The Pets That Own Me

 

Two cats, a miniature dog, a teenaged boy, a husband and an neurotic-perfectionist of a wife all coexisting and learning to share space. I find it infuriating and amusing (depends on the day) that although my spouse and son have learned to avoid my space when I am irritable, my pets would rather ruffle my already rumpled feathers than show me any sort of respect. I feed and water them daily, keep their litter clean, provide veterinary care as needed, and offer my love to them constantly. In spite of all my efforts to provide a decent home, they show me that I am merely a resident in their lair.

Walter my 2-year-old tom cat, to say the least is unique. He likes to hop onto my bed, climb upon my chest and ever so gently outstretch his front legs slowly and land his paws on my face. Right. On. My. Face. I could have a book in hand, no matter, Walter reaches right over it. My husband is not the “cuddle the kitty” type. Often as he lay in bed, up comes Wally and walks over his bare chest and turns about as though plumping a good spot to take a load off. Clearly, no fear has Walter.

Macy, a six-year-old spayed feline with tolerance for no one still rejects the affections offered her by Walter.  She prefers to be left to her napping, eating and lounging regiment. Simplicity is for Macy. Odd is how we describe her. She wishes not to be held, but yearns for petting and responds in kind with the yawl of death. She watches her humans from afar as though to say “distance, keep your distance”.  She has a belly that hangs low, just missing the surface beneath her as she walks to and from feeding place to napping place to excrement place. This is the life of Miss Macy.

Walter has determined his most favored activity of late to be the torturing of Macy. He lurks around corners, sneaks behind inanimate objects and lies in wait for her next excursion through his quarters.  He will pounce her from afar and although she prefer to not engage in physical activity, she comes to life with a vengeance. Hissing and scurrying she fights off his attempts at playful encounter and retreats to a safer space. Walter will then look for entertainment elsewhere for a short time before returning to his quest in tormenting Macy.

Max, the alpha (and only) dog of the Manor, is Walter’s bff. To my amazement, they play and clean each others ears seemingly unaware of the difference in species. Max, or Dinky as we affectionately call him due to his miniature size, is 12 years old and a baby at heart. He is unaware of his senior status and his energy is unending. He is able to leap to my hip in order to grasp my undivided attention. He can still run at hypersonic speeds when called in from his daily out-of-doors excursions. All in all, he’s truly a youngster at heart.

This morning in my rush to get out the door on time, (again, unsuccessful) I smashed my thumb whilst crushing ice for a smoothie, spilled the powdered mix, overfilled the water jugs, and felt composure leaving my body. Max is jumping up to me and with every take he is poking his little paws into my thigh. As I urge Max to stop, I look to my left and there he is, atop the counter fully aware of his wrongdoing. Smug, looking right at me as though to say “whatcha gonna do ’bout it?”  I turn back to the sink, finish the botched job I had begun and see a small juice glass staring at me; taunting me. I filled it and unbeknownst to the offender, walked over nearer him and hurled the water in his face. Walter turned and leapt off the counter with a wet face and neck,  as he hit the floor and looked back at me with disgust and utter astonishment, I say “No Walter, I will not be messed with today”.

In some small way I won today’s battle, although I am fully aware the war will wage on and I am merely a servant and will never see a true victory so long as I choose to reside in Walter’s abode.

 

 

 

 

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