Night of the Living Furpeople
They called it "Health" class when I was in school. Offered my sophomore year at Northeast High School, it was really more about sex education than any real information about health. As such, it was open season on giggling, snorting and furtive, sidelong glances. Once the jokes subsided, we actually learned a few important facts.
High School Health Class Factoid #53: There are two kinds of people.
No rocket science here. This gleaming nugget of wisdom has come in handier than almost anything else I learned in my youth, and while it seems painfully obvious if the only item on the docket is human reproduction, a wider view makes it all the more cogent. There are:
Men and women, kids and adults, Republicans and Democrats, idealists and realists and most importantly to this particular discussion, cat people and dog people. The polarization of reality extends to the horizon in all directions, even farther where pets are concerned.
The animals we share our lives and homes with require separate and distinct personality types with which to mingle, based entirely on the animal's own perceptions of reality. The analog in the human world is the relationships between men and women. (Disclaimer: This, and all vague, intentionally provocative generalities are almost always totally and completely wrong.)
Dog people are in caught up a in a ritual of perpetual dating. No matter what Spot has done or how guilty he looks, in a matter of minutes after the crime, he is all tail-wags and sloppy kisses, all of which is received with cheerful abandon by his human partner. (Please note: I will never use the word "owner" to describe pet/human relations. Anyone who spends time with a dog or cat knows better.) Dogs require food, water, love and affection, but if spurned will settle for just food and water temporarily. They then return for more of either spurning or love and affection. Dogs are the guys you've known who can't take "no" for an answer. Every time you walk in the door, they greet you with toothy canine smiles. They couldn't care less if you're Jack the Ripper or Shirley Temple, to them you're the sun, moon and stars. To show their love and their gratitude for your reciprocation, a dog will allow you to take it for a walk on the coldest day of the year. A well-trained dog will keep you from receiving annoying junk mail, or any mail at all. Must be the letter-carrier's blue uniform and the shorts that makes dogs crazy. I'm still trying figure out their fascination with moving cars.
Cat people are the married side of the pet/human equation. They know that if Fluffy breaks a vase or eats a Vermeer, it's because your sense of decorating violated their feline feng shui and by eliminating the offending gimcrack, order has been rightly, if temporarily, restored. This is not unlike your wife informing you in no uncertain terms that the velvet Elvis is leaving the building. You might be able to hang it in the attic, but I'm not betting on it. I know men who celebrate their "man caves" as a refuge for their masculinity and superiority. Decorated with cars and sportsballs, a Man Cave is actually a kiddie pool of testosterone at the estrogen Country Club. It's his wife's way of saying, "Go top the basement, and don't come out until I tell you to."
Anyway, cats. Cats require food, water, love, affection, a sandbox, drug-laced toys, a checkbook, the remote control, something to scratch on (sofa, leg, geranium) and copious warmth. Cats are, apparently, incapable of generating their own heat and prefer table lamps and televisions for their thermal needs.
When you arrive home from a long day at the grind, a cat will be waiting, standing there, arms crossed, wondering where the hell you've been and whether it would have been so damned difficult for you to pick up the phone and call. After all, you have thumbs. Cats don't care whether you're Jack the Ripper or Shirley Temple, provided you have a lap. Even then, you're on probation. To show their love and their gratitude for your reciprocation, a cat will bring you gifts. Small, furry, living, squealing gifts that will, when loosed, run for cover. Cover in this instance means under your couch. The cat will beam proudly at you and expect you to retrieve the present and play with it, but not before you refill the food bowl and sift the aromatic contents of the plastic sandbox in the corner.
Dog people and cat people belong to an intersecting subset - they share their lives with their chosen variety of Furpeople and would gladly sacrifice home and comfort for their four-legged friends. Recently, I watched, through a street-side window, as a young woman sat in front of a Downtown coffee house, her chocolate-brown dog at her feet. She would occasionally look down, and touching his head, reassure her friend that she was still there, was attending to her own needs of caffeine, nourishment and conversation for the moment, but would soon be able to focus all her attention dogward. This appeared to be enough for the dog. Meanwhile, on my side of the glass, a young couple spoke of their life with cats. The man carried pictures of their cat and grandcats, generations of family described as naturally as if it had been his Uncle Norman from Chillicothe. This is as it should be.
