My Cat, the Dog

I do not consider myself a true cat lover, even though I have always had a cat, and I currently have an eleven year-old cat that I truly adore. When I think of the phrase "cat lover," I often picture someone with more than one cat, (often an unknown number roaming freely on kitchen countertops and lapping water from toilet bowls), someone whose home is filled with decorative cat items (such as cat figurines, framed pictures of cats, cat calendars, pillows with cats on them, and useful items such as a cat oven mitt or a cat alarm clock.) It also seems that real cat lovers have "indoor" cats and always have a litter box hidden in the corner of a mudroom or laundry room, and while the cat lovers may be immune to the pervasive litter box odor and may have convinced themselves that the $25 bag of cat litter actually works to eliminate said odors, they are sadly mistaken. In addition, cats that belong to cat lovers seem to usually eat special gourmet cat foods that come in tiny little cans with elegant cats on the labels. These privileged cats are often addressed with endearing words like, "Baby" and "Darling." Finally, I imagine genuine cat lovers have a great affection for any and all cats, and generally dislike, or at least have very little interest in, dogs. So if my stereotype is correct about what makes a true cat lover, then I definitely do not fit the description, though I do have a cat.

I sincerely hope that I have not offended anyone who considers himself or herself a cat lover, for I fear you might not appreciate all aspects of my definition! I also realize I have made many generalizations and have certainly created a stereotype which may be highly (or slightly) inaccurate. Please know it was written in fun and was an attempt at humor, however unsuccessful that attempt might have been!

All of that being said, I must tell you that I love my cat, but it is not because he is a cat. It is because he is a very special cat who is actually more like a dog, which leads me to my next point, which is that just because a person loves her cat, it does not mean she does not love and appreciate dogs (which also happens to be a false notion that many dog lovers have about those who own cats - that they couldn't possibly love and appreciate dogs). There are things about dogs that are extremely appealing, amusing, and even quite unique and endearing and meaningful. In fact, if I were forced to choose, I would say I like dogs more than cats, mostly because I have met more delightful and personable dogs than delightful and personable cats. I will take all of this a step further and say that the probable reason I love my cat so much and feel he is so special is because he is actually more like a dog than a cat, though I by no means want to disparage cats as a species, and I have certainly had encounters with unpleasant dogs and was even bitten by a Pitt Bull once, (but that is another story.) If you are still with me, I hope you will read the following poem, which I wrote about my cat "Pumpkin," and you will see precisely what I mean about my cat.

My Cat, the Dog

He follows me around the kitchen,
never aloof, like the proverbial feline, but
always engaged,
looking straight at me with his
huge golden-green eyes.
He meows his plea for attention -
insistent, yet
more restrained than a bark or a
forceful thump of two great paws against your legs
or sloppy licking of a large tongue
or smear of a cold, wet nose shoved into your palm.
But like a dog, he won’t stop until
he gets something he wants.
He’s waiting for
that voice I use only for him,
that behind-the-ears scratch,
that stroking session,
that sound the can of cat food makes when I open it
that belly rub usually reserved for
“man’s best friend.”
He rolls over, exposing thick, soft, pale fur on his solid
doggyish tummy.
Paws stretch out with glee, kneading the air – left, right –
like he’s swimming with happiness at being stroked,
his loud purr the obvious equivalent of the
wagging tail.
He closes his eyes and drools with contentment, little drops from the corners
of his small smiling mouth.
Wherever I am, he finds me, curls up next to me,
even nudges me and paws at me lest I dare
give my attention to something else
when he is present.

I call him – he comes.
I pat my lap – he jumps into it.
I scold him as he tries to sneak upstairs to the attic bedroom,
where he well knows it could be many hours before he’s discovered
curled up with stuffed animals on a little boy’s bed.
He glances at me shiftily, head lowered, ears down, standing perfectly still in his decision-making:
“should I make a run for it?” he asks,“or will she head me off at the pass?”
Smart, intuitive, crafty, like his canine counterpart,
affectionate and forgiving, like a true friend.

He’s very large and handsome, an orangey-blond, long-haired
fellow with a sort of mane about his lion face.
From a distance, as he trots across the lawn, many have mistaken
him for a dog, and I, too, when I see his
heart
up close.


THE END