Confessions of A Cat Person

I have come to the realization that I am not much of a dog person. It’s not that I don’t like dogs, exactly. I like them just fine. I like to look at cute dogs, and to pat their heads, and to throw toys for them, or perhaps to watch them enjoy their toys all by themselves. But beyond that, I really have no use for them.

Picking up small dogs is awkward because of the possibility of accidentally touching canine genitalia. The big ones don’t have that same risk, but instead you just have to look at their junk. Jesus, put on some pants, would you? Think of the children. And when you aren’t looking at their stuff, they are nose deep in yours, sniffing. I don’t really want anyone sniffing my goods, thank you very much. I haven’t even gotten to the other things that make dogs a deal breaker, like picking up poop, waiting for them to poop, hoping they don’t eat some other dog’s poop. Dogs are too natural for me, with all that genitalia and poop. And don’t even get me started on the way they smell.

I know dog people will say that you have to have a dog to truly learn to love a dog. I grew up with a dog, so I have had some experience. His name was Gus, G-d rest his soul, and he was the kind of dog that everyone else in the neighborhood hated. My mother didn’t believe in responsible pet ownership, so she would just open the front door and let Gus roam free. He used this opportunity to knock over garbage cans like trash day was an all-you-can-eat buffet. He would stand in the middle of the road, staring down oncoming traffic. He pooped wherever he wanted to, and when feeling randy, would screw anyone or anything, the neighbor’s dogs, my mother’s dates. He was a humping machine. Once he even pinned down our male cat, who was even more confused than we were.

I could go on and on about Gus, but that’s for another day. After he passed away, my exposure to dogs was spotty until I started dating my husband in college. He had an English sheepdog with a skin condition and a stupid poodle named Cookie that his mother had driven crazy. Cookie’s diet consisted of Vienna sausages and Mighty Dog, essentially the same thing in a different shape, with the occasional pimento cheese covered Wheat Thin for color. She was fond of pissing on the den carpet, masturbating with a slipper, and going through my bag and removing articles that did not belong to her. Her acts of sabotage started small, like dragging out my toothbrush and chomping on it like a teething biscuit. Another time she raided my bag and extracted an expensive makeup brush. She upped her game when she went through my dirty laundry and dragged my black lace panties unto the middle of the den for my mother in law to discover.

The worst was the time we returned to my in law’s house after a dinner out to find Cookie chewing happily on something on the den floor (Cookie really liked the den). My mother-in-law moved in for a closer inspection, then hurriedly grabbed a Kleenex, picked up the offending item, and tossed it in the closest trash can. It turned out that Cookie had been rooting around in the bathroom trash can earlier that evening and had produced a used tampon that I thought had been wrapped and buried well, a used tampon that surely would have clogged an already feisty and temperamental downstairs toilet. I hated that freaking dog, probably as much as my mother in law hated me for menstruating at her house.

My friend MJ, on the other hand, loves dogs. She has a rescue Papillion that lives with her and a rescue Borzoi that lives with her ex-husband, since he kept the house and the accompanying large fenced –in yard. He doesn’t seem to mind, since her Borzoi keeps his rescued greyhound company. These folks are their own no-kill animal shelter.

Her Papillion, when not pooping on the floor and shaking nervously, is also a fan of the search and rescue mission. MJ just returned from a trip last week, and before she had a chance to unpack, her little dog liberated all her dirty panties. Being the thoughtful and intelligent creature that he is, he not only inventoried them, he even washed them thoroughly by hand, er, tongue. He lovingly and painstakingly went over every bit of fabric, making sure that the entire pantie was inspected and licked clean before discarding it and moving on to the next, ready to be put back in the drawer for another day. Think about that the next time someone's dog greets you by licking your mouth.

My cats are far from perfect. Sure, they knock glasses over and claw my furniture and chew on the girls’ toys and wake me up every night and scratch my hardwood floor tearing through the house after one another, but they are not interested in my genitalia at all, nor I in theirs, which is the way I like it. I would rather find that they left me a dead mouse, which means they are doing their jobs, then a used tampon, which means they are just nosy. And if I want to pick up their poop, I know exactly where it is. I don’t have to go looking for it. They might act like they don’t know their own names, but I do, so it’s a win-win. What they lack in loyalty they make up for in good-natured aloofness. I don’t have to walk them or bathe them or entertain them. They don’t require day care or sweaters or chew toys. I can leave them at home alone, and know that the furniture and my shoes will still exist when I return. And never once has either of them tried to fuck anything. They may not slobber all over me with wet kisses, but then again, they don’t slobber all over me with wet kisses.

So yes, I can see the alleged charm of a dog. By looking over the neighbor’s fence. Where, I am sure, there is a whole minefield of poop waiting for a child’s sneaker to discover.