A good friend once told me that if I was ever going to get a boyfriend I should never talk about my pets. Ever. “Guys don’t want to hear about your pets.” She said. “In fact, NO one really wants to hear about your pets. It’s boring!” She concluded.. I disagreed. Strongly! My pets were pretty damn funny! They had unique personalities and fascinating adventures of their own. Surely someone would be interested in hearing about my furry little friends! Maybe not boys…but surely the other girls...right?
Fast forward a few decades, several boyfriends and two husbands later and this same friend now has a “dogbook” on Facebook and we spend most of our conversations talking about our pets. Funny! I knew I was right! Even if it took me more than half my life to prove it, I’m more than willing to gloat! Not much has changed in the decades since middle school and high school, other than fashion and my bra size. (And thank God on both accounts!) I still talk about my pets fairly frequently; only now, my friends are freely willing to share their own stories in exchange. Instead of pictures of children, my coworkers have pictures of their dogs on their desks and one of the women I work with has a wonderful plaque on her desk that reads, “Children are for people who can’t have dogs.” I absolutely LOVE that plaque. I do have children, and I love them dearly despite their quirks. I have shared countless amusing stories at their expense, but now that they are all of legal driving age, they tend to retaliate if I spill too much information. The animals are at my mercy, because other than peeing in my favorite shoes (which I keep behind closed closet doors) there isn’t much they can do to get back at me for telling their embarrassing stories. I have given them all unique “voices” and I, of course, narrate all internal monologues so those “voices” can be heard out loud. Yes, I am fully aware that this may be considered strange behavior, but then again, it’s funny, so that cancels out the weird factor as far as I’m concerned. If you can’t laugh at yourself…Etc..Etc…
So we got this new cat. He is a Himalayan, like Mr. Jinx in Meet the Parents. A very lovable kitty, really. He was a rescue cat just like every other animal that lives at my house. All three dogs and the other cat were rescues too. Sometimes it feels like I’m running a halfway house for wayward animals, but they’re sweet, and a few of them are getting close to their “expiration dates” if you know what I mean, so my husband just keeps a running tab on the calendar counting down to the day when we will be down at least one dog. It sounds mean, but it’s just reality. We all die eventually. My husband just hopes that day comes soon for a few of the old dogs. They eat and shit a whole lot! The back yard is like a mine field. One wrong step and pow! You may as well just toss those shoes in the trash. I have two Labradors, one chocolate and one vanilla…I mean yellow…and a pit bull mix. The cat is a Ragdoll that we have had since he was six weeks old, so he actually thinks he’s one of the dogs. He hangs out with the dogs, plays with the dogs, eats with the dogs and sleeps with the dogs. He may as well BE one of the dogs. His name is Bartholomew. Bart for short.
Bart used to think he ran the house. If he wanted to eat…He ate. If he wanted to drink…he drank. Even if that meant the dogs had to clear away from the bowl. Bart was an alpha. Maybe not THE alpha. The chocolate Lab, Cybil is the true Alpha in our house. But because she is the largest, and wisest, and therefore most confident animal, she doesn’t stir the pot. So Bart had the impression of being the alpha. It was a feeling he was most pleased with. As I said before, all of the animals have a “voice” and they all have different accents. His voice was that of a confident cat. A cool, dangerous, jungle cat…perched atop the highest piece of furniture in the land, staring down at his pack with pride. A rough and tumble tough guy on the outside. A soft marshmallow momma’s boy on the inside. With an English accent. Like Hugh Grant.
The new cat’s name is Henry and because, as a Himalayan he is a Siamese cat variety, we call him Henry Chow. It’s not very PC, I am well aware of this. I don’t know if the surname Chow is entirely appropriate for the area of Asia that this breed is supposedly from, but it works with Henry, so there you go. Henry is Asian, therefore he has an Asian accent. Like Mr. Miyagi, only scarier. Henry is not one of the dogs. He is well aware that he is a cat. Henry is also the only cat in our house that is not declawed. Henry has ninja weapons. And he knows how to use them!
I had no idea that fur ACTUALLY flies when two cats fight. I always thought that was just a figure of speech. Like shit hitting the fan. I don’t know of any real life instances of shit hitting a fan and flying about the room, but I have witnessed fur flying around in large tufted quantities on too many occasions. I could build an entire cat from the scraps I pick up after the brief exchanges between Bart and Henry Chow…Ninja Kitty.
Look for more fun later tonight! My husband is standing over me starving to death after a miserable long day at work and I’m guessing it’s a wing night! Please share my blog with your friends if you like what you’ve read and be sure to join so you can be a follower…in a non creepy sort of way! Thanks again for your support! Until the next time...