Fiddler on the roof

by Katie on September 2, 2009

More appropriately, howler on the roof. Or, another good reason why the cat was the worst idea ever.

The first day I got the cat, I had her inside after Wilbur broke down the barricade. But he was on the prowl. He could smell her in there and proceeded to terrorize that whole back room in search of the cat.

Later that day, I was working on the laptop in the living room and heard a pounding above my head. For some reason, this startled me and I called Brandon. Seriously, what was he going to do about it?

“Hey, it sounds like something’s running across our roof.”

“Ok…well…what do you want me to do? I’m not there so I can’t go check it out for you. Maybe you could take a look and see what it is?”

I agreed, but still didn’t go outside. A few hours later, it was time for me to make my evening feeding round and put the dogs in the pen. This is what I found:

And what we found every day after that. On day three or so, we had a conversation. I told Brandon, “You know, the first day it was novel and funny, the second day, still a little funny, the third day, annoying.”

You see, there are stairs in the cat room that lead up to a little balcony on one end of our house. We’ve never been up there because most of the boards are questionable in condition. Wilbur made his way up these stairs, and then ran around on the roof of the house and porch all day, looking for the cat we think. But the roof is the last place I would want to be when it’s 115 degrees outside.

The first day, he wasn’t up there long, but couldn’t figure out how to get down. I just pulled my truck parallel to the porch roof, and after much coercing and tugging on his collar, he finally jumped down. He really didn’t want to:
On day two, all I had for transportation at the house was a tractor. Wilbur climbed on the roof early in the morning, pretty much right after I let them out for the day. I didn’t think it would be good for him to stay up there all day in the heat, so I tried to wrangle him down the stairs.

Apparently he kept forgetting he was afraid of heights until after he was on the roof, because he wouldn’t even look down the stairs. He kept his head in the air above the staircase opening so he couldn’t see down. Wrestling a giant, scared dog that weighs just thirty pounds less than you down the stairs is not an easy chore. About all I accomplished was getting nasty dog hair all over myself.

At one point, I had all four legs down on the top two steps, but he jumped over my head and back to the roof before I could make more progress. So I just put him a bowl of water up there. Brandon said he wouldn’t have.

It had to be 1pm before Brandon came by for lunch that day, and Wilbur was still on the roof. As Brandon pulled in the driveway, I tried to direct him to pull his truck alongside the porch so we could get the dog down. Then, he started pointing behind me. The crazy dog had jumped off the roof. From here:

And after that whole fiasco, guess where he went bright and early the next morning? Brandon was still around that day, so he made a leash out of some baling twine and was able to drag him down the stairs. I left for 20 minutes, and when I returned:

Eventually, on day five or so, he learned how to come down the stairs.


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