Suzy Says

Loyal readers with good memories may recall John’s hurried trip to Petaluma in the middle of June to pick up my mother’s cat while Mom was visiting my sister and brother in the country. At the time, we thought Mom’s visit was just that, a visit, and she would eventually go home and we could return her cat to her.

As usual, we were wrong, and Mom is now permanently living with Megan for what remains of her life, and Mom’s cat is now permanently living with us, making us severely outnumbered by what our friend Mike, with an apt and delightful turn of phrase, calls The Feline Five.

Now, not only is this far too many cats (John & I disagree on the ideal number, which makes it a good thing we didn’t have children, because reaching a compromise on how many would be impossible, if our views on cats are anything to go by. I think the right number of cats is around 2, and he thinks it’s more like 12.), but the original four absolutely hate Twice* and it’s like the Middle East chez nous, with peace between the warring parties approximately as likely in Middle East West as in the original Middle East.

I mean, Twice has lived with us for 4 months and it’s still a non-stop hissing fest. The original four just keep harassing her, chasing her around and hissing and generally being the worst possible hostesses. I feel really bad for Twice, because she is very shy and affectionate and has no claws, unlike all our girls, so her only weapons are hissing and running away. She must feel like a hunted gazelle on one of those nature documentaries.

I don’t understand it, either, because all the other cats get along with each other. They’re always playing together, snuggling together, and sleeping together. They are their own little family. If things get weird, they stick together.

The only time we’ve ever had problems integrating a new cat into the family was when we brought Cleo home, since she was an adult and everyone else came in as kittens and figured out their own pecking order. But Cleo and our late, lamented Jo fought for a good month before things settled down. Eventually, though, they worked it out and all was serene.

But four months and counting? Maybe we should invite Jimmy Carter over and see what he can do.

*All of my mother’s pets, which we have had to re-home or keep ourselves, have retarded names, without exception. Besides Twice, there was a cat named Li’l Bit, and her dogs are Schatzi, Digger, and Bear. Yes, Bear is a very common dog name, but in this case, it stands for Baroness Von Hershee. I’m not kidding. Really. I guess I’m lucky I got named Susan.

A peek into the whole new world of temporary dog ownership:

I was a little worried about Schatzi’s barking – John said she barked a couple of times when he left for work on Monday, but no angry notes or messages when I got home, so I guess it’s OK. The Same Names, who live across the hall, said she only barked two or three times when John first left and that was it.

She goes completely mad with joy when I get home, bouncing around and squealing and licking my face and unable to contain her utter rapture at my presence. I am beginning to realize why people have dogs, even when they live in an apartment. It’s the ego gratification. All you have to do is go home, which you do anyway, and you are greeted with the enthusiasm of a celebrity stalker spying his/her victim in the famous flesh. But with all the joy and everything, I could hardly get the dog’s leash on. However, no barking.

It’s a whole new world, walking a dog, especially a pit bull in post-dog mauling case San Francisco. Some people get nervous as we approach them, and I try to keep Schatzi close to me and as far away as possible from the stranger, just in case. Some people do want to pet her, so I let them.

Then there’s the etiquette of approaching other dogs. Even those of us with rental dogs soon learn that if a dog sees another dog, canine politeness requires at a minimum a perfunctory butt sniff. Still, I feel that I should ask the dog’s attendant if it’s OK first, particularly if they are walking one of those teeny dogs that could all too easily be stepped on unnoticed. They always say yes, probably because their dog is the exact same way, even if almost invisible.

The challenge of the entire endeavor is not lessened by the storms we have had ever since she arrived (and which are scheduled to go on through next week, giving me a very unpleasant El Nino flashback), making poop removal even less enjoyable than it inherently is. I’m sure others have noted this before me, but really, it’s impossible to do this without thinking that if aliens were to observe you, they would think the dog was the superior being. If nothing else, the dog is in charge. You have to walk it, or risk the stinky destruction of your lovely home, and you have to clear up the results of persisting in feeding it, or risk alienating your [rich and snotty] neighbors.

They say every man has his price, and I am surprised that mine turned out to be so low: $300, which is what it would have cost to board her and have someone else clean up the poop. Seems out of character for me to do it myself instead of paying someone else to do it, which is my usual solution to the unpleasantries of life, like housework.

But it’s not utterly unrewarding. There is the ego boost of the joyful welcome when I get home from work, and Schatzi has now established a routine of curling up on the bathmat while I have my bath and read “The Box of Delights” (me, I mean, not her. She is dumb as a post – or a Bush). She is already good about not going in the bedroom – we have forbidden it to her so our cats have their own “territory”. So far she hasn’t chewed anything up or peed in the house or anything, but “so far” is only a couple of days. So far.