We have a dog who acts like a cat, and a cat who acts like a dog.
I'll need to explain this a little.
Our dog is Shadow, so named for the black fur that covers nearly her entire body. She was found in a roadside ditch in Oklahoma, with a litter of 10 puppies, and shipped, with her brood, to a rescue service in Iowa. When we took her in, she had heartworm (no surprise) and a strange wheezing sound when she breathed that required multiple veterinary trips to successfully diagnose. The wheezing, we learned, came from a bacterial infection that had taken root in a lung and traced to rotting shellfish she had eaten as a stray. Thankfully for us, the rescue service covered her medical bills, including the surgery to remove the lung infection. (The people who work -- and those who support -- animal rescue services are truly selfless and noble; if there's a heaven, their tickets should be honored.)
Shadow, now whole in body, always was whole in spirit. She's pretty dopey, it must be said, but she more than makes up for a lack of brains with a whole lot of heart and affection. She integrated seamlessly into our family -- well, at least when she realized she no longer needed to aggressively forage for her meals. We won't forget her first night with us: Michelle had cooked enchiladas, and while she momentarily left the kitchen, we heard a loud crash, followed by the distinctive sound of shattered glass. Shadow had leapt and swiped the entire glass tray of enchiladas from the range, and knocked it to the floor. When we ran into the kitchen, she was zealously lapping the splattered mass. We learned quickly that no unattended food was safe.
Then there's Roddy the cat. He arrived from an animal shelter in summer 2020, just months into the COVID 19 pandemic. He too, had been abandoned, then found and rescued. My older son had been yearning for a kitty, and begging his mother for one. I was fiercely resistant, as I was allergic to cats. There were no cats when I was growing up. My then girlfriend, Michelle, (now wife) had a fat, furry ball named Kitty who I at best tolerated during my visits to her place when we were dating. Visiting my wife's family and their cats almost instantly triggered sneezing bouts.
Cats made me miserable.
I also had a healthy fear of them. I couldn't read them, and I didn't know how to interact them. They seemed creepy, almost sinister, with their slit-like irises and their slinky strut. Once, when I was trying to hold Michelle's family cat, Hoiberg, the damn thing bit me in the soft, fleshy patch of skin between my thumb and forefinger. That wound hurt for weeks.
So, when the older son, Nathaniel, began lobbying for a kitty, I had not forgotten the incident with Hoiberg the Biter, and I had not forgotten my episodes of spasmodic sneezing at Michelle's family home. I was completely opposed to cat in the house, and I felt I had some pretty good reasons why.
So, imagine my surprise when Michelle and Nathaniel came home one day with Roddy. Boy, was I not happy. "Why?" I asked. "You know I'm allergic to cats."
But my protests largely were ignored. Plaintive son wins over whining Dad nearly all the time.
I was not happy a cat was in our home. I was less happy when Roddy took to leaping on the kitchen counters to forage for food. Unlike Shadow, who one time whacked our dinner to the floor, Roddy could jump up on and thus access our kitchen counters with ease, and nibble and bit his way into anything there. Bread, rolls, buns, snacks, the bar was always open for him.
As I was now working from home, Roddy's kitchen forays began to really piss me off.
It all came to a head one day when he leapt on the counter and helped himself to something I had made. Maybe it was a sandwich, I don't remember. But Roddy was feeding himself with impunity, and I had had enough. I clapped my hands at him, and he jumped off the counter. Then, I chased him. I chased him into the living room, I chased him into the front foyer, I chased him into the kitchen, I chased him to the stairwell, I chased him to our bedroom, where he had leapt on to the bed. I grabbed him, clutched him, and yelled at him, "You little bastard!" and threw him down on the bed. Then, I chased him again, he scurrying mightily, talons digging into wood, as he jetted from one room to another, with me screaming like a banshee, in hot pursuit.
I finally cornered him in the closet of Nathaniel's room, where he cowered on a shelf. his back arched, hissing at me. I backed away, fearing he might leap at me and claw my eye out or something.
As my adrenaline retreated, I realized how foolish I had been, and how guilty I felt for freaking out a pet who still was becoming acclimated to our home, to our family, and to his new situation.
I later found him burrowed tightly against my younger son on his bed, trembling from our frenzied encounter.
I felt very small in that moment.
Maybe Roddy and I reached an understanding that day. He seemed to lessen his counter leaps of plenty. At night, when I'd watch TV, he jump on the back of the sofa and lick my head. Tentatively at first, I would pet him. Then, I'd pick him up, gingerly – really, because I didn't know how to do it – and put him on my lap. He sat there, content, as I stroked his fur. Hmmm, I thought, he's pretty nice, and damn if I don't have any impulse to sneeze, no matter how close he was to my face. When I picked him up, he thrust his legs forward, like a long-jump skier who had just taken off from the chute. Sometimes, I would lift him high in the air, pronouncing "Lion King!" as he looked down at me from above.
I don't know if he enjoyed any of that, but he certainly tolerated it, no complaints at all.
Since then, our relationship has gone unalterably up. Soaring, actually. It's fair to say Roddy has much affection for me -- and the feeling is mutual, which, though well established, still surprises me to write it.
I am Roddy's main breakfast feeder, and since I've worked at home for the past five years, a reliable companion. Meaning I talk to him -- sort of. I call his name regularly -- just aimlessly oftentimes -- and he comes ambling up, like a dog. In the evenings, he senses when bedtime is creeping closer, and he starts circling around me. If I move, he follows me. Where I go, he goes. When I stop, he moves between my legs, his tail swishing against either leg. He wants me to know he's here, and it's time.
That time is Roddy Time. When I sit on the bed to put on the t-shirt and shorts I'll sleep in, Roddy starts to get aggressive. He's all over me -- on my lap, off my lap, rubbing his body with some force against my torso. He knows what he wants, and he's like, 'Well, buddy, what are we waiting for?'"
I settle in to the bed, my upper body propped up with pillows. It's time, and Roddy moves in. He climbs up my chest and head butts my chin. Once, then again, even a third time. In response, I begin a vigorous rubbing of his head, ears, jowls, and under chin. I swear, it's as if eyes begin to roll in his head, he's so damn satisfied. His purring is so loud you can feel it in the mattress.
I'll give him his version of a Turkish Bath head and body massage for several minutes -- him purring with pleasure, me closing my eyes, relaxed and sleepy as I move my fingers through his fur. He is happy, and frankly, so am I.
Never thought I'd say that about a damn cat.
Anyway, Shadow can be trusted completely. She is a big bundle of sweetness. I like when she sticks out her tongue, like a snake, when I approach her. I like how she'll cuddle up to me, either sitting at attention, patiently waiting for acknowledgment, or when I'm sitting on the futon, practically flopping herself into my body to squash herself as close to me as she can.
Maybe what I like best is the mood she's in after she eats. She'll come in from the screen porch and sit at attention inside the sliding door, and make guttural, Darth Vader-like grunts. When I pet her on the head, her grunts intensify in sound. It's as if she's purring, like a cat. Start rubbing her ears? The purring reaches a whole new level, as if she's snoring with delight. What a visceral show of affection, no?
So, a dog who behaves like a cat, and a cat who behaves like a dog. Go figure.
We'll take 'em just the way they are.
