Domestic Tails

1 Conversation

A cat pawing at some toilet roll.

My dog is unhappy with the change in the weather. Not because he's cold – after all, he's a Tibetan breed with long, flowing hair – but because I'm not a Tibetan breed with long, flowing hair.

The other morning, he got mad at me for putting on too many clothes. He hates socks as much as I do, because then he can't lick my ankles. He does that a lot, just to be friendly. The human need to cover up interferes with cross-species intimacy. It's a bummer.

I live with animals, three of them if you don't count Elektra. This is mostly fun, although it involves some adjustment at times – for instance, on cold nights, when you wake up every so often just to roll around and reclaim some of the bed space (from the cat and dog, not Elektra, who stays on her side better than they do). It involves ignoring a certain amount of territorial snarling between Ariel and Clancy, the big orange cat, because they don't like to be too close to one another. It also involves adjusting to the others' moods, and not, say, trying to wake the dog too quickly. He's getting elderly, like me, and he's grumpy first thing in the morning.

They all have their tics. Although Buzzardina isn't into communal sleeping, she's johnny-on-the-spot when it comes to food-sharing. As far as Buzzardina is concerned, she is top cat around here (Clancy lets her get away with this, because according to the vet, he thinks he's a dog, and we can't afford therapy). This means that anything in a bowl belongs to her – anything. A few minutes ago, this led to her marching up and down the breakfast bar, tail in air, outraged because I was eating yoghurt and wouldn't let her use her patented head-butt trick to get first crack at it. You see, I'm supposed to let her sample it first, and then she would graciously allow me to finish. The fact that I don't do this – since I have some vestigial memory that my mother would not have approved – leads to the display. After I'm finished, I give her the yoghurt container. She gives me a filthy look, because once again, I was inconsiderate enough to buy the brand that has a narrow opening unsuitable for cat heads, fitting into. I'm sorry, Buzzardina, but the better-designed yoghurts aren't gluten-free. She stalks off in high dudgeon.

I think people spend entirely too much time worrying about what their animals are thinking about them. Aside from the fact that this is usually an exercise in anthropomorphism – unless you're Konrad Lorenz and remember that a goose thinks like a goose – it misses the point. Just enjoy the fact that the dog likes you so much that if you get up from the computer and go into the kitchen, he will follow you. Your wife won't do that. (She'll just ask you what you're looking for in there, and remind you that the cake is for the church social.)

Our cats have just about got over their big move – always traumatic to cats – and are beginning to enjoy the perks of living on the ground floor, facing away from the traffic and into the woods. They missed the deer that ran past the back door the other morning, at a distance of 30 feet, but the squirrels and birds are no end of entertaining. (I check the latch on the screen door frequently.) They haven't found any mice yet, but the occasional spider is an extremely pleasant distraction.

The spiders are a pleasant distraction to the cats. Not so to Elektra, who found one in her jeans this morning. Fortunately, she wasn't wearing them at the time. Elektra HATES spiders, and these are over her size threshold.

Being on the ground floor has its downside, even for the cats. The other day, a strange cat came by. (That outdoor cat likes me and Elektra, and was hoping for a little loving.) Buzzardina went ballistic. I have never heard such cursing from a cat, and I've known plenty of foul-mouthed felines. She didn't calm down for an hour. The next time the strange tom came by, Elektra shot him with her water pistol, just to keep the peace.

Clancy didn't mind the other cat, but Buzzardina went into 'I hate men' mode, and gave him merry H for half a day, so he wasn't too thrilled about the whole incident. Sometimes I think Buzzardina isn't really a cat. She's the reincarnation of some mythical creature – an imperious one with a bad temper. I'd be tempted to say a Nixie, but she dislikes water.

People who do not know cats think you should train them. I am sure there is someone, somewhere, who can train cats. (I am sure I will now hear from a dozen h2g2ers who think they can train cats.) I am sure that somewhere, there is a Joe Camp of cats, a cat whisperer who can, with a few brisk gestures, cause the tiny leopards to change their spots. A Barbara Woodhouse who trills 'Kit-TEES!' and has them all at her feet, turning them into camera-ready movie stars in the space of an hour.

I should like to meet this person.

I should like to meet this person, but I should not like to be this person. I prefer my cross-species relationships to be of the symbiotic variety. I'm perfectly content to have to remember before I stand up to look around for my furry friend, so I can step over him. I think it's fine that I can't get out of the shower because he's taken up the whole bathmat. I don't mind that I can't eat a meal in peace until we've shut the black cat in the bedroom, or that the big cat will prowl around my pillow all night.

It's part of the price...of being part of things.

After all, I'm a force of nature, too.

Black Cats

Fact and Fiction by Dmitri Gheorgheni Archive

Dmitri Gheorgheni

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