The cat stays
One day when my mistress was engaged in what she calls house cleaning now let me tell you right now, I don’t understand what these people have against a little clean dirt and talk about the way she reacts to a bit of squishy mud well, I’m getting off the subject.
Point being, one day she was busy and … to tell the truth, I started snooping around (just a wee bit) and found some columns Major had written.
If HE can do it no disrespect meant for he sounds like he was a truly great dog and I am sorry I never met him. But I’m here now and there are a couple of things I’d like to say.
Name’s Quillow. As far as this writing business goes, it’s Quillow. Friends know me by a different name. I belong now to “Mom” and am proud to be her “little boy” though some people find referring to me in those terms not a good thing at all.
Anyway, I ended up here when my first family could no longer keep me. I miss them at times particularly when I think it’s his truck coming up the driveway but I have to admit I feel I really lucked out.
Oh, Minor can be a problem. He’s always trying to get me in trouble but wasn’t it nice when he pulled all those sticker burrs out of my coat? Of course I wouldn’t have gotten into them in the first place if he hadn’t urged me to follow him into the bushes where the deer ran.
It’s all right though. Actually, it’s nice to have a dog around the house. Besides me.
There is one problem however.
I feel rather embarrassed mentioning it because my mistress has been so loving and, well, she’s bent over backwards to make me feel at home. And I do by now. Only …
To tell the truth, I’m getting up there. I lost count but I know I passed the nine-year mark which makes me … yes, an old dog. Forget what they say about “new tricks.” I’d figured I was pretty well settled with my life the way it was.
Only this house has a cat.
You got it. One of those hairy slinky things with a strange-sounding motor, though this one prefers the me-ow bit. She has a word (or ten, trust me) for absolutely everything.
Not only is there a cat but I’m expected to be nice to it. Nice.
I’m a dog, remember?
At the beginning she acted terrified of me and I’d give an occasional chase or two just to keep her on those itty-bitty tippy toes.
What good did that do? I’m the one who ended up in trouble. It’s only a stern “Bad dog” but I like it here and I like her. So I guess the cat stays.
Only now not only does the cat stay, she’s begun telling me what to do. And somehow I’m allowing her to do it. The nerve!
She struts right by me to go out and comes in with the same attitude. She prances around the room even though she knows I’m there. I may be lying down but my head is up and my eyes are fastened on her. And she knows it. And she pretends she doesn’t and, worse even, wouldn’t care if she did.
Before bed last night, I was stretched out near her my mistress that is, not the cat. Only it probably doesn’t matter for she the cat walked right by me and, you’ll never believe this, jumped up and drank out of my water dish. MY dish.
What’s a self-respecting dog to do?
I’ve got much more I want to tell you but, in this case, I got the message loud and clear.
The cat stays.
Susan Crossett is a Cassadaga resident. Send comments to firstname.lastname@example.org