Look, No Really Look

… Aldous Huxley, author of Brave New World

(a novel which, if you haven’t, you really ought to go sit down with it today or tomorrow)

Amongst the debates raging in our society, one of the most critical to our civilization at this very moment – one upon whose outcome the very fabric of our lives depend…

Is not whether one prefers dogs to cats.

It is, however, the subject of today’s discussion.

My youngest daughter vastly prefers the company of her cat, Oliver, to most humans. (To be honest, my youngest daughter, in general, vastly prefers the company of four empty walls to the company of most humans, but that’s another blog post.)

Oliver, to her, is a companion, confidante, a cuddly sleep mate (he actually DOES spend the night with her), and often a cooperative ragdoll, coolly suffering various indignities like bows, brushings, baths, and that ilk.

Once, after a brief escape (he’s generally an indoor cat with wanderlust, although he always returns), he’d obviously had a philosophical disagreement with another feline who’d decided to settle things with a rude claw to the face, leaving Ollie to return home to nurse what would become a ferociously nauseating abscess.

(Enter the dog, stage left.)

Tucker Dog was raised with eleven cats, many of whom he raised as kittens. So many cats did he live with in New York that when he went to obedience school, the trainer – without knowing anything about his environment – asked if he lived with cats.

Why? I asked. Because, said the trainer, he’s exhibiting cat behavior. Often, apparently, when multiple species live together, they mimic each other’s behavior. Which would explain Tucker Dog’s habit of rubbing against my leg, and circling the bed several times before lying down on it.

The problem? Oliver loathed and detested Tucker Dog, much to Tucker Dog’s dismay, and thus, they’d had developed an uneasy, wary existence together – with Tucker Dog swiping cat food when Oliver’s back was turned, and Oliver purposely jumping on the kitchen table, just to drive the relentlessly obedient Tucker Dog batshit nuts: half German Shepherd Dog, Tuck is driven by instinct to “herd” even cats where they belong – and where they don’t.

(A nice bonus whenever I decide to knit: Tuck will shoo the cat away from the tantalizingly dangling yarn.)

A common sight: Tucker Dog, ambling happily by a kitchen chair, only to receive a sudden swipe from Oliver out of absolutely nowhere.

HOWEVER…

When Oliver returned from his sojourn – and the altercation no one yet knew about – it was only Tucker Dog who sensed something was amiss. The dog, normally keen on avoiding the cat at all costs, began sniffing at the cat, and even licking his face. The cat? Mysteriously allowed it.

Since Tucker Dog works for me, I’m usually paying fairly close attention to him. Since Oliver is usually wailing at me for food, I’m usually paying fairly close attention to him, too. Ergo, I noticed this sudden, bizarre change of behavior.

It was like watching The Ranger give Yogi and Boo Boo a picnic basket.

Or Mojo Jojo surrender himself to the custody of the Powerpuff Girls.

 

Or like Batman and the Joker announcing their engagement.

Days later, Ollie’s face swelled up like a baseball, dripping with goo. I’ll spare you the details.

But it was the dog who noticed it first. It was the dog who first treated the cat with kindness, who put aside the long-standing enmity in order to help.

There’s a joke floating around the Internet, mocking the stupidity of dogs, versus the intelligence of cats – I’ll reprint it here, although to my dismay, I cannot find the brilliant author.

It’s often said: you can own a dog, but the cat owns you. I deeply believe neither is true.

I’ve had cats – like Oliver – who come when you call them. Who actively demonstrate love and affection. I’ve had cats barely look at me, except to glance up and show how much contempt they have for my audacity to fill their food bowls.

I’ve had dogs, too – but here, I must say: universally, I have never encountered a canine whose heart was less than pure, less than devoted, less than the perfect model of what true, unconditional love is.

One can abuse a dog, mistreat it, ruin it, surely. But that’s on the putrid soul of the owner – and even many of THOSE dogs can be rescued by love. Tucker Dog himself was badly abused in the first year of his life; I rescued him as a stray from the local pound, and a more loving, obedient dog you will never meet in your life. It took a little socializing, sure – but when treated with love, most dogs will respond with MORE than the same.

When it comes to love? Dogs put humans to absolute shame.

Cats? Well… gotta say: My youngest puts it best. You don’t own a cat; they own you. Furthermore, if they even get the sense you’re trying to lay the hammer down, they’re as ready as a Revolutionary War Minuteman to go guerilla war on your ass.

Dogs? Not one. They know it’s way better to be loved than to be right.

Dog Diary versus Cat Diary:

The Dog’s Diary

8:00 am – Dog food! My favorite thing!
9:30 am – A car ride! My favorite thing!
9:40 am – A walk in the park! My favorite thing!
10:30 am – Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!
12:00 pm – Milk bones! My favorite thing!
1:00 pm – Played in the yard! My favorite thing!
3:00 pm – Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!
5:00 pm – Dinner! My favorite thing!
7:00 pm – Got to play ball! My favorite thing!
8:00 pm – Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing!
11:00 pm – Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!

The Cat’s Diary

Day 983 of My Captivity

My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength.

The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet. Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates my capabilities. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a “good little hunter” I am. Bastards!

There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of “allergies.” I must learn what this means, and how to use it to my advantage.

Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow, but at the top of the stairs.

I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches. The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released, and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded. The bird must be an informant. I observe him communicate with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe. For now …