Peaceable Kingdom

It's raining cats & dogs in here. Not outside -- outside it's frigid cold and there's thick ice on the ground. In here, in my house, there is a psychologically spoiled and somewhat feral cat named Oscar (my cat) trying to learn how to share this small space with a very large, gregarious and needy Golden Retriever, Bailey (D's dog), who is not even trying.

[By the way: I am using initials because my friend N made me wonder if it's safe to blog -- will people try to steal your children or your stuff, or start stalking you? So I'm going to keep info about my family and our location vague. Sorry, I know it's annoying -- like those Russian novels where people's last names are always R______ or something.]

Anyway, my new husband's dog has been living with his generous father and stepmother since his divorce. The plan had been to reunite with the dog when we move into our new house in Maryland in a few weeks. (2 weeks from today, actually!) However, Grandbob goes every year on an important dental mission trip to Ecuador, helping indigent people with cleft palates and I think other orthodontia. This year, Mimi was also to be travelling, and so we are dogsitting our own dog.

By way of background, my hubby D and my cat aren't exactly the greatest of friends. He will tell you he was the victim of false advertising because during our courtship I said I was "a dog person who happened to have a cat." I beg to differ; this is absolutely true. In fact, if I had the slightest idea how to deal with cats when I took this stray kitten in, maybe he wouldn't have turned out as he has -- ungovernable. I choose to blame his breed. I think he's at least mostly Maine Coon. He loves water, is proud and very beautifully furry, wants to be in the same vicinity at all times but disdains laps, and for him, prolonged petting becomes an invitation to blood sport. Just ask my friends at St. George's -- they can attest to my bandaged early years with him. No, I definitely was not a cat person. I had grown up with dogs, honestly considered myself a dog person -- after all, isn't that a subjective determination? -- but having spent the past few days in close quarters with Bailey, I suddenly realized how LONG it had been since I really lived with a dog. Roughly 15 years!

Now that I don't need the Percoset as much for my wounded foot, I find myself more tense about the wild kingdom being enacted outside my bedroom door. Not tense enough to open the door, though -- not after the day or two of Bailey's merciless, endless circumnavigation of my bed punctuated by sloppy chins on my forearm and sad doggy eyes begging for attention. No, they can just hang out and learn to deal. My foot hurts. Besides, although Bailey might be going back to Grandbob's for a week or so while we actually accomplish our move, they are going to have to learn to live together in harmony in the new Scott House. The new place, of course, is over 4,000 square feet of space with a small yard and huge parks all around, as opposed to my currently ice-entombed bachelorette-pad townhouse with less than 1300 square feet.

There are many worse things, I'll admit, than being surrounded by feuding animals -- like having no animals at all. I love Bailey's perked ears, which make her look like a puppy, and her deep, authoritative bark and growl so at odds with her girly blonde and her lovey demeanor. And I love watching Oscar pounce on red satin Valentine ribbon, recalling his kitten self, and the genuine joy he shows, rolling and stretching on the floor for scratches when I get home from work or get up in the morning. I even like that Oscar needs to be in the bathroom with me every time I go, and that Bailey thinks my use of an embroidery hoop signals peek-a-boo time. Animals, though they smell bad (the dog) and are noisy and nosy (the cat), are really wonderful. And who doesn't need more avenues for love?

On that note, may Winston, our Grammy's beloved dog, rest in peace, and -- I'll just say it -- may Grammy and Papa bring a new one home soon!!