Dogs: Time-Tested, Predictable and Preferred

Dogs… Dogs are, as a general rule, loving, dependable, and steadfast. Dogs love people, food, and pleasing their masters. Dogs are always happy to see you. Dogs do not like cats, and they are everything that cats are not.

Cats: Like Us Or Don’t Like Us. See If We Care

Cats… Cats are aloof, selfish and fickle. Cats love nothing and please only themselves. Cats are never happy to see you. Cats are everything that dogs are not.

I didn’t always care for cats. I didn’t hate them, but I never considered myself a cat kind of person. We always had cats around our house in the country, but with one exception that I recall, they never came inside, and I didn’t even know litter boxes existed until I went to college.

The cats around our house hunted their own food and helped control the snake population. Sometimes they were available to be petted, but most of the time they were not. Still, a few cats stand out in my memory.

Cats And The Author – The Early Years

When I was a very small child, I had a bobtail cat named Bobtail. Original.

Bobtail slept beside me in my crib. I don’t remember much else about him, but I remember the comfort of having him close. Hypnosis therapy would likely reveal that I only remember him because of the photos in the family album and because of my mother talking about him.

When I was six or seven, we had a mostly-feral yard cat whose name I can’t recall. One day, I was playing in our wooded yard, and the cat was walking just ahead of me. The vicious little bastard stopped on a dime and started jumping straight up and down with its back arched and its legs perfectly straight; perpendicular to the ground. Having never seen this, I walked closer and saw that with each of the cat’s jumps, a rattlesnake struck.

Thanks, Cat. Sorry I can’t remember your name.

Bill: The Cat That Paved The Way

One cat comes to mind from later in my childhood. When I was around 12 years old, we had a kitten whose original name I couldn’t recall for a million dollars.

One day, the neighbor kid who lived about a quarter of a mile down the dirt road ran over that kitten with his go-cart, crushing its hindquarters and rendering half its body paralized.

We didn’t take the kitten to the vet, of course. It was half-wild anyway, and we figured it would either make it or not.

That cat lived another 15 years, dragging its hindquarters behind it and moving only with its front two legs. It could still kill snakes, rats, mice, squirrels—everything a cat can do—and it could hold its own with any tomcat when it was time to fight.

My father was a huge fan of the comic strip Opus, and as a nod to that, because of our cat’s crazed look and deformity, we started calling it Bill, after the crazy cat in the comic strip. It was Bill for the rest of its life.

I’d unashamedly admit that Bill was my favorite cat of all time. Under duress, I’d admit that Bill is among my favorite animals of all time – dogs included.

The Daughter. The Gamechanger.

I never intended to have cats as an adult.

But God’s favorite pastime, apparently, is emphasizing the irrelevance of my plans. So at 50 years old, I find myself the (initially reluctant) proud owner of two cats.

This is not because I had a change in opinion about cats or my desire to feed them. It’s because I have a daughter.

And if you know me, you know that I’ve only said, “No” to my daughter three times in her 18 years. I don’t recall exactly what I said “No” to her about then, but given the opportunity to go back, I bet I’d say “Yes” the second time around.

King: The Boss

King. That’s the first one’s name.

My daughter got King for her 4th birthday. 4 was a landmark birthday for her. It’s when she realized the implications of privilege and exception inherent in the birthday season and began her 1,937,653 – 3 win/loss record against Poppy (me – christened so by her).

Weeks…months…before her birthday, she unleashed a relentless campaign that culminated in cat ownership.

Like a seasoned sales professional, she never ended a conversation without boldly asking for the order. When we relented, she confirmed the terms in every interaction, leaving no room for misunderstanding or backsliding on our part.

“Poppy, I’m so excited about the kitten I’m getting for my birthday. I’m going to name it Princess.”
“Poppy, do kittens already have shots when you get them or do we have to take them to the kitten doctor to get them? I just don’t want Princess to get sick but I also don’t want the kitten doctor to hurt her with the needle. I’m sure you’ve already considered that. Ok. Good talk. Oh…by the way…my birthday is in 81 days. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

This from a 3-year-old. Look out, world.

I know what you’re thinking. “Hold up. I thought the cat’s name was King. Do you think I’m stupid? Are YOU stupid?” I’m happy to explain.

