News
Opinion
ENLARGE
I feel pressure on my chest. An uncomfortable weight. Sleeping on my back, the discomfort wakes me up.
I open my eyes and two inches from my face is my cat.
He's purring. It's 4:10 a.m. and the clock in his head tells him it's breakfast time.
I drag myself out of bed and retrieve his food from the refrigerator.
He has me trained. I trudge back to bed after serving the master of the house.
A cat guy, me?
Yes, I'm a cat guy. A big, macho cat guy.
They're so cute and cuddly. My cat makes me happy. Of course, my dog also makes me happy. But that little mental misfit irritates the crap outta me too.
I've always been a cat guy. Growing up our family always had Siamese cats. We had dogs, too, but my feline fondness was clear when we got a little black dog with curly fur. I struggled with picking a name for the mutt.
After multiple trips outside calling our cat to come in, the little dog started answering to the name “kitty.” So, I then had a dog named “Kitty.”
I'm a cat guy. Not necessarily a proud proclamation. Big, manly guys like me who enjoy football, “Baywatch” reruns and movies where stuff blows up should not be cat lovers.
But, I'm a cat guy.
My cat is named Sprocket. An orange tabby with the cutest dang face, a black dot on his nose and faint stripes on his tail.
For the past 14 years the little guy — around 13 pounds of him — has been my buddy.
As my yellow lab spazes out, licking her butt, rolling around on the floor and barking for no reason, Sprocket eyes the brain-challenged canine with a certain amount of snobbish indifference.
A cool, haughtiness. With an almost pompous arrogance, Sprocket glares at me — “Control your dog! It's time for my nap!”
Of course, the dog and the cat are buddies, when the cat finds it acceptable.
The other day, the duo were outside when the dog came trotting into the house with her ears back taking up a defense position behind me. Peeking out from behind my leg, the object of her fear sauntered in, plopping down in front of me with his tail twitching with irritation.
He looked at me with a “get out of my way — this is between me and the dog” sort of look.
The dog gazed up at me with that “don't let the cat hurt me” pathetic look.
At times, Sprocket takes to the high ground and perches himself on a footstool, taking advantage of the dog's close proximity and slaps the dog's face silly with multiple paw punches.
The dog remains stationary until the cat gets tired. He gives Sprocket a nose nudge then retreats.
Sprocket has always had a little dog in him. He fetches on occasion and comes when I call him and follows me around the house. But not all the time, he still has to show the dominance of his alpha cat status.
He drinks out of the dog dish and yes, he takes his occasional turn lapping up water from the toilet.
There have been times when I emerge from a night's sleep in dire need of using the porcelain throne, but I find myself third in line. I see Sprocket, his hind legs stretched upward, his front paws curled over the rim and his head buried deep inside the bowl. Lapping, lapping, lapping — taking his sweet time to satisfy his thirst. Behind him is the dog looking at me waiting her turn.
I'm a cat guy, so I wait my turn.
When it's time for his bathroom break he takes to the liter pan, then when finished, he covers up his waste with a violent vigor. Then he tears out of the litterbox like he was shot out of a cannon.
As the dog sees the orange rocket blur whip past her, she sees that as her cue to see if she can find any kitty treats in the litterbox.
Sprocket returns to watch, again looking at me in disbelief. “Now do you see why she needs slapped around?”
Besides his morning demand to be fed at 4 a.m., which I grew to accept, this cat is indeed my buddy.
He's quirky and cool and patiently accepts affection when I dish it out. Of course, when he craves attention, he expects me to oblige.
He visits and keeps me company when I've got Number 2 business to do in the bathroom.
I'm a cat guy.
Even at 14, Sprocket is as energetic as a third-grader at recess. He plays with his toys, slaps the dog around and takes lengthy strolls around the yard.
He usually comes running when I call him. I feed him treats and relinquish my chair to his requests at times.
He's spoiled. He's a cat and he's my buddy.