Here at The Ranch on Wheels, we share our place with two cats - one named for a wild Danish astronomer, one for a quasi-medicinal soft drink. We are real, live cat people. We're not fawning baby-talkers, nor are we detached or parental, we're just the other people in the room who enjoy the company we keep. I can't watch the news without the help of two bundles of feline pulchritude. It helps me maintain my perspective. Someone once asked if we were "empty-nesters". We replied, "No. We have cats." And they have us. We were once both dog people, and still imagine we might, if our situation were different, enjoy the company of canines. We would spoil them, too.
I've tried to imagine what our cats, or maybe my daughter's dogs see as we approach. Meal ticket? Entertainment? Maybe, but I'm guessing in the dimension of Four Legs and Sharp Teeth, humans may appear and disappear in the world the way a minor deity might. Gods and demigods have great responsibility to those who idolize them, just as dog people and cat people alike all have the responsibility to live up to the deification that their four-legged friends bestow upon them. Just to meet them halfway makes us better for the effort.
Update: We are now a single-cat household. Tycho Brahe, he of the soft voice and intelligent curiosity, left us some time back. He now inhabits the cold earth near the Fourth of July roses. He died in my lap of old age and a worn-out pancreas. He waited until I told him it was going to be all right. His head was resting on my hand, a posture he often used to keep me from paying more attention to glowing screens than to him. He left out a small chirp and then his last breath. He was my boy, the best Christmas present I had ever received, and my constant, loving companion.
Moxie carries on in her own way. She is vocal and demands that order be kept, schedules maintained and roles honored. She teaches me about being human.
Another update: Moxie said goodbye in June of 2019 after eighteen years as the most wonderful companion anyone could ask for. That hole in my heart will be there for years, possibly the rest of my life.
We plodded along for a while. As we settled in to our winter routine in Port Townsend, Washington, we decided that the house was far too quiet. Kath and I stopped by the area animal shelter, and met Lily, a two year-old Russian Blue. Sleek and totally cat-like, she is teaching us new tricks. We'll spoil her, too.
High School Health Class Factoid #53: There are two kinds of people.
No rocket science here. This gleaming nugget of wisdom has come in handier than almost anything else I learned in my youth, and while it seems painfully obvious if the only item on the docket is human reproduction, a wider view makes it all the more cogent. There are:
Men and women, kids and adults, Republicans and Democrats, idealists and realists and most importantly to this particular discussion, cat people and dog people. The polarization of reality extends to the horizon in all directions, even farther where pets are concerned.
The animals we share our lives and homes with require separate and distinct personality types with which to mingle, based entirely on the animal's own perceptions of reality. The analog in the human world is the relationships between men and women. (Disclaimer: This, and all vague, intentionally provocative generalities are almost always totally and completely wrong.)
Dog people are in caught up a in a ritual of perpetual dating. No matter what Spot has done or how guilty he looks, in a matter of minutes after the crime, he is all tail-wags and sloppy kisses, all of which is received with cheerful abandon by his human partner. (Please note: I will never use the word "owner" to describe pet/human relations. Anyone who spends time with a dog or cat knows better.) Dogs require food, water, love and affection, but if spurned will settle for just food and water temporarily. They then return for more of either spurning or love and affection. Dogs are the guys you've known who can't take "no" for an answer. Every time you walk in the door, they greet you with toothy canine smiles. They couldn't care less if you're Jack the Ripper or Shirley Temple, to them you're the sun, moon and stars. To show their love and their gratitude for your reciprocation, a dog will allow you to take it for a walk on the coldest day of the year. A well-trained dog will keep you from receiving annoying junk mail, or any mail at all. Must be the letter-carrier's blue uniform and the shorts that makes dogs crazy. I'm still trying figure out their fascination with moving cars.
