Lovers of dogs and cats
reading the following will
understand at once. Another
reaction will come from
those who just don’t understand
pets: ``Well, you fools!
It serves you right!’’
I’m bunking down these
days in my study to give
Anne respite from my Parkinson’s
restlessness. It’s a
great arrangement, with
her right across the hall in
a welcoming queen-sized
bed and with a new TV.
And I have a comfortable
single bed in what I now
think of as my ``man cave.’’
My bed, desk, books, lounger,
laptop — what more
could I ask? And most
nights I have the company
of Simon the cat. It’s like
camping out for us guys!
Simon spends many
nights at the bottom of the
bed, right between my ankles.
But cat lovers will understand
he also likes to
settle on some high eminence
in the room. His favorite
spot in the man cave
is atop the Xerox copier. It’s
suitably high and placed
just next to the west window.
Hunkered there, Simon
has a view across the
west field and right down
Allison Road, almost to the
bridge.
I’ve put a thick throw of
rough-woven wool on the
machine’s top and know
he’s grateful for it in his
catlike way. Which is to
say, he recognizes its value
and is glad that I know
what is due to him. I find
that an endearing quality
in cats. Others may call me
wacko.
One recent night, Simon
was enthroned on the Xerox
and I was deeply asleep,
settled down for a long winter’s
nap. Sometime in the
small hours, I half awoke to
a low electrical growl and
then a couple of clicks, but
then sank right back into
sleep. A minute later, or
maybe an hour, I came
awake again to ``thunk,
thunk, whirrr,’’ and again,
``thunk, thunk, whirr.’’
The Xerox was running.
Simon was over there, making
copies.
I jumped up and cut him
off after three sheets. On
his part, he rolled over and
stretched, then meowed inquiringly.
I guess that,
shifting earlier in his sleep,
he had pushed the machine’s
``On’’ button. Then,
later, he’d hit ``Print.’’ Repeatedly.
OK, no fault, no penalty.
Except to my sleep. For it
took awhile for me to settle
down again. After all, what
to my wondering eyes had
appeared? A gray-andwhite
cat, printing copies
in the night. If I had any
dreams after that, I’ll bet
they were interesting ones.
Sheep at electronic pianos,
maybe, and hens lined up
like Rockettes, kicking up
drumsticks high in front of
them.
The only disadvantage
of my man cave is that it’s
right above the kitchen,
and that’s where Blue the
dog sleeps. And does so
soundly, unless internal
distress makes him think,
``I gotta go—right now!’’
When that happens, he begins
moaning, at first softly
to himself.
If conditions worsen, he
shifts to a low register and
begins sounding like Long
John Silver. ``Arrrr,’’ he
says, and then, ``Arrrr!’’ But
there’s also a whiny, background
wheeze — as if the
crusty old pirate were choking
on a fish bone.
All this I can hear
through the floor and am
intended to. And when I get
up, pulling my feet from
under a disturbed Simon, I
sometimes open the bedroom
door to find Blue
standing right there, dancing
from foot to foot, all
wriggles and smiles and
wagging tail.
He knows he has violated
a major house rule:
``THOU SHALT NOT, OH
DOG, PAD FROM KICHEN
INTO DINING ROOM,
MUCH LESS UP THE
STAIRS, LEST THY TAIL
BE SHOVED UP THY
BUTT AND SNATCHED
OUT THROUGH THY
JAWS, TURNING THEE
INSIDE OUT!’’ But all his
dancing and smiling is to
convince me that desperation
has trumped ordinary
rules. I, of course, buy it.
Downstairs we go. I add
to my bathrobe my outdoor
coat and my red Elmer
Fudd cap, and we head out
into the Arctic darkness. I
have him on a leash and am
almost jerked after him as
he streaks for a favorite unloading
depot. I stand shivering,
admiring Orion overhead
lying at rest on his
back, as I’d sooner be. But
then Blue gallops back in a
kind of victory run, and
back we go into the house’s
warmth.
There’s a reason I have
Blue on a leash during such
night treks. There’ve been
several of them lately, all
following of a single cause.
Somewhere down in our
woods is a something in a
horrible state of decay. Blue
is ecstatic over it, and keeps
running off to fetch home
more pieces. So we keep
him under protective arrest.
It’s protective for us,
for what he hauls home is
beyond description.
Somehow he got away
from Anne a few nights ago
and galloped off into the
woods. My Anne, single minded
in her devotion, ran
off after him. And, as darkness
deepened, her wobbly
husband trundled after
both of them. I caught up
with Anne at the far end of
the property, halfway down
a steep, snow-covered
slope.
``Get back to the house!’’
she yelled, ``You’ll fall
down!’’ This from a dear
woman of a certain age, in
the blackness and halfway
down a snowy slope, with
every chance of snagging
her foot in brambles and
tumbling all the way down
and into Oaks Creeks.
Then I heard a distant
woof. ``He’s back up by the
house!’’ I shouted and headed
that way. Sure enough,
there stood Blue, just outside
the sheep gate. Whatever
he had dragged back
from the woods, he had already
hidden for future reference.
Everybody got back inside
safely, but on toward
morning I heard the choking
pirate below me again.
And so I unsettled Simon,
opened the bedroom door,
and found that dancing,
apologetic dog.
Why put up with such
things? For petless people,
I have no answer. For others,
none is needed.
Read about Jim Atwell’s
book at JimAtwell.com
