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A cat person in a dog people family

weasel hound

“How did you turn out to be a cat person, anyhow?” my dad asked last week.

A good question, in a way. The whole famn damily is dog people. My siblings, my cousins, my natural mother, my unnatural stepmother, my vile Texas grandma and my sweet little bluehaired down Eastern grandm’ma. We found a jaunty poem about a dead cat in Grandmother’s personal papers. Shit you not.

On another level, it was an incredibly fucking stupid question to ask someone bleeding from a fresh dog bite.

Yeah. Stoathund here had a few practice snaps before moving in for some delicious stoatburger.

“See, if she decides something is hers, you’d better not mess with it,” my father explained patiently, like it was real stupid of me not to know that. Problem is, she decides something is hers VERY FAST. Like, in the blink of an eye. Like, the entire contents of the dishwasher. Which is a bitch if you’re loading it and aren’t really paying attention. Yeah, you load the dishwasher then, you smart-alecky old coot.

I should have been on guard. I’d seen her pull silverware out of the dishwasher and parade around waving it in the air like, “g’wan, weaselbreath — dare you to touch my spoon!” Ugh. I probably ate grapefruit with it next morning.

Do you know what they do when she gets hold of something like that? To get the whatever-it-is away from her? They give her a treat.

That’s right. When the dog acts like a shitbag, they reward her. Now, I am but an humble cat person, but even I know when you reward a dog for being a shitbag, you might as well rename her Ol’ Shitbag, because you’re going to get a LOT of shitbaggery out of that animal.

Whereas cats are shitbags out of sheer joy and professionalism.

sock it to me

December 4, 2007 — 6:28 pm
Comments: 57