|
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by
bud simpson |
October
25, 2006 |
The Night
of the Living Furpeople
Are you a “cat-person,” a “dog
person” or something that doesn’t exist?
They called
it “Health” class when I was in school. Offered
my sophomore year at Northeast High School, it was really more
about sex education than any real information about health.
As such, it was open season on giggling, snorting and furtive,
sidelong glances. Once the jokes subsided, we actually learned
a few important facts.
High School Health Class Factoid #53: There are two kinds of
people. No rocket science here. This gleaming nugget of wisdom
has come in handier than almost anything else I learned in my
youth, and while it seems painfully obvious if the only item
on the docket is human reproduction, a wider view makes it all
the more cogent.
There are: Men and women, kids and adults, Republicans and Democrats,
idealists and realists and most importantly to this particular
discussion, cat people and dog people. The polarization of reality
extends to the horizon in all directions, even further where
pets are concerned.
The animals we share our lives and homes with require separate
and distinct personality types with which to mingle, based entirely
on the animal’s own perceptions of reality. The analog
in the human world is the relationships between men and women.
(Disclaimer: This, and all vague, intentionally provocative
generalities are always totally and completely wrong.)
Dog people are in caught up a in a ritual of perpetual dating.
No matter what Spot has done or how guilty he looks, in a matter
of minutes after the crime, he is all tail-wags and sloppy kisses,
which are received with cheerful abandon by his human partner.
(Please note: I will never use the word “owner”
to describe pet/human relations. Anyone who spends time with
a dog or cat knows better.)
Dogs require food, water, love and affection, but if spurned
will settle for just food and water temporarily. They then return
for more of either spurning or love and affection. Dogs are
the guys you’ve known who can’t take “no”
for an answer. Every time you walk in the door, they greet you
with toothy canine smiles. They couldn’t care less if
you’re Jack the Ripper or Shirley Temple – to them
you’re the sun, moon and stars. To show their love and
their gratitude for your reciprocation, a dog will allow you
to take it for a walk on the coldest day of the year. A well-trained
dog will keep you from receiving annoying junk mail, or any
mail at all. Must be the letter-carrier’s blue uniform
and the shorts that makes dogs crazy. I’m still trying
figure out their fascination with moving cars.
Cat people are the married side of the pet/human equation. They
know that if Fluffy breaks a vase or eats a Vermeer, it’s
because your sense of decorating violated their feline feng
shui and by eliminating the offending gimcrack, order has been
rightly, if temporarily, restored. This is not unlike your wife
informing you in no uncertain terms that the velvet Elvis is
leaving the building. You might be able to hang it in the attic,
but I’m not betting on it.
Cats require food, water, love, affection, a sandbox, drug-laced
toys, a checkbook, the remote control, something to scratch
on (sofa, leg, geranium) and copious warmth. Cats are, apparently,
incapable of generating their own heat and prefer table lamps
and televisions for their thermal needs. When you arrive home
from a long day at the grind, a cat will be waiting, standing
on its hind legs, arms crossed, wondering where you’ve
been and whether it would have been so darned difficult for
you to pick up the phone and check in. After all, you have thumbs.
Cats don’t care whether you’re Jack the Ripper or
Shirley Temple, either, provided you have a lap. Even then,
you’re on probation. To show their love and their gratitude
for your reciprocation, a cat will bring you gifts. Small, furry,
living, squealing gifts that will, when loosed, run for cover.
Cover in this instance means under your couch. The cat will
beam proudly at you and expect you to retrieve the present and
play with it, but not before you refill the food bowl and sift
the aromatic contents of the plastic Sahara in the corner.
Dog people and cat people belong to an intersecting subset –
they share their lives with their chosen variety of Furpeople
and would gladly sacrifice home and comfort for their four-legged
friends. Recently, I watched, through a street-side window,
as a young woman sat in front of a downtown coffee house, her
chocolate-brown dog at her feet. She would occasionally look
down, and touching his head, reassure her friend that she was
still there, was attending to her own needs of caffeine, nourishment
and conversation for the moment, but would soon be able to focus
all her attention dogward. This appeared to be enough for the
dog. Meanwhile, on my side of the glass, a young couple spoke
of their life with cats. The man carried pictures of their cat
and grandcats, generations of family described as naturally
as if it had been his Uncle Norman from Chillicothe. This is
as it should be.
Here at The Ranch, we share our place with two cats –
one named for a wild Danish astronomer, one for a medicinal
soft drink. We are real, live cat people. We’re not fawning
baby-talkers, nor are we detached or parental, we’re just
the other people in the room who enjoy the company we keep.
I can’t watch the news without the help of two bundles
of feline pulchritude. It helps me maintain my perspective.
Someone once asked if we were “empty-nesters.” We
replied, “No. We have cats.” And they have us. We
were once both dog people, and still imagine we might, if our
situation were different, enjoy the company of canines. We would
spoil them, too.
I’ve tried to imagine what our cats, or maybe my daughter’s
dogs see as we approach. Meal ticket? Entertainment? Maybe,
but I’m guessing in the dimension of Four Legs and Sharp
Teeth, humans may appear and disappear in the world the way
a minor deity might. Gods and demi-gods have great responsibility
to those who idolize them, just as dog people and cat people
alike all have the responsibility to live up to the deification
that their four-legged friends bestow upon them. Just to meet
them half-way makes us better for the effort.
Bud
Simpson is a member of the infamous Northeast High School Class
of 1968 and a professional photographer. Learn more at www.budzilla.com.
