The Truth About Cats And Dogs
I married a golden retriever. He wags his tail at the world as if everyone carried a bright red ball just waiting to be thrown for him.
He can find the one person working the sales floor at any given super-store and get her to not only find the thing he wants, but also share her life story with him in the process. By some magical transference of effusive good will known only to water dogs and babies, he gets everyone he meets to throw the ball. And he can do it in Japanese.
Naturally, there is some slobbery panting going on and a fleeting brown-eyed depression when the ball is returned to the jacket pocket. But his enthusiasm is mostly contagious. Unless you are of the testy society. In other words, a cat.
My husband married a cat. We of the perpetually raised eyebrow and sharpened claw. We who sit in windows and plot the early demise of rodents. We who are not amused. These same kinds of domestic arrangements are all around us. The Costco Experience provides a fertile field. On a recent trip I spotted several similarly matched pairs.
One couple, the husband, a convivial Chesapeake Bay retriever, and the wife, a bemused Burmese, were looking at leaf blowers. The husband was extolling the virtues of purchasing such a fine and important thing.
He wagged with delight at the very idea of swooshing yard debris into wild circular patterns that went nowhere but in great style. The wife was staring off into the book section dreaming of window seats. Her posture, like that of most felines, was a precariously contained pounce.
Another couple temporarily halted traffic flow when the wife, an uppity Siamese, hissed at her husband, a very old cocker spaniel, for forgetting the shopping list. My husband laughed at the idea that anyone would prepare a shopping list for Costco. To him, half the fun is in finding stuff you don’t need. There is a reason they are called retrievers.
This canine/feline theory of personality is not gender based. Nor is it discriminatory, except maybe to cats and dogs.
I know a woman whose tenacious, in-your-face yapping is exactly like the poodle that lives down the street. This dog, whose owners should either be canonized or committed, is seriously annoyed with everything. It has attempted to tear the legs off most of its potential suitors. So has the woman.
A man I know plots business deals like a tiger hunting in its prime. He sharpens his wits for the kill, graceful and efficient. People admire him from a distance. All of his girlfriends act like nervous show dogs.
Canine types have a singleness of purpose: the ball, the ball, the ball. Feline types, especially the young ones, have a more global vision: swat at the dog running for the ball that rustles the grass that shelters the mouse that races through the meadow that catches the ball that bounces into the mouth of the dog that’s just returned for another swatting.
The human equivalent of this is the difference between how my husband and I watch televised sports. He actually watches the game. I fold clothes, make lists, read magazines, mentally rearrange the room, fidget, then doze off. This behavior is exactly reversed if we are watching an old Bette Davis movie.
The old adage that opposites attract is true, at least in the dating phase. But sometimes the qualities that initially seemed so compellingly charming lose a bit of their luster as the years slog on. I know a few people who think their spouses need to be declawed while others secretly long for a quiet neutering.
Ours is a different story. We are slowly assimilating each other’s traits. My husband has taken to long naps in the sun and finicky grooming. I am learning to be less stingy with my toys and rediscovering beef. Now if I can just keep my claws in, I might even learn to throw that red ball.
The following fields overflowed: CREDIT = Kathleen Corkery Spencer The Spokesman Review