Cat people are the married side of the pet/human equation. They know that if Fluffy breaks a vase or eats a Vermeer, it's because your sense of decorating violated their feline feng shui and by eliminating the offending gimcrack, order has been rightly, if temporarily, restored. This is not unlike your wife informing you in no uncertain terms that the velvet Elvis is leaving the building. You might be able to hang it in the attic, but I'm not betting on it. I know men who celebrate their "man caves" as a refuge for their masculinity and superiority. Decorated with cars and sportsballs, a Man Cave is actually a kiddie pool of testosterone at the estrogen Country Club. It's his wife's way of saying, "Go top the basement, and don't come out until I tell you to."
Anyway, cats. Cats require food, water, love, affection, a sandbox, drug-laced toys, a checkbook, the remote control, something to scratch on (sofa, leg, geranium) and copious warmth. Cats are, apparently, incapable of generating their own heat and prefer table lamps and televisions for their thermal needs.
When you arrive home from a long day at the grind, a cat will be waiting, standing there, arms crossed, wondering where the hell you've been and whether it would have been so damned difficult for you to pick up the phone and call. After all, you have thumbs. Cats don't care whether you're Jack the Ripper or Shirley Temple, provided you have a lap. Even then, you're on probation. To show their love and their gratitude for your reciprocation, a cat will bring you gifts. Small, furry, living, squealing gifts that will, when loosed, run for cover. Cover in this instance means under your couch. The cat will beam proudly at you and expect you to retrieve the present and play with it, but not before you refill the food bowl and sift the aromatic contents of the plastic sandbox in the corner.
Dog people and cat people belong to an intersecting subset - they share their lives with their chosen variety of Furpeople and would gladly sacrifice home and comfort for their four-legged friends. Recently, I watched, through a street-side window, as a young woman sat in front of a Downtown coffee house, her chocolate-brown dog at her feet. She would occasionally look down, and touching his head, reassure her friend that she was still there, was attending to her own needs of caffeine, nourishment and conversation for the moment, but would soon be able to focus all her attention dogward. This appeared to be enough for the dog. Meanwhile, on my side of the glass, a young couple spoke of their life with cats. The man carried pictures of their cat and grandcats, generations of family described as naturally as if it had been his Uncle Norman from Chillicothe. This is as it should be.
Here at The Ranch on Wheels, we share our place with two cats - one named for a wild Danish astronomer, one for a quasi-medicinal soft drink. We are real, live cat people. We're not fawning baby-talkers, nor are we detached or parental, we're just the other people in the room who enjoy the company we keep. I can't watch the news without the help of two bundles of feline pulchritude. It helps me maintain my perspective. Someone once asked if we were "empty-nesters". We replied, "No. We have cats." And they have us. We were once both dog people, and still imagine we might, if our situation were different, enjoy the company of canines. We would spoil them, too.
I've tried to imagine what our cats, or maybe my daughter's dogs see as we approach. Meal ticket? Entertainment? Maybe, but I'm guessing in the dimension of Four Legs and Sharp Teeth, humans may appear and disappear in the world the way a minor deity might. Gods and demigods have great responsibility to those who idolize them, just as dog people and cat people alike all have the responsibility to live up to the deification that their four-legged friends bestow upon them. Just to meet them halfway makes us better for the effort.
Update: We are now a single-cat household. Tycho Brahe, he of the soft voice and intelligent curiosity, left us some time back. He now inhabits the cold earth near the Fourth of July roses. He died in my lap of old age and a worn-out pancreas. He waited until I told him it was going to be all right. His head was resting on my hand, a posture he often used to keep me from paying more attention to glowing screens than to him. He left out a small chirp and then his last breath. He was my boy, the best Christmas present I had ever received, and my constant, loving companion.
Moxie carries on in her own way. She is vocal and demands that order be kept, schedules maintained and roles honored. She teaches me about being human.
Another update: Moxie said goodbye in June of 2019 after eighteen years as the most wonderful companion anyone could ask for. That hole in my heart will be there for years, possibly the rest of my life.
We plodded along for a while. As we settled in to our winter routine in Port Townsend, Washington, we decided that the house was far too quiet. Kath and I stopped by the area animal shelter, and met Lily, a two year-old Russian Blue. Sleek and totally cat-like, she is teaching us new tricks. We'll spoil her, too.