When I told her the cat was a boy, she joyfully accepted that and immediately said, “OK, I’ll name it King.” Unflappable. That’s a superpower most adults don’t have. In a 3-going-on-4 little girl, it’s inconceivable.

“Unflappable. That’s a superpower most adults don’t have.”

She’s 18 now, so that makes King 14 years old.

King is a really cool cat. When I think of King, I think of Ray Liotta’s voice narrating the movie “GoodFellas.” “…Paulie never moved fast, because Paulie didn’t have to move for anybody.”

Like Paulie, King is a Boss — calm, collected, always in control.

King is slightly overweight and sleeps most of the time.

He’s downright assertive when he decides the cushion in my chair on the patio is preferable to his perch atop the brick wall and unceremoniously jumps into the space between my body and the back rest of my chair, implying that I best move along.

But don’t let his appearance fool you. King is an earner. Big Paulie would approve.

When we moved into our current house about three years ago, our neighbor across the street told us he’d had a horror-level rat problem in his outside storage building. After we moved in with King, the rats went completely away. He’s not been bothered with rats since.

King’s resemblance to Big Paulie doesn’t stop at being an earner. King navigates the underworld expertly.

The sewers are his superhighway. He can enter the storm drain at an intersection at the same time I stop there in my truck and emerge half a mile away before I can drive the same distance.

I got used to King. I even started liking him. And I thought he was the beginning and end of my adult relationship with cats. Then God and my daughter teamed up to put me in my place once again.

Wally: The Street Thug

My daughter recently (6 months ago? A year? 2 years? Search me. I’m becoming the senile old man I’ve always sworn I’d never be) adopted a wild kitten she found in the middle of Ann Street, right in front of Walmart. She named it Wally. Either figure out the significance of his name or don’t. That’s on you.

I pitched a fit when she brought him home, complete with litter box and about $1,000 worth of cat accoutrement from PetSmart.

I boldly forbade a litter box under my roof and decreed that the cat had to go. Ten seconds later, after seeing my daughter’s reaction to my tantrum, I recanted and got on board.

Wally is barely tame and won’t let most people get anywhere near him. I consider him a straight-up thug. If King is Paulie from “Goodfellas,” Wally is Nino Brown from “New Jack City.”

“If King is Paulie from Goodfellas, Wally is Nino Brown from New Jack City.”

Wally’s not a boss. Wally’s not an earner. Wally is a self-sufficient murderous psychopath.

Wally trusts no human except my daughter.

Wally would happily rip my throat apart with his apex-predator jaws. Wally loves my daughter and despises me.

I love Wally.

Murderous psychopath or not, Wally has two things going for him in my book: He’s dependent upon no man and he loves my daughter. That’s good enough for me.

Embracing Change Or Admitting Defeat? Beats Me. If It Works It Works.

King and Wally have been good for me.

They’ve taught me that I’m not always right and that there is something to love in everything and everyone.

We’ve established a form of détente where I pretend I don’t like them and they pretend I don’t buy food for them and make sure they have electric blankets in the garage when the temperature drops below freezing.

My daughter is off to college at Ole Miss next fall, so it’s rational to believe that my chances of having any other cats are somewhere between slim and none.

But if time has taught me anything, it’s to expect surprises. Time taught me that. Maturity taught me something different.

Whether it’s cats or boys or teenage drama, my role as Poppy to my daughter changes the game. She’s the focus. Whatever I thought before is irrelevant.

Curt Brown’s childhood and adolescence in Monroe County in rural Southwest Alabama stamped him for life. He loves bird dogs, books, whiskey, cigarettes, pretty women and rock and roll. He over-tips at restaurants and bars and freely gives his cash and spare change to panhandlers in hopes that Jesus approves. He learned everything he knows about politics and popular culture from MAD Magazine in the 1980s and believes work is a necessary evil. He’d rather be on the Alabama River than the French Riviera. He hopes to spend eternity sharing a luxury apartment with Dan Jenkins, Larry McMurtry and Jerry Jeff Walker and gathering daily with all his old running buddies for dinner and drinks at Bud’s Bar and Jubilee Seafood.