Because fart jokes never get old...

For an amazing collection of videos featuring animals reacting to farts, visit Urlesque.

My Little Orange Man

Fergus Saylor-Beck

Koala saved from Australian wildfires

Click here for the story of this adorable fella.

In Memoriam

Wolfie

"To call him a dog hardly seems to do him justice, though inasmuch as he had four legs, a tail, and barked, I admit he was, to all outward appearances. But to those who knew him well, he was a perfect gentleman."     -Hermione Gingold

China's gay penguins get hitched!

Click here to read the story.

The penguins are also adoptive parents, and zookeepers say they are the best parents in the zoo. Here is an older photo of the happy couple. They are the two behind the fence, in conversation with their next door neighbor.

She Loves Me

In the past week, I have learned something very valuable about human nature: People can change.

OK, this is not entirely correct in light of what I learned. More accurately, cats can change. But really, when it comes right down to it...aren't cats people too? People who sleep 23 ¾ hours a day, poop in a strategically-hidden box, and every so often hack up a chunk of fur the size of Mama Cass? I think they are.

As some of you know, John and I have two cats, Fergus and Claire. From the beginning, Fergus has taken to me and Claire has taken to John. We didn't plan it that way, it's just how it ended up working out. On the first night we had the kitties, Fergus, a little orange lump barely bigger than the palm of my hand, fell dead asleep on my chest and snored so loud that the air blowing out of his tiny pink nose gave me windburn. From that moment on, I was a pile of Jell-O in his soft, white-mittened paws.

Claire, though, proved more challenging. With John, she's always been affectionate, hiding all day and only emerging when he comes home. She lets him pet her, scratch her, brush her, kiss her, hold her, snuggle with her. With me, if she deigned to show herself at all in my presence, she stiffly suffered my love for as long as she could take it -- usually about six seconds -- before fleeing the room in terror.

This could very well all go back to a traumatic incident in Claire's childhood. An incident in which I, admittedly, played a key role. We only had the cats for a few weeks, and I was vacuuming the kitchen floor. At this time in their lives, both cats were fearless and curious kittens, and the vacuum intrigued them more than scared the cat-piss out of them. Anyway, I got a little too close to Claire with the hose attachment, and her tail got sucked up in it. In my defense, she has a very long fluffy tail, and I of course didn't mean to suck it up.

She instantly started shrieking, and when I realized what I'd done, I freaked out. I turned off the vacuum cleaner, thereby setting her tail free, though now it was all frizzy and smelled of Hawaiian Paradise Carpet Fresh. Claire whipped around to make sure everything was still intact and, a millisecond later, was gone -- under the bed, the desk, behind the couch. And in many ways, she never returned to me. Sure, she did come out of hiding at one point to try to maul me in my sleep, but that doesn't count. What does count is that, after the incident with the vacuum, she never felt entirely comfortable with me.

Until last week.

My mom FedExed us a box of fresh vegetables from her garden. And Ms. Claire loves boxes. I mean, really loves boxes. All the expensive cat toys in the world don't thrill her as much as a plain old cardboard box. She will play with it, inspect it, sit in it, lay in it, sleep in it. If we moved the food dish closer, she'd eat in it. If we moved the litterbox closer, she'd figure out a way to projectile poo so she wouldn't have to leave it. That's how much she loves boxes.

Though she's had many to enjoy over the years, this box my mom sent (once I removed the vegetables) made the usually-serious Claire as giddy and playful as a puppy. Even Fergus, who doesn't enjoy boxes like his sister, though he's often tormented her by sitting in them when she gets out to pee, knew better than to mess with Claire's new box. This piece of cardboard seems specifically designed for her: it perfectly fits her body. As far as she's concerned, this box is the greatest gift she's ever been given.

Since this momentous event in her young life, Claire has been opening to me. She no longer runs at the sight of me. She no longer cowers in fear when I reach out to stroke her. She no longer rolls her eyes when she hears me speaking lovey-dovey kitty-speak.

Most surprisingly, and satisfyingly, I woke up to the sound of her meowing the other night at about three in the morning. I went to her, to make sure everything was OK in her box, and it seems she just wanted a little love from her Little Daddy (and yes, John is Big Daddy). After a few minutes of petting and calming words, I went back to bed...and guess who followed me? Claire jumped right up in bed beside me, snuggled against my side, and as I fell back asleep, I reached my arm out to hold her. Most miraculously of all, she let me.

I don't know what brought all of this on, but clearly the arrival of the box signified something huge to her. Or maybe she's finally forgiven me for the vacuum cleaner mishap. Or maybe she's growing up. Or maybe I am.

Fergus, for his part, has taken all of this in the gentlemanly stride I've come to expect from him. He's had no problem "sharing" his Little Daddy, and I ensure that he and I still have plenty of cuddle time. If anything, I suspect he's slightly relieved that Claire has managed to win a piece of my heart: that's a few minutes less each day that he has to suffer copious showers of kisses and adorable kitty-speak.

Throughout all of this, though, I know Ms. Claire will always be John's girl. She still waits for him at the back door at the end of the day. She still cries until he lays down on the floor with her and rubs her belly. She still hops in bed with him when the alarm goes off to receive her morning dose of Big Daddy.

But now I know that somewhere in that feline heart, I have a place. And that thrills me more than all the cardboard boxes in the world.

Wildlife Documentaries: Not Just For Stoners Anymore!

When I was livin' the dazed life during my pot-smoking years, one of my favorite things to do was toke up, eat tortilla chips dipped in cream cheese and salsa (try it, it's orgasmic), and watch wildlife documentaries. In fact, I knew a lot of stoners who enjoyed these types of programs. Though, for them, I think it had less to do with educational merit and more to do with not being able to reach the remote.

Anyway.

There were certain subjects, however, in which I was not particularly interested. Snakes, for one. I don't really care for them, and wildlife documentarians always seem to profile the kinds of snakes who are able to dislocate their jaw and swallow entire Mexican villages. The insect shows were another that I often skipped. I don't have a problem with insects per se, but when the camera is that damn close and they all have eyes like Heather Graham, I'm a bit uncomfortable.

For the most part, though, wildlife documentaries provided me with good, solid entertainment. Nonetheless, I hadn't watched one in years, at least since I put down the bong -- and also because John and I are cable-less peasants. Until the other night, when I caught a show on PBS (yup, PBS on a Saturday night -- there are only two words for that: Party. Animal.) profiling the wild horses of the Rocky Mountains. Horses aren't as fascinating to me as, say, manatees, