The Reluctant Conversion of a Committed Dog Guy

So, I was a dog guy.

I have always been a dog guy, and yes, for those who are dog guys, this is a zero-sum claim. It means we not only love dogs but that we also, respectively, proportionally, concomitantly, hate cats. Or, since we are lovers by nature, it might be better to say we just don’t like cats—at least we say it that way in public. But if you are in the canine fan club, as most men should be, you know the unarticulated raison d'être of a dog person is that we hate cats. Or should at least say so among ourselves.

Naturally, we have childhood stories aplenty. You know the kind: they begin like “I sat there with Sally, we sat there we two,” as the good doctor who taught us our phonics would render. But, mostly, it’s cats or dogs, one or the other. Dogs are for guys, cats are for girls, right?

I grew up with Piper and Smokey, a black standard Poodle and a German Shepherd. Later came Corky and Maggie, a Miniature Poodle and a yellow Lab. And Lassie, a Collie (of course); my dad’s and my best friend at the time. Dad, a physician, took her to work every day; his patients would bring her treats and toys. Today that sounds odd for a medical practice, but Dad was the Atticus Finch of doctors—back when you could do that sort of thing, that was the sort of thing my Dad would do.

When Lassie’s hips gave out toward the end, he still took her to work every day, carrying her up to his second-floor office where she would lie in the hallway all day, loving the patients who would come by to pet her and wish her well. When she just could not go on anymore, Dad taught me about the end of life and a dog. The pain, Dad said, was the important thing: “It’s okay for them to be sick and dying on their own time, just so long as they are not in pain.” And then, one night, it happened. Lassie went to sleep.

My favorite, though, was Dagny. Dagny is her own special story; I cannot tell it here, but she was the best friend I ever had, and after fifteen years of perpetual motion, I took my Dad’s lesson to heart and applied it to Dagny. I think that was the best I could do, and the best for Dagny, too.

I could never have another dog…

This brings us to my conversion. I knew I could never own another dog; I just couldn’t replace Dagny. But one day, I noticed in my backyard a tiger-striped cat, just sitting under one of my lemon trees. I thought, “Huh,” and not a lot more of it. She was there the next day, and the next, and the next. I called her “Danielle Striped Tiger” after one of Mister Rogers’s puppets. Then I noticed the two kittens. They looked like brothers – same coat – and they were playing in the yard as Danielle watched.

My friend, Gay, the greatest friend cats will ever have, told me: “Danielle is their mother, and she was camping out to see if it was a safe place for them to frolic.” She added, “Now you must put some food and water out for them.”

Excuse me? Are you new here? What?!! I’m now going to be feeding cats?!! I’m going to be buying cat food now? 

My friend Hugh had a cat like this, and he informed me that yes, Gay was quite right; this was the duty of a gentleman. It is the code of honor, decency, and kindness.

Lessons in Literature and Law

One of my favorite laws in all of Judaism is a Talmudic take on a statement from Deuteronomy: we are all obligated to feed our animals in the morning before we feed ourselves. I was scrupulous about this law with Dagny – maybe the only religious law I was scrupulous about! 

Then there is a Chasidic tale of a Rabbi who bought a horse, not that he rode or needed a horse, but just so he could fulfill this law. And it struck me: with Dagny no longer with me, these cats were gifts from God to help me continue to fulfill this order.

So, I had three cats. And they needed names. No problem. In his poem, The Naming of Cats, T.S. Eliot said every cat has three names: 

• the name his family knows him by 

• the name he is known by in the community, and 

• the name nobody knows: the name the cat knows for himself alone, how he thinks of himself. 

“When you notice a cat in profound meditation, the reason, I tell you, is always the same: His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name: His ineffable…Deep and inscrutable singular name.”

So, I now had Alonzo and Aloysios, and Danielle. And cat food. Lots of cat food. Alonzo would eat in front of me; Aloysios and Danielle would not. Fine, what did I care? I was just fulfilling Gay, and Hugh’s, and God’s commandments. And I told myself: these cats would never come in the house; I would not be a cat guy. I was a guy with three feral cats, that’s all, just doing the right thing by them. 

Word Always Gets Out

There is some sort of telegraph, I guess, invisible to the human eye, and soon the word went out: “Free food!” 

Soon, “Bad, Bad, Leroy Brown,” a beast of an ugly thing, started coming around. Evidently, cats also aren’t familiar with the concept of ‘the tragedy of the commons’, for they talk. They talk in the community, they gossip like ladies at a mahjong game, and now, there are “Jelly” and “Beans.” 

And I’m now buying more food and getting less sleep. I have no idea what there is for them to discuss, but discuss they do; loudly and at length. I have no idea why they need to do it in my yard, and yet, they do. I have no idea why they need to reenact Dick Van Dyke’s performance from Mary Poppins on my roof every night, but every night, they do.  

Growing up, my sister had “Mittens” – all black, white paws,feral, never in the house – and Mittens knew that ‘loose lips sink ships’. Every night my sister fed her, and only her. There were no others. Mittens knew how to keep a secret. 

My girlfriend has Bagheera, whose look is all black; and Bagheera knows, too, how to keep a secret. He doesn’t blather around the whole community that there’s free food. 

Mine? They seem to think this is a charitable soup kitchen. There are a few others here and there, including a soon-to-be-regular, I think: all white with black rings around the tail. And can you help me with that name? I know we’re gonna need one.

But here’s the thing: we cannot let the dog-loving community or the rest of the men in the world know. I’m begging ya: Don’t spread the rumor about what’s going on or taking place at number 16. Don’t talk about this to anyone. To maintain my reputation and masculinity, let’s just keep this between us.

Feature Image Credit: DarAnna, Shutterstock