I’m a cat guy.
Make no mistake. I love dogs — as long as they’re someone else’s.
Several years back, we tried the pooch thing, purchasing a pair of striking dachshunds from a breeder in a nearby town. It started fine.
Training classes were completed and pretty soon we were cavorting around the neighborhood, accepting congratulations on how good we looked together.
But the relationship soured quickly.
They begin tearing the siding from the house. They ate shit as if it were frozen custard, self-serve from the source. The barking at night was nonstop, prompting howls from dogs in the next county.
We parted after about a year, giving the pair a chance at a better life with the family of a young girl.
Cats, though, are part of the Morgan lore, particularly Siamese.
They went by initials: D.C., from the Disney-inspired Darn Cat, and C.K., for cute kitten. Every once in a while, a mottled one would emerge from a litter, inspiring names such as Pollution and Garbage.
The cats slept in our beds — one gave birth under the covers — and were slipped food from the table. Generations passed and so did their lives. Our backyard was a pet cemetery.
That feline devotion continues to this day, though it is much more precarious.
Our cat has a going problem. In other words, about once a week, she pops a squat outside the box.
We’ve tried automatic scoopers, large litter boxes, double litter boxes, pep talks. A switch to a different room and floor surface worked for a while.
But I’m back on dirty duty.
Hypnosis, electroshock therapy, kitty counseling…I’m open to anything.
Cure my cat and stop the stink. You’ll be my friend forever.