It’s a good thing you’re cute. That’s all I’m saying, dog.
Dear Sophie,
You do not belong on my bed, in my studio, or in the laundry. Knock it off. And, yes, I know Snickers does it too, but we’re not talking about the cat. We’re talking about you. You, I still have some control over. Oh, and could you work on pooping the first time someone walks you in the rain? Thanks.
Dear Snickers,
We get it, you’re hell’s little minion. Now, stop corrupting the dog or I’m going to get you generic cat food the next time I’m at the store.
Snickers doesn’t get much face time on this blog. Mostly, because she’s IZ’s cat and torments my dog enough to keep me in an almost perpetual state of peeved. It’s an unfair relationship, really. Because if Sophie responds we have no choice but to crack down on her. She’s a terrier and her instincts are intact; she’s genetically predisposed to hunt and kill vermin. Snickers certainly behaves like a weasel, but up against the snapping jaws of an enraged dog, she doesn’t stand a chance. You’d think that be enough to stop her wily ways.
I like this about my dog. I am a city girl through and through, but I harbor delusions of living “out” and having a whole pack of terriers to call my own. Like my dog’s instincts, my fantasy life is intact; I have visions of plaid riding jackets and leather knee-high boots (What?! By now you people should know my fantasies come with wardrobe options.) and five or six lovely, black and tan Welshies jumping at my feet. We spend countless hours roaming the vast expanse of our country estate nosing out assorted vermin. We come home, hot and sweaty and tired and triumphant, having once again cleared our fair land of weasels. (Hey, if you’re reading metaphor here, good for you.)
A Welsh Terrier is no slouch when it comes to nosing out a vermin. Just ask my Miss Sophie. There’s not a garbage can or telephone pole she doesn’t growl at when we’re out walking. Never mind our neighbor cat out for a midnight stroll. No, she has bigger prey in mind; namely her own shadow! Clearly, I’m not the only one with a rich fantasy life.
Now, I don’t believe in letting a person, or dog, dream alone. So, I can’t resist whispering, “Kill it, Sophie. Kill it!” even though it’s perfectly obvious that the only vermin in her life is the cat. Vermin she can’t kill. Vermin she must tolerate.
Which brings us back to Snickers. Lord only knows what goes on in her fantasy life.
Truth time: you are not a dog. Your attempts to persuade me otherwise are just plain pitiful. Have some pride. Do you own a leash? No! Will you wear a collar? No! Do you come when called? No you don’t! Your whining at the door demanding to be “walked” is a delusion on your part. Snap out of it!
Furthermore, I don’t appreciate your assertions to the contrary by taking matters into your own paws. It’s 11 o’clock at night and prying the screen door open while I’m out walking Sophie is just passive aggressive. It’s dark outside and I don’t particularly enjoy hunting around in the cold looking for you. I refuse to chase you around the house more than 4 times ridiculously whispering, “Here Snickers,” because we’ve already established that you don’t come when called. Which, is why you are not allowed out in the first place. See how this works?
Seriously cat, it’s been an hour and if you don’t show up in the next three minutes, you’re spending the night out. Oh, I know, break your heart. But you should know this means no midnight snacks and no Craig Ferguson for you. I’m through with this nonsense. I know I said that last night, but this time I mean it! If I wanted another dog, I’d get one. And at the pace you’re setting, that could happen sooner than later. Just sayin’.
