Sunday, August 27, 2006
The Rest Of The Spankos
In truth, since both dogs and cats are carnivorous, and since they pass bacteria in their feces, said feces should not, in fact, be used as fertilizer. I’m sure you were all dying to know that.
Our dog is called Wacky, both because of Angela’s and my spanking proclivities, and because the animal is fucking nuts. Wacky is that all-American breed of dog commonly known as the pure-bred Mutt. His father was a Mutt. His mother was a Mutt. We actually have papers that show his excellent Mutt lineage. At one time we considered entering him in the AKC Mutt show, until we realized that he would lose because he would continually lick the judges until they were covered in sticky dog slobber. Also, the AKC does not actually have a Mutt show. Snobs.
Wacky is my dog. Make no mistake. He follows me around the house. He sits at my feet. I’m the one who must feed him and walk him. He is totally dedicated to me. That is, until someone in the house has food. Then he becomes dedicated to them until they give him some or finish. Then he will return to me.
We also have two cats, Princess and Furball. Princess is Angela’s cat. It is a very elegant Siamese, and Angela is frequently fussing with her, brushing her, trimming her tail, and digging the poop out of the fur on her rear end. Princess hates me. She has been known to pee on my shoes when she is particularly upset with me, for reasons that only she and her fellow cats will ever know. Now, Angela and I keep our shoes in the same closet. But princess NEVER pees on Angela’s shoes, only on mine. Angela insists it’s because my shoes smell like cat litter. Princess is seventeen years old and I’m convinced that she will never die.
We got Furball when Colette was about three, ostensibly as a friend for Princess (Angela thought the poor, spoiled cat was lonely). We picked out Furball from the local animal shelter when she was a kitten. Now, it is not an exceptionally brilliant idea to bring in a rowdy kitten to be a friend to a seven-year-old Siamese, but that is subject for another story. Furball got her name because, when the lady at the shelter asked what we were going to call her, before I could inform her of the dignified name that Angela and I had chosen, Colette blurted out “Let’s call her Furball!” Since Angela thought that was SO CUTE, Furball it was. Furball has become Colette’s cat, since the two of them basically grew up together.
There is actually another cat that we, at least nominally, take care of. The cat came with the house. We noticed this big orange-and-black when we were signing the final papers for the house. We asked the former owners, the elderly couple who had come up from Florida for the closing, about the cat. We were told that “it has always been around here.” When asked it’s name, they informed us, “Well it doesn’t really have a name, we just call it Cat.” Cat came up and sniffed my shoes and rubbed herself on my leg, and then on Angela’s leg, then sniffed the air and ambled away. Right then we knew that this was actually Cat’s property, and that she had approved of us as its tenants. Since the former owners lived on this property for almost 50 years, and since we’ve been here for seventeen, I figure Cat must be around 65 years of age, although I don’t know how that’s possible.
We’ve also had the obligatory juvenile rodents like mice, hamsters, and gerbils, as well as fish, but none of them thrived in our unique environment. However, Wacky, Princess, Furball, and Cat seem perfectly suited for the Spanko family, and we to them. Despite their tendencies to frustrate and torment us, I truly like our pets. I think they are fantastic.
I like the Polish heritage in your name, too.