Cats & Dogs

Most families with a pet make the big choice: cats or dogs. (True enough, there are some families which seem to be magnets for strays of all types, and hence end up with “all of the above”.) My guess is one who is raised with either cats or dogs, makes the same choice when they are adults. Its like toothpaste, odds are you will use what you had as a kid. When I was growing up our family always had a dog. After all, we were “dog” people. Our preference was for frisky, affectionate, lap sized dogs. They would have the “run of the house”, which included under the table scraps from dinner, shared secretly. The only requirements were they did their business outside, and had to put up with the commotion, which was usually going on around them. I remember Poopsie, my childhood dog, who seemed to abide by the house rules, most of the time.  He still holds the record for licking clean a platter, which served the Thanksgiving turkey.

My two aunts lived together all their lives, and were great dog fans.  Dear sisters that they were, and sharing all they did for so long, never confuse them on two points. Mary liked Army and Neely liked the Navy. There was the annual bet on the football game, which Neely generally won in recent years. Also, they had specific and clear preferences in terms of dogs: Mary loved her dachshunds, and Neely was partial to terriers. In over their 70 plus years of living together, they had a long list of dogs. When one died, their dog tag was placed in an honored place in the kitchen, above one of the many dog-napping areas. I never counted them, but there were dozens.

When Carol & I moved back to the west coast, we soon found Sam at a Solano Avenue pet store. He was our preparation for parenting, which quickly followed. He a “mixed bred”, had lots of energy, and was a constant companion. We let him explore the neighborhood, and he always seemed to come back by bedtime or for a meal. One night he wasn’t home, so Carol & I went out looking. We walked to the nearby Cal campus, a frequent walking place for us. Repeated calls of his name yielded no results.  That sinking feeling of a lost dog grew. However, we subsequently saw him running around a plot of grass, with friends. We called him and he immediately returned with an inquisitive look on his face: “what are you two doing here?” When Greg came, we took many family walks in the hills. One day we met a neighbor with a high-strung miniature dog. I could tell that dog always got on Sam’s nerves. After the usual sniffing, Sam lifted his leg and left his signature on the confused miniature. I will never know if the owner saw it, I could barely keep from laughing out loud.

We both ran a lot and Sam stayed lean by running along. I took him on a 20 mile run one time, and he made it, despite being bone tired and having sore paws when we got home. Join the club. Sam was with us until both kids were almost out of high school. His body kind of gave out, and he lost that wonderful energy and interest in companionship. More naps, less eating, more quiet time, and an increasing number of accidents. At an advanced age for Sam, our vet gave us the news we all knew: Sam was on a steep decline and was probably suffering.  We decided to “put him down”, and stayed touching him as he left us. That was a very sad day for our family, lots of tears and a sorrowful goodbye. Greg & Steve may have felt some reprise, since they were no longer on the hook for walking Sam. That was probably not in the top 100 things they liked doing.

I was ready to get another dog; after all I was a dog person. I figured cats were neurotic, and “different”. However, practical mama said without a clear solution to walking the dog twice a day that option wasn’t available. She was right. Somehow we got to the position that a) we wanted another animal in the house, and b) it wasn’t going to be a dog. Thus one Saturday fifteen years ago we ventured to the SPCA and looked at cats. It was easy to dismiss most as being too big, listless, or indifferent. (What little they knew.)  However, we saw a very small cat with a twinkle in his eye. He was mangy, and had some scars and scrapes from being “dropped off”. He could not have been more than on foot long, and weighed less than a dinner burrito. Soon we paid to have him fixed, given shots, and we had a new pet. His was named Kit Kat, or more formally, Kit Kat the Magnificent. He came home with us, and spent the first week hiding in the smallest places he could find. Enticing him to come out and eat and get to know us was tricky. However, in time he learned to trust us, and learned our few house rules: no scratching the furniture, do your business outside, and don’t wake us up.

 
They say dogs have owners, cats have helpers. We were prepared for feline indifference, but were we surprised. Kit Kat loved to play, particularly with the frustrating laser pointer (skillfully directed at various moving places), and an assortment of strings and things, which developed his pouncing instincts. He spent lots of time exploring his outdoors, which went well beyond our yard. Soon he assumed the responsibility of managing our property. Periodically a dead rat, mouse, or what ever was laid as homage on the back door mat.

When we would travel Kit Kat would have a cat sitter. He would always complain when we came home, letting us know his various issues. However, after sufficient lap time, special meals, and other spoiling, a detente would be re-established. Kit Kat pretty much had his way. When he would agree to be brushed, or pet, he would climb up on one of our laps. However, when he tired of the attention, he left. By my rough count he had about six favorite places to nap, and logged as much nap time as a typical Cal Trans crew. He spent hours on Carol lap as her nurturing instincts were picked up quickly.

Sadly, the fall and early winter this year were not a good time for Mr. Kit Kat. It seemed clear his sight was failing, as he had more trouble eating, his appetite waned, he seemed listless, and sleep even more. Breathing became labored, and on and on. The vet confirmed the obvious, the future looked dim.

Trips to the vet became more frequent. His usual fierce resistance to such visits gave way to silent acceptance. All he seemed to want to do was be alone in some small, hidden space. We tried everything we could to give him comfort and show him how much we loved him.

A week before Christmas, we went to hear the Messiah, which is a family tradition. Nothing gets me more in the holiday felling than that evening, usually attending the American Bach Society’s performance at Grace Cathedral. Again, this year’s performance was inspiring, however both of us felt something was wrong. We left at intermission, which is something we had never done before. Sadly, our instincts were right. Mr. Kit Kat had left us for the new world of no dogs or fleas, plenty of fresh food, and comfy places to nap.

What joy and closeness we felt to Mr. Kit Kat, despite the fact one and perhaps both our sons are allergic to cats, dander, or whatever.

I bet there are no laser pointers in cat heaven.