I just wish he would speed things up in the morning when I need to use the toilet.
I open my eyes and two inches from my face is my cat.
He's purring. It's 4:10 a.m. and the clock in his head tells him it's breakfast time.
I drag myself out of bed and retrieve his food from the refrigerator.
He has me trained. I trudge back to bed after serving the master of the house.
A cat guy, me?
Yes, I'm a cat guy. A big, macho cat guy.
They're so cute and cuddly. My cat makes me happy. Of course, my dog also makes me happy. But that little mental misfit irritates the crap outta me too.
I've always been a cat guy. Growing up our family always had Siamese cats. We had dogs, too, but my feline fondness was clear when we got a little black dog with curly fur. I struggled with picking a name for the mutt.
After multiple trips outside calling our cat to come in, the little dog started answering to the name “kitty.” So, I then had a dog named “Kitty.”
I'm a cat guy. Not necessarily a proud proclamation. Big, manly guys like me who enjoy football, “Baywatch” reruns and movies where stuff blows up should not be cat lovers.
But, I'm a cat guy.
My cat is named Sprocket. An orange tabby with the cutest dang face, a black dot on his nose and faint stripes on his tail.
For the past 14 years the little guy — around 13 pounds of him — has been my buddy.
As my yellow lab spazes out, licking her butt, rolling around on the floor and barking for no reason, Sprocket eyes the brain-challenged canine with a certain amount of snobbish indifference.
A cool, haughtiness. With an almost pompous arrogance, Sprocket glares at me — “Control your dog! It's time for my nap!”
Of course, the dog and the cat are buddies, when the cat finds it acceptable.
The other day, the duo were outside when the dog came trotting into the house with her ears back taking up a defense position behind me. Peeking out from behind my leg, the object of her fear sauntered in, plopping down in front of me with his tail twitching with irritation.
He looked at me with a “get out of my way — this is between me and the dog” sort of look.
The dog gazed up at me with that “don't let the cat hurt me” pathetic look.
At times, Sprocket takes to the high ground and perches himself on a footstool, taking advantage of the dog's close proximity and slaps the dog's face silly with multiple paw punches.
The dog remains stationary until the cat gets tired. He gives Sprocket a nose nudge then retreats.
Sprocket has always had a little dog in him. He fetches on occasion and comes when I call him and follows me around the house. But not all the time, he still has to show the dominance of his alpha cat status.
He drinks out of the dog dish and yes, he takes his occasional turn lapping up water from the toilet.
There have been times when I emerge from a night's sleep in dire need of using the porcelain throne, but I find myself third in line. I see Sprocket, his hind legs stretched upward, his front paws curled over the rim and his head buried deep inside the bowl. Lapping, lapping, lapping — taking his sweet time to satisfy his thirst. Behind him is the dog looking at me waiting her turn.
I'm a cat guy, so I wait my turn.
When it's time for his bathroom break he takes to the liter pan, then when finished, he covers up his waste with a violent vigor. Then he tears out of the litterbox like he was shot out of a cannon.
As the dog sees the orange rocket blur whip past her, she sees that as her cue to see if she can find any kitty treats in the litterbox.
Sprocket returns to watch, again looking at me in disbelief. “Now do you see why she needs slapped around?”
Besides his morning demand to be fed at 4 a.m., which I grew to accept, this cat is indeed my buddy.
He's quirky and cool and patiently accepts affection when I dish it out. Of course, when he craves attention, he expects me to oblige.
He visits and keeps me company when I've got Number 2 business to do in the bathroom.
I'm a cat guy.
Even at 14, Sprocket is as energetic as a third-grader at recess. He plays with his toys, slaps the dog around and takes lengthy strolls around the yard.
He usually comes running when I call him. I feed him treats and relinquish my chair to his requests at times.
He's spoiled. He's a cat and he's my buddy.
I just wish he would speed things up in the morning when I need to use the toilet.
