Plague Life: We Add To The Family
We had always been dog people. My mother and I spent the better part of two and a half decades with a Beardie-Old English Sheepdog mix named O'Neill and a decade with a cranky little Shih Tzu named Niklas Lidstrom.
Shih Tzus have been described as "the most catlike of dogs. I often wondered if Niklas was angry he'd been born a Shih Tzu. He did not suffer fools who treated him like a cute, ambulatory ball of fluff. In fact, if I forgot myself and smooched the top of his round little head, he would curl his tail tightly, stick his muzzle in the air and march into the kitchen to tell on me.
"Wreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! ::snort snort:: Wreeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"
My mom would answer as if she knew what he was saying. "NikNik, is she bothering you again? I'll tell her to stop."
The real question is whether eleven years with Niklas prepared us for cat ownership. We tried with friendly ferals, the last was a sweet tuxie named MayMay. Every evening, she begged to go home and then would wait patiently to for us to let her in every morning. One evening, we tried to make her stay in. Her response was to potty everywhere except the litter box, pull the solar panels out of the windows, and somehow managed to open the back door. She showed up a week later, attacked my knitting, and ran screaming across the back yards on my block, never to be seen again.
I was heartbroken.
We decided to wait until we found the right dog. It seemed like every shelter in Middle Tennessee had packs of bully breeds they would list as "Terrier Mixes," German Shepherd Mixes," and "Beagle Mixes." Every picture showed another Pit Bull. They may very well have been sweet animals, but they just weren't for us.
After months of looking for the right dog, I decided to look for the right cat. Mom wasn't sold on the idea. She'd come from a long line of cat-hters. For what it's worth, she tolerated MAyMay because she knew I was a mental health care worker who was isolated from friends and favorite haunts because of COVID. While she gloried in the isolation the pandemic caused, I was trying hard to cope. Maybe it was good to understand how my clients' mental health was taking a hit, but it was one hell of a way to get on-the-job training.
We looked at websites and picked candidates based on descriptions. What cat would be happiest in a quiet house with a retired revenuer and a writer/counselor? The gray tabby who supposedly loved laps and looking out windows turned out to "have a little biting problem and some food aggression issues." Another lovely OrnjKitteh turned out to dislike women. Of course, we would "be able to conquer these peccadilloes with love and patience."
Not really. We were both pretty much cat rookies. By the time I found a beautiful Hemingway cat who needed a house "with writerly mellowness" anf we were turned down because our cat would be inside only, which was "WRONG! SO WRONG!" and "we obviously didn't understand cats!" I was prosaic about it and simply deleted the email and quietly said "Next..."
Two months into our search, I decided to go to the local humane society to find a cat. Mom and I discussed this. There were two rules to be observed in order for a cat to cross the doorway at Chez Faulkner:
"Meow!"
I looked down and saw a small, brown tabby. She had stripes on her legs and tail like one of Bison Kleban's famous cartoon cats. She walked up and rubbed against my ankles.
"Hello!" I said, and spotted a small black cat whose eyes widened as she awalked up to the brown kitty.
Shih Tzus have been described as "the most catlike of dogs. I often wondered if Niklas was angry he'd been born a Shih Tzu. He did not suffer fools who treated him like a cute, ambulatory ball of fluff. In fact, if I forgot myself and smooched the top of his round little head, he would curl his tail tightly, stick his muzzle in the air and march into the kitchen to tell on me.
"Wreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! ::snort snort:: Wreeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"
My mom would answer as if she knew what he was saying. "NikNik, is she bothering you again? I'll tell her to stop."
The real question is whether eleven years with Niklas prepared us for cat ownership. We tried with friendly ferals, the last was a sweet tuxie named MayMay. Every evening, she begged to go home and then would wait patiently to for us to let her in every morning. One evening, we tried to make her stay in. Her response was to potty everywhere except the litter box, pull the solar panels out of the windows, and somehow managed to open the back door. She showed up a week later, attacked my knitting, and ran screaming across the back yards on my block, never to be seen again.
I was heartbroken.
We decided to wait until we found the right dog. It seemed like every shelter in Middle Tennessee had packs of bully breeds they would list as "Terrier Mixes," German Shepherd Mixes," and "Beagle Mixes." Every picture showed another Pit Bull. They may very well have been sweet animals, but they just weren't for us.
After months of looking for the right dog, I decided to look for the right cat. Mom wasn't sold on the idea. She'd come from a long line of cat-hters. For what it's worth, she tolerated MAyMay because she knew I was a mental health care worker who was isolated from friends and favorite haunts because of COVID. While she gloried in the isolation the pandemic caused, I was trying hard to cope. Maybe it was good to understand how my clients' mental health was taking a hit, but it was one hell of a way to get on-the-job training.
We looked at websites and picked candidates based on descriptions. What cat would be happiest in a quiet house with a retired revenuer and a writer/counselor? The gray tabby who supposedly loved laps and looking out windows turned out to "have a little biting problem and some food aggression issues." Another lovely OrnjKitteh turned out to dislike women. Of course, we would "be able to conquer these peccadilloes with love and patience."
Not really. We were both pretty much cat rookies. By the time I found a beautiful Hemingway cat who needed a house "with writerly mellowness" anf we were turned down because our cat would be inside only, which was "WRONG! SO WRONG!" and "we obviously didn't understand cats!" I was prosaic about it and simply deleted the email and quietly said "Next..."
Two months into our search, I decided to go to the local humane society to find a cat. Mom and I discussed this. There were two rules to be observed in order for a cat to cross the doorway at Chez Faulkner:
- If I didn't find the right cat, I would not just adopt any cat. I had to keep looking.
- Mom had naming rights. She wanted to call whatever cat we adopted "Princess."
"Meow!"
I looked down and saw a small, brown tabby. She had stripes on her legs and tail like one of Bison Kleban's famous cartoon cats. She walked up and rubbed against my ankles.
"Hello!" I said, and spotted a small black cat whose eyes widened as she awalked up to the brown kitty.