Two
of our three cats are grumpy pusses this summer, because our
neighborhood is a favorite route for dog-walkers. Benjamin BadKitten
and Abigail Grump have figured out, accurately, that, wherever a
dog-walker goes, his or her dog will be prancing, strutting, or
otherwise proceeding in an annoying way directly past our front yard.
My husband Lee and I like dogs very much. We think the view from our
kitchen window improves when a dog and its owner walks past. Benjamin
and Abby beg to differ, vocally and repeatedly, even though a leashed
dog has never behaved aggressively toward either of them in our six
years here in Moscow. (Our third cat, Tessa the Vague, has embraced,
from birth, a laissez-faire philosophy toward nearly all creatures
great and small. Tess has never been the brightest flame in the
feline candelabra, but she seems to understand the need for love and
acceptance of others, even if they woof and wag their tails, instead
of purring and leaping onto the nearest lap.)
The
daily parade past our house might include Syd, a black and silver
Norwegian elkhound; Baci (Italian for “kisses,) a sweet black
dachshund;a beautifully groomed, long-haired collie; a cocoa-colored
miniature poodle with a bouncy tail; a pair of massive mastiffs; a
dignified boxer;a cream-colored Anatolian shepherd (a very big
guy;)Tiger, a well-loved cocker spaniel; and two friendly golden
retrievers. (“Friendly” golden retrievers seems redundant; I've
never known an introverted golden.)We also see many adorable
mixed-breeds walking past with their owners – and I still miss the
impromptu visits from Jericho, an exuberant black Labrador who,
during his puppyhood, often broke out of the slammer for late-night
visits to the cat door at our house. Two copper-colored Rhodesian
ridgebacks walk by often with their mom – and a black and white
Newfoundland puppy has already grown to the approximate size of my
Subaru.
For
Benjamin and Abby, warily watching these dogs invade our sidewalk –
sometimes pausing to sniff the rose arbor or the towering maple tree
in our yard – is enough of a trauma. But several of our regulars
are dogs attached to owners who are neighbors and friends. If Pick
(for “pick of the litter,) a golden Lab, and her person walk by
when I'm gardening in the front yard, we might have a lovely visit,
with the two humans talking and Pick lying obediently (and patiently)
at her owner's feet. Abby, our black and white long-hair, will make a
show of rising from her favorite napping spot among the phlox and,
with a loud cat version of “Harrumph!,” stalk inside. Benjamin
BadKitten's bird-hunting days have begun to wane (thank the Garden
Goddess,) and he no longer camps out under the birdbath or the bird
feeder. Instead, he's usually curled up on his favorite chair in our
living room, plotting his next midnight reconnaissance mission to the
nearest mouse nest or bunny burrow. But if he has waddled outside to
supervise my gardening and spots an approaching dog, he'll skedaddle
back through the cat door.
Neither
cat is interested in becoming buddies with the neighborhood essence
of sophistication: Lola, the black standard poodle. This gorgeous dog
is unfailingly polite and charming – unless she spies a squirrel,
when she might have a brief but entertaining nut-out at the base of
the maple tree. Benjamin and Abby have eavesdropped (from a safe
distance) on enough conversations to know that the elegant poodle is
an athlete who hikes and backpacks with her people. This sporty dog
presents a dreadful threat in our cats' minds: What if Lola mistakes
BBK for a chubby, black and brown bear cub, or Abby for a slender
little skunk and feels honor-bound to defend her people? Becoming a
bonked bogus bear cub or a shredded pseudo-skunk,victims of mistaken
identity, seems too tragic to risk for my two delusional fur balls.
And it's best not to remind them that Lola recently acquired a
live-in pal, a sociable white standard poodle.
We
miss seeing the three sleek, silver weimaraners, Truman, Nixon and
Kennedy, and our neighbor's elderly dachsund, Doc, all of whom except
Truman have left this earth. As we wistfully watch dogs and their
owners walk past our house, Lee and I often think of Rags, our dearly
loved Old English sheepdog, who died this spring. I've always been a
cat woman, but Rags and our late golden retriever, Kaylee, also had
my heart. For Lee, it's been hard not having a dog waiting to greet
him, to lie at his feet in the evening, and to wag its entire body in
joy over the promise of a walk. We talk about adopting a dog after
Lee retires, but we keep our conversations private, away from the
tufted ears of the easily offended BBK and his opinionated buddy,
Abigail. Imagine what they'd do if they knew we're considering
getting a puppy. Maybe two.
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