Part of a countdown to 50.
80. One of the things that worried my daughter most about moving out of our apartment was leaving me alone with the animals.
She wasn’t afraid that I’d neglect them, or that they’d overtake the palace. She was more concerned that I’d turn into a crazy dog or cat lady, talking to the animals, having conversations, neglecting human friends in favor of my canine or feline furbabies.
At the time, I thought the concern was sweet but needless. I understood its base: I did (do) often talk to my dog and cat, and sometimes think I know what they’re trying to tell me. Mattie, my cat, will wrap herself around my feet every morning when we get up and every evening when I get home, meowing and looking up at me the whole time. I look down at her and say, “I know, I know.” (I really don’t know. I don’t have a freaking clue.)
Ceili, my 2-year-old Lab, and I often communicate through the morning and night, too – often with her trying to get me to play and me trying to get her to understand, “In a minute.” And then, equally as often, with me ending up throwing the ball or the rope or the squeaky toy until she’s worn out.
But that’s all normal stuff, that’s what all pet owners do.
Then yesterday happened. I had an argument with Ceili. What’s worse – she won.
We were in the hall between the living room and the bedrooms and she was barking at the spare bedroom/storage room, which is closed to her via baby gate. I knew she was trying to tell me her tennis ball was in there, and I didn’t see it. The conversation went like this:
Me: It’s not in there.
Me: I don’t see it, it’s not there.
Me: It’s. Not. In. There.
Me: Oh, for the love of … (moves small box) Shit. There it is.
I threw the ball, she gave me an indignant, “I told you so!” look and off she went. And I was left there, both wondering what the hell just happened and concerned that my daughter might just have been right.
I might need a roommate. Or more human friends.