When a Cat Person Gets a Dog

I have joined the dog cult. Just like the rest of you, I got sucked in. I’ve been swindled, duped, hoodwinked even. Next thing you know I’ll be zipping him up in his little doggie stroller and introducing him as my son to passersby.

I’d blame my actual son for my indoctrination, but the reality is I’ve been secretly longing to be a dog person my whole life. Well, a specific type of dog person, that is. I don’t know why. I don’t know how, but I’ve had a thing for corgis ever since I was a little kid.

When we moved our son far away a little over a year ago we promised him that getting a dog was part of the deal. He’d been asking for one for a couple of years, but I was sick and the medical bills were relentless and we didn’t have a yard. There was always a reason to say no.

Now I’m well. We have a yard. The debt is slowly decreasing and all the nos have slowly drifted away. We looked around at various shelters and rescue organizations, but couldn’t find the right fit. With my bum leg, size matters. A big dog could easily send me tumbling with a strong tug of the leash or forceful nudge at just the right angle. The husband and son drew the line at a tiny dog, so I made a suggestion.

What about a corgi?

Everyone agreed that a corgi was just big enough to be manly yet small enough not to knock me over and break my hip. After extensive research we found a breeder we liked and the wait began. Our little Ace was born a few months later, husband and son visited him at the four week mark, and after he was old enough we picked him up and he officially became part of the family.

Now, I love this dog. I look at him and I want to weep. He is the purest form of love. His belly is freckled and fat. His paws are so overgrown he slaps them around like seal flippers as he walks. His stumpy legs never fail to make me laugh. He’s sweet and precocious. When he barks he only scares himself. I love him.

There’s just one small problem, I must confess. See, I’m really a cat person. 

It’s not that I don’t like dogs. Dogs are man’s best friend, after all. They’re loyal. They’ll drag your ass out of a fire, bite a burglar in the hind quarters for you. Dogs go on adventures with you. They lay their perfect dog heads in your lap when you’re having a bad day. They are, for all intents and purposes, the perfect pet. But, personally, I’d rather have a cat.

Cats are aloof, fairly self sufficient, and the best part is, they’re usually free. Just like our cat, Jojo. She was part of small litter, a pack of adorable floofs free to a good home. We thought she’d make a great pal for our then very young daughter. Eventually our daughter grew up, went to college, and then Jojo became my problem.

To be honest, I was fine with that because, even though she hisses at small children and is in all other ways an asshole, I kinda like that cat. She’s easy. She knows where to take a dump without any instruction. She doesn’t eat my shoes. Other than needing to tell me to feed her twice a day, usually by walking on my boobs until I get annoyed enough to get off my ass, she basically can’t be bothered with me. It’s great.

Dogs, though, dogs are another matter. Especially puppies. It’s like having another child. Last night I was up at 2 a.m. and 4 a.m. and 6 a.m. I’m writing this, bleary eyed and exhausted, desperately in need of sleep and more caffeine. I haven’t felt this way in a dozen years and I’m still reeling from it.

When Jojo came home I was like, so here’s where you pee and poop and there’s your bowl of food. Uh, see you tomorrow, I guess? And Jojo was like, cool. Later, loser. The ease of it all was downright glorious.

But with a dog, with a dog, holy hell. The struggle is real. There’s whining and crying at 4 a.m. Putting down the food and taking away the food. Not to mention the walks afterward to “take care of business” that you then have to pick up in a neatly wrapped plastic package from hell. Don’t eat this. Stay away from that! Constantly underfoot and nipping at your toes. Hey, Ma, what ya doing?

And also, that face. That bond. That heart on his chunky little butt. 

I guess I can’t help but love him. I’m still a cat person, though. They’re easier and neater and don’t like to lick your toes. They hate your guts and I’m always going to be okay with that. But I think maybe, just maybe, I’ve got some room in this black heart of mine to be a little bit of a dog person too. But just a little bit and please, please don’t tell Jojo.

 

*Featured image courtesy of Pixabay