My cats know the exact moment that the dogs leave my house for
their trip home. Up the stairs from the basement they barrel like steaming
locomotives to form a synchronized three-abreast perch on the porch windowsill.
There they watch attentively as their canine nemeses clamor into the cab of my
boyfriend’s truck.
After the truck leaves the driveway the cats pile three-high
with eyes as big as saucers in front of the kitchen door and clamor to get in
before one of the dogs shows up again. It’s hilarious.
Once inside, they scatter like the break shot after the eight
ball, and disperse in all directions.
One heads straight for the dog dish to
finish off any remaining morsels of food as if I’ve starved it for a week.
Another makes a beeline for the living room where it drops to the floor and
writhes there purring and stretching its legs and full of glee at the
disappearance of the canine rulers. The third cat, the troublemaker, first
checks all the rooms to make sure the coast really is clear and then—like
clockwork—pounces on the other two, spurring feline follies that ricochet off
walls and furniture and burn pent up energy after two days of skulking in the
basement.
As for me, I do a reconnaissance walk through the house to see
if the little dog with a big ego had left me a pee present on the floor beside
my bed.
In a moment of gesturing to protect myself as two cats practiced
airborne moves from the “Matrix” movie I stepped in something warm and gooey that
oozed between my bare toes.
I took up an impressively difficult yoga pose and balanced
precariously on my clean foot as three messy possibilities were considered.
Dog poop, dog vomit, or cat throw up.
I hoped for the latter until I remembered that I’d recently
fed my cat worm pills and wondered if what I had just stepped in were the
un-dead writhing beasts expelled onto the bedroom floor.
I was afraid to move so I just stood there on one foot making
improper use of the English language.
“They” say curiosity killed the cat. I was pretty sure that if
I looked at the unknown byproduct seeping between my toes, my curiosity would
kill the daylong craving I had for a creamy chocolate bar.
I made a plan to glance quickly and then hop to the bathroom
and have a shower hot enough to cook a bird and the tapeworms I was convinced
were sucking on my big toe.
I looked down to see the ripe and blackened banana squishing
up between my toes that I’d peeled two mornings prior while sitting in my
reading chair. I’d forgotten it there and the cats had found it, toppling the
fermented fruit to the floor beside my bed.
I was so happy I almost reached down and scooped up some
banana goo on my finger to eat.
Thank goodness for second thoughts.
