Sunday, June 13, 2010

Here, kitty kitty.

No. This is not my beautiful cat.

My cat won't come out of the basement.

My cat is afraid of the two dogs who live upstairs.

Upstairs is the main living space we humans inhabit. And it's become the biggest dog house ever.

My dogs, Einstein and Dutch, do nothing more than move from bed to couch. They go through the doggie door in order to evacuate in the back yard. They eat food and drink water. And then they find a spot on the couch again.

Very threatening to the cat, all this ominous random dog movement.

Regardless of the innocuous lifestyle of my dogs, if my cat were to be faced with the idea of coming upstairs and integrating its lazy world with the lazy reality my dogs experience daily, this picture would mirror my cat's reaction.

Based on what I've said so far, I think it's been established that I'm a crappy pet owner. Dog or cat, bird or fish - all species of which I've had - it's safe to say that the idea of having a pet is much more compelling than actually having a pet.

I do love my cat and dogs. Don't get me wrong.

It comes down to this: I just have so much love to spread around, for god's sake. And I figure the dogs have each other; the cat has a choice.

The cat can come upstairs. No one's stopping him/her (I have no recollection if my cat's a boy or a girl).

The cat was procured when my youngest son didn't have much in the neck muscle department, and now he's 14. So this cat must be somewhere around 13.5 years old.

Ever since it's been established that the cat has an 'issue' with the dogs, the cat's made his/her home downstairs in the winter, outside in the summer. Each summer I'll leave the garage door open a crack, so the cat can wander outside at whim.

Last summer, I made it a point to check on the cat at dawn's crack. S/he summers in my garage, where I consistently fashion a comfortable kitty bed and food area. Last summer, instead of finding the cat, I found a toddler-sized raccoon slowly backing out of my garage. I'd foiled its devilish plot to retrieve a tasty kitty snack, and the raccoon revelation compelled a protracted OHHHHMY GAWD! sound for neighbors to hear, way before the sun came up.

Thank god I don't hold a lot of stock in what my neighbors think.

I just wanted to make sure my cat was okay.

And s/he was.

Now it's essentially summertime. Despite the recent spate of rain in Colorado, it's getting warm again, and I can tell the cat is experiencing a bit of wanderlust. S/he comes to the top of the stairs, looking at the back door like it's his/her magical portal to freedom and excitement, only to scamper to his/her downstairs lair when s/he hears the dogs taking notice.

So it's time to be the grown-up. I think it's almost time to send the kitty to her little piece of attached garage heaven.

I do love my cat. And I'm of the belief that it's better to live a shorter, happier life than a long, melancholy one.

So I'm almost convinced that soon it will be time to coax the cat to The Light, if only to be happy for one more summer.

I love the pets. The cat must know that it has a special place in my heart, despite me being so very laissez-faire. As for the dogs, they're functional in terms of household security and exceptional when it comes to being consistently excited when I come home.

It sounds like it's all about me, in a passive, loving kind of way.

I think I have my pets right where I want them.

But I think I'm their puppet, those damned mongrels.

Pets have a crazy genius.

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