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Saturday, February 23, 2013

Short Story Saturday ~ Confessions of the Crazy Dog Lady's Cat

 Confession:  I Am The Crazy Dog Lady's Cat
by Doctor "Indy" Jones

     I was very young when The Lady brought me to her home.  I remember going for a short car ride, being wrapped in a blue blanket, and then shuffled into an awaiting vehicle for yet another short drive.  When we got to what would be my new home, I could smell the dog before the vehicle even stopped moving.  I should say dogs, plural.  The scents wafting through the open window were diverse and numerous, but strongly overpowered by the stench of dogs.  Humans always like to talk about how great a dog's sense of smell is, as if cats can't smell at all.  It's very annoying.  We felines do indeed have a very good nose and are easily offended by strong odors.  But, I digress...  I was speaking to you of home.  I'd only known one prior home that I'd shared with my mother and siblings.  This new home was unfamiliar to me and a bit nerve wracking.  I was so small, you see, and the barking was so loud.

     My new home was to be shared with several dogs.  Three seem to be permanent fixtures while others come and go.  I learned later on that The Lady is on a mission to rescue dogs from being unloved and unwanted.  Too bad her mission isn't to rid them of their pungent smell.  Truly, have you smelled a dog before?  Atrocious.  Why they seem so intent on sniffing their butts is beyond me.  They sniffed mine right away.  I hope they got a good whiff of what I'd had for lunch.  Tuna.  I love it so.  Rather, I did, once upon a time. 
      Back then, I'd been called Dr. Jones.  There seemed to be something humorous about that name that I never understood.  I vaguely remember the young woman that named me that, but do not remember why it invoked giggles whenever she spoke it.  I received a new name along with my new home and new companions.  The Lady calls me Indy.  It's a strange name, but at least it isn't Fluffy or some other frou-frou name.  I'd hoped to be named Tiger.  It's a noble and proud name among my kind.  Things like my name mattered to me back when I was still a cat.  
      I am not sure when it happened but at some point, I began to think and act just like them- those smelly, yapping, dogs.  It happened gradually I suppose.  I admit I was curious about their food.  It smelled interesting and had a strange new texture.  I just wanted to experience life and all it had to offer.  I didn't expect to like it.  I liked it.  A lot.  Flavors I'd never encountered lit up my palette in a parade of splendid delight.  After that, I turned my nose up to the Special Kitty that The Lady presented me with thrice daily.  Eating fish shaped kibble that tasted nothing like the real thing grew old quickly.  I began sneaking food from the dog's bowls.
     Stealing food from a dog is not easy when there are multiple dogs.  I always had to concoct an elaborate plot and cause some sort of terrific diversion.  One time, I waited until The Lady had gone to get a jug of water and I nipped the short blind dog on the bottom.  I admit, it was rather childish and not at all moral of me.  After Blackie had retreated under the bed, I had to contend with the dumb one, Sookie.  Oh, she's something to behold.   I suspect she was dropped on her head by her mother.  Canines carry their young in their mouths, just as cats do, but with less grace and precision.  You should see her try to walk on linoleum flooring.  I was able to chase her from the room by kicking a tennis ball into the hallway.  The other dog, they call her Sadie, she is not to be toyed with.  She doesn't seem to mind if I eat from the bowls as long as it is not her bowl.  She's best left to gobble from her bowl as I hurry to grab a bite or two before the others return.  All that for a mouthful of bacon-cheeseburger-flavored bliss.
     It might have been the food, or the atmosphere of living in the home of an obvious dog lover, or maybe it just rubbed off on me in some sort of unfortunate osmosis.  I began chasing tennis balls, coming when humans whistled, and bolting towards the kitchen at the sound of a crinkling cheese wrapper.  It wasn't long before I found myself participating in the undesirable ritual of butt-sniffing.  I'm not proud of myself.  I'm not sure how it happened.  I have no idea what to do about it.  It's only a matter of time before I begin drinking out of the toilet. 
     On television there is a man called The Dog Whisperer.  I never spoke dog before, and was never exactly fluent in human, but the whispering of the man and the reaction of the dogs began to mess with my head.  This further exacerbated my identity crisis.  I no longer feel like a cat.  Help is needed immediately, but I know not where to turn.  Is there a cat whisperer?  

© 2013 D.M. Kilgore

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