Who let the dogs out? asks Colonel Klink. Well, I’m waiting?…*taps foot* It seems that I do not know how to properly care for pets. Or so it is inferred, by various harrumphs, eye rolls and other indications of…don’t know. Disdain? Frustration? “You have no clue,” etcetera.
Excuse me. I have peacefully cohabited with many happy and healthy dogs, cats, birds, fish, hamsters, ducks, caterpillars, snakes, white mice, lizards and guinea pigs over these 50+ years on this planet. Anyone who has kids knows exactly what I’m talking about. I am also the oldest of 6, so I have been in critter care training since the birth of my first sibling. Unfortunately, that is not sufficient evidence to the Mr. Husband. The King of Everything knows all, sees all that ever was, is now, or forever shall be, amen.
Not a day goes by that I don’t thank God that the hub-man and I married later in life so having children was not on the table. Had we gone there, we would spend lots of time at central lock up for assaulting one another with rolled up newspapers.
Our views on pets are polar opposites. He ‘owns’ them, and monitors their every move as if they were microbes in a Petri dish. I think they are cute and earn their keep. I feed them, take them to the vet, snuggle them, or shoo them away. It totally grosses me out if they try to lick food off my plate or paw at me while I’m eating. Makes me feel like I’m crouched in the corner of a prison yard trying to protect my food.
The main thing is that although we live together with the little darlings, they are not my children. Been there, done that, lived to tell the tale… but just barely. I have no need or desire to treat pets like kids. I think any living entity should be approached as it is. Not what you want or think it is supposed to be. That would like walking up to a cat, stroking your chin in contemplation. Well cat, I think I’m gonna treat you like …a buffalo! Yea, that’s the ticket. I’m gonna put a ring in your nose and walk you around pasture for a while. Then I’m gonna slap a saddle on ya and ride you town. How’s that for a plan?
On a daily basis, hubby will randomly approach me and ask “where’s Mr. Cat?” “Uh, I dunno, where he chooses to be at the moment?” What? Am I supposed to follow the cat around with a notepad? At 8:15 he visited the litter box. At 9:00 he rolled over on his back and started licking his belly. 9:30 a vigorous bug chase. 10:00 to 2:00 slept by the fireplace with one eye open. If you want to know where the darn cat is go find him your own self. Not my job. Let the cat be cat.
Hubby also sees nothing wrong with letting the animules turn our bed into a giant pile of mud, leaves, slobbered chew toys, and fur balls. It smells like a wet dog… on a good day. I’d just as soon sleep in a dumpster. At least I would know what awaited me each night. No one would complain if I wore a hazmat suit to bed. We have a sleep number bed. I like my side firm. He sleeps in what looks like a padded canoe. Maybe the sleep number guys have some add-on accessories. A cage that drops down from the ceiling and covers one side so it can’t turn into a petting zoo during the day would be fabulous. Maybe I’ll apply for a patent.