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I have looked forward to the “empty nest” stage of life
with mixed feelings, except for one part: as the nest empties of
children, I thought hopefully, it should also empty of their pets.
It hasn’t worked out that way. Since turning 18 in
January my daughter has brought home a buck-toothed cocker spaniel
with bladder problems and a kitten that exercises its death wish by
attacking our three older cats. This brings the Morrison menagerie
to two dogs and four cats, a modest count by some standards but well
past my personal tolerance.
I never had more than one dog and two cats at a time
when I was a boy, all of which lived outside. We were allowed to
bring the cats in for short visits, but my mother wouldn’t have
dreamed of keeping a litter box. Our dog was much beloved and
practically a member of the family, though like any family member
who drank out of the toilet, lived outside.
I had every intention of doing the same (making our pets
live outside, not drinking from the toilet), but my wife turned on
me. Thanks to her treachery our current herd is all house pets
except the oldest cat.
We got the outdoor cat, now about 13, at a time when I
still had nominal influence over these matters. Though I didn’t
realize it then, I was only the head of our household in the sense
that the Queen runs England: for ceremonial purposes only. Still, I
had enough clout to keep the cat outside if not enough to avoid
having one altogether.
I admit I have become fond of the old boy over the
years. Beside the fact that we have grown old and crabby together,
he is the only critter that earns his keep, eating his weight in
rodents most months. He seems perfectly content to limit his indoor
activities to meals and the occasional nap on the waterbed, but we
are forced to keep him in a day or two a few times every summer when
they spray the nearby orchard.
He does not like this. He also does not know I no
longer have what little authority I had when I made him an outdoor
cat in the first place, so he expresses his displeasure by
desecrating my office – which, appearances aside, is not actually a
litter box.
The fact that I work mainly out of my home makes the pet
situation especially ironic. The kids have graduated from high
school and are rarely around during the day. My wife has a real job
that, along with her other activities, keeps her away much of the
time. That leaves me at home alone with the animals I fought like a
buck-toothed spaniel to avoid.
To maintain my sanity I installed a toddler-proof
“baby gate” in my office doorway, which keeps out the dogs and the
fattest cat. I once fell for the cocker spaniel’s heartbreaking
howl and let him in, a kindness he rewarded by throwing up while I
was five minutes into a one hour conference call. There are now no
mercy exceptions.
I do get out for breaks once in a while. For example, I
recently went to a friend’s yard party. While I was enjoying the
company of adults and the absence of animals, my daughter dropped by
with her cocker spaniel. She visited for a few minutes, ate a bowl
of ice cream, and then drove home – forgetting her dog.
“It’s a drive-by dogging!” I screamed,
frantically dialing her cell phone. When she stopped laughing she
asked if I would just watch him until I came home.
After a little perfunctory whining, I agreed. There was
no reason why not, I supposed. Just another day at the office.
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