petogynist

CONFESSIONS OF A PETOGYNIST

4-9-12

I'm not terribly fond of animals but sometimes I actually enjoy them. You remember that I spent my young manhood at the trotters, I have enjoyed zoos and watching You Tube antics of cats and dogs doing uncharacteristic things is always fun. Who wouldn't be thrilled by a house cat using the family toilet and then flushing? Hearing a dog saying “hello,” is a kick. A parrot reciting Shakespeare is always a grabber. So, I guess animals are OK … in their place. And, that place is not indoors, not at my home.

Many of you know that when events conspired to require my daughter to move in with me, she brought with her her cat, a big one yclept Tucker. Keep in mind that I had no experience with pets; both my mother and wife refused to consider having one and their wisdom prevailed. But, daughters will do as they choose, and having a cat at home was part of the deal.

The damned thing prowled around the house and deposited scents to stake out its territory. The stupid thing didn't realize it had no competition, I suppose genetics commanded it to do so. Even its replacement, a black, brown and gray animal called Bean acts the same way. They are all of a brotherhood.

Friend daughter had not a pet, but living on street level, she noticed an orange cat who moved from door to do begging food, drink and goodies. In the spirit of community solidarity, daughter also provided such victuals at the front door. This continued for a while until in the feeding process, the front door was inadvertently left open and the soon-to-be-named-Tucker sauntered in, thoroughly inspected the apartment and boldly announced, “This is my home.” Tucker was a squatter and the only way to reclaim the apartment was forcibly to eject him. Such assertive action was much too distasteful for my tenderhearted daughter (she is not made of the same stern stuff as me) so she took the only course left to her; she fell in love with the damned critter. Well, she had her own apartment, she could do what she damned well pleased.

When poor old Tucker became ill, good old dad paid the vet. Those of you with pet experience know that a sick household beast can beggar a family faster than a Republican budget. Finally, the too sick, suffering creature had to be put down. That's pet talk for killing it to keep it from a lingering, painful death.

Well, that episode in my life had ended but daughter languished. She missed her damned cat. That I did not had no significance, she needed a replacement though it took her a while before she could contemplate finding another of that beastly ilk. All would have remained in stasis when her hair dresser told her about an elderly woman who had a cat whom she could no longer care for. It was an opportunity of a life time and daughter, in a cat-like move, pounced. The woman gave copious instructions before she gave the to-be-named-Bean to daughter and for two months called randomly to find out how well Bean had survived the change. Daughter finally delicately hinted that such calls were a pain and they stopped.

What's my complaint? You mean aside from cat hair all over the place, peculiar smells, the yowling for food, its damned curiosity and climbing into bed with me? Hell, I can't even go to the bathroom without its trying to get in. Still the real problem is that the beast likes me. It finds my lap to be a delectable spot to settle down for a nice warm rest and if I stroke its body, even better. Does it ask permission? No. Does it provide a rational for its intrusive behavior? No. Without a hint, it dashes over and leaps regardless of my reading, or looking something up on the net or in the middle of a gripping TV drama … and I have sixteen pounds of cat on my lap. Damn!

But visiting Shirley provides a rest from such nonsense, does it not? Not at all. She has a dog, a frisky dog that zips around, barks and otherwise makes its obnoxious presence known. Understand that Shirley loves her beast, Max by name and might get rid of me because of my attitude about him so I am circumspect when he is around. And, the damned animal likes me, nay, he loves me. I cannot sit without him clamoring to climb upon me, to sprawl across my lap and demand a belly rub. He also plays fetch with one of his toys, an obnoxious, ropey thing that he is never without and on which he constantly chews. His saliva impregnates the damned thing and he expects me to toss it away so he can bring it back. He has discovered the pleasures of lying in bed rather than his kennel, so he makes up a threesome when I sleep over and he totally lacks any sensitivity, none at all to my need to sleep.

Alas, he has the brain of a demented two year old and I'm not too fond of kids.

I live in my house with a Bean

Toward whom I must never be mean

And Shirley has Max ugh

In my brain there are cracks ugh

Life's pleasure now rarely is seen.