I am not a “dog person”. In the South, that’s sort of like admitting you’re an alcoholic, an admission that something is inherently wrong with you. I just read another southern writer I love—Rick Bragg—who was writing about his dogs, actually has a whole book coming out about his current dog. With numerous southern dog stories like Old Yeller and Where the Red Fern Grows, I feel like I’m lacking something essential to being southern. I also don’t like tomato sandwiches, but that’s a whole ‘nother story.
I’m fine being around dogs; it’s not that I’m afraid of them or anything. But dogs smell bad a lot of the time, and a lot of them like to lick you, which I’m just not down with. The whole “puppy breath” thing is not endearing to me. Now, I love my niece bulldog, BeeGee, just like I loved my niece pug Penny and my sister basset hound Nugget. Dogs have been in my family for years, some inside dogs and some outside dogs. It’s just that I prefer them to be owned by somebody else. Someone else’s baby you can love on and cuddle until it starts crying, and then you give it back to its Mama. It’s kind of like that.
I guess that makes me the crazy aunt in our family dynamic. The cat lady. I’m cool with that. My husband and I have had two cats, one planned and one unplanned. BeBop, a bobtail girl kitty who looks like a furry bowling ball, was adopted at my behest from a local couple who couldn’t keep their orange tabby from attacking her in his quest for dominance. She is sitting on the arm of my chair now, wishing I would stop what I’m doing and give her a good scratch between the ears. Our take-up cat Noelle was a scraggly, wormy, fearful looking creature who sought shelter at our doorstep during Christmastime. She was such a unique looking cat, and I decided after doing some research that she must have been at least part Maine Coon. Her tail was bushy like a squirrel’s and the fur around her face made her look lion-esque. My husband found her dead under a chair in our dining room a couple years ago; she showed no signs of suffering prior to that, so we’re not sure what happened.
Noelle was a gentle creature who knew she could whoop BeBop’s butt but chose—mostly—not to. She was a ladylike feline who graciously entertained BeBop’s notions of dominance. You see, BeBop is completely and utterly helpless, but you can’t convince her of that. She has always believed herself to be the alpha kitty and was highly offended when we allowed another cat to cross our doorstep. She has no hip sockets, and to be honest with you, I have no idea how she walks at all. Our vet said he had only seen one other case of a cat being born with such a deformed pelvis, and in that case the cat had to have surgery to fix the eventual grinding of bone on bone that occurred.
Our vet makes fun of me. He’s a good country doctor who takes care of animals large and small and writes songs that’ll have you in tears after a few chords. He and his wife, who works in the clinic, are salt-of-the-earth people, the kind of people you’re better for knowing. I’m sure they’re dog people. My Mama called them a few years back asking if Dr. Cullens could see their old orange tabby, Coot, who has since crossed the rainbow bridge. Mama was worried about Coot for some reason, maybe he had gotten into a real bad fight with another country cat or some such as that. She was telling Mrs. Cullens that Coot was basically an old barn cat and trying to explain to her the difference between Coot and our pampered indoor girl, BeBop. “I understand. BeBop is definitely not a barn cat,” Mrs. Cullens said.
My great-grandmother Nan Nan probably had over twenty take-up cats that she would feed on her back porch. I guess I’m a little bit like her, although she always had a dog too. Don’t tell my husband, but I can see myself feeding all the neighborhood cats in my old age. They’re brilliant creatures whose fickle affection you have to earn. They’re not like most dogs, who will blindly adore their owners. Actually, cats don’t really have owners at all. If anything, they own their humans. They certainly own their territory and will ruthlessly defend it.
One of the most difficult things about being a pet owner is that an animal’s life span is so much shorter than a human’s. When BeBop dies, I’ll feel a little lost. She has been here for most of our marriage and all of our son’s four years; she’s basically part of the furniture at this point. Some Christians say that animals don’t have souls and won’t make it to heaven. That it all goes dark for them when this earthly life is over. But I like to believe in the “country side of heaven” that Dr. Cullens, the vet, sings about. “There’s a side of heaven where country people go,” he sings. A side of heaven with red dirt and little winding roads, where you can hear the screen door slap and eat your Granny’s biscuits. A lot of good country people will have their old dog Jake sitting on the front porch. I’ll have a dozen or so cats that I feed outside, and I believe BeBop will be there inside, probably still pooping on the rug because she’s mad at me for acknowledging the other cats.
All She Wrote 