with an available mouth. By the time she returned, there were so many apples on the platform that only my front paws would fit. The rest of me remained on the ground, although all of me had been planning to sleep.

The keeper crouched down to gather apples around the tree, and I decided to fix things before she noticed my awkward position. My wide, empty breakfast bowl was nearby. I nudged the nearest apple into it with my nose. It stayed put. Excellent: the bowl held fruit much better than flat boards did. I moved the rest into it, pushing the last one in with a paw while holding the rim steady with the other. The platform was clear again. There was even room for my tail. I checked this personally and had just started settling down.

Then the keeper brought breakfast. Seeing the full bowl, she put a puzzle feeder beside it and tucked the food into its holes: she would collect the apples after her rounds. I could have emptied the bowl again, but that would mean undoing my freshly completed tidying. So I chose the clean platform and breakfast with extra work attached. I lay on the boards and began fishing pieces out with a paw. The praise had stopped, but apparently my shift as a helper hadn’t.

My human decided to wash my blanket just as I had finally settled down for a nap.

We were in the bathroom: my owner was sorting laundry while I lay beside the washing machine on the heated floor. For a dog, it’s a premier spot after a walk. I had just tucked my paws in when she said, “Move over, Amara,” and yanked my blanket away into the laundry basket. Humans seem to think that if they aren’t sleeping, nobody else should be either.

I carefully pulled the blanket out with my teeth, carried it back to the warm tiles, and circled onto it. It smelled of home, me, and yesterday’s park—a perfectly good blanket. My owner sighed, took it away again, and set the basket high on a stool where I couldn't reach.

Jumping for an afternoon nap felt like excessive effort. Spotting a stack of clean towels nearby, I touched one with my nose and gave my owner a meaningful look to propose a trade. She simply moved the stack to a shelf out of reach. Realizing non-verbal negotiation had failed, I walked over and pulled a clean towel off the bottom shelf myself.

Before she could stop me, I spread it over the warm floor, flopped down, and closed my eyes.

“Fine. But that one goes in the wash next,” she conceded.

The machine hummed to life, my blanket spun behind the glass, and the towel stayed under me. The trade was a success. Granted, it was a hand towel—if my front paws were on it, my back paws stuck out onto the tiles. I had to sleep curled into an extremely tight ball, but victory was mine.

I took the rule for lost creatures too literally and stubbornly refused to leave the cardboard maze.

In my enclosure, I just wanted to retrieve an apple slice and head back to my favorite branch. Olena, my keeper, placed the treat between the boxes for an enrichment exercise, while a tour guide behind the glass instructed a group of children: “If you ever get lost, stay right where you are until someone finds you!”

I entered the maze, grabbed the apple, and turned around, but a cardboard flap dropped shut behind me. The way back was blocked. According to the human safety rule I had just heard, I was officially lost. So, I sat down right where I was and finished the apple—waiting for rescue is much nicer with a snack.

Seeing me stay put, Olena laid a grape by the exit, then a nut, thinking I didn't understand the game. I understood perfectly, but the safety instructions were clear, so I didn't budge. It became an evacuation with room service; I merely turned my head as a respectable feast piled up just out of reach.

When Olena brought my evening bowl, I decided to help the rescue team. Without shifting my hind paws, I braced the cardboard with my front paws and chewed a hole right through the wall. I poked my head out—now visible, my "lost" status was revoked.

I tore the hole wider and stepped out to my bowl, though a square piece of cardboard remained stuck around my neck like a collar. Turning my head sideways to keep it from dragging, I ate my dinner. I had followed the safety rule to the letter; nobody had promised it would be comfortable.

Lars the owl could no longer sit peacefully on his favorite observation pipe: a motion-sensor light had been installed right above it.

The pipe beneath the balcony was dry, high, and perfect for watching the courtyard. Lars just wanted an ordinary night out while the resident inside read quietly behind the glass door. But whenever Lars so much as turned his head, the bright lamp flashed on right above his beak, blinding him and annoying the human.

Lars froze, and the light went out. He leaned forward to check the flower bed—the lamp flashed again. After the third try, the resident stepped out in slippers, twisted the sensor, and went back inside. Lars cautiously shifted. The human reappeared, this time with a screwdriver, and aimed the sensor lower. Now it reacted not just to the owl, but to a lilac branch swaying in the slightest breeze.

Thanks to the wind, the light stayed on almost continuously, drawing a swarm of night moths to the bulb. Lars perched closer and began snatching them mid-air. Every flap of his wings kept the sensor triggered, luring in a fresh serving of dinner.

The resident peeked out three times, silently watching this illuminated feast, then returned with a stepladder and a roll of black electrical tape. Lars wisely flew over to the lilac branch: an owl may not understand home repairs, but he knows when a human has completely run out of patience.

The man taped over the sensor and went to bed. As the light went dark, the moths began to scatter. Lars returned to the pipe and spotted a loose end of tape hanging down. Gripping it in his beak, he pulled until it peeled completely off.

The lamp flashed back to life, the moths returned, and Lars settled in comfortably. His observation post was back in business—now with complimentary dinner service.

Klaus the tortoise lost control of his lunch the moment a robot vacuum snatched the lettuce leaf he was already chewing.

It had started as a routine morning: his owner, Oksana, placed a fresh leaf on the kitchen floor near the fridge for him and turned on the vacuum. Klaus just wanted a quiet meal, after double-checking along the way that the chair leg was still in its usual place. It was. It’s always nice when the furniture behaves predictably.

Klaus crossed two floor tiles and bit into the lettuce just as the vacuum turned near the cabinet. The robot’s side brush caught the opposite end of the leaf and dragged it toward the hallway. Klaus had to march right along behind it: letting go of food simply because it had suddenly started traveling felt like a hasty decision.

At the corner, Klaus swung sideways, his shell clicking over the tile grout. The spinning brush kept winding up the leaf, closing the distance between tortoise and machine. Finally, the vacuum bumped into his water bowl, flipped it over, and got stuck spinning its wheels in the puddle. The wheels slipped, but the brush kept pulling. Klaus planted all four feet into the wet floor and held on tight.

Drawn by the racket, Oksana arrived, switched off the vacuum, and carefully freed the lettuce from the brush. She rinsed it under the tap, set it back down near the fridge, refilled the water bowl, and wiped up the puddle.

Klaus waited until the tiles dried, casually ambled back along the same route, and sat down before his meal. This time, he methodically ate the leaf down to the stalk—at a speed entirely under his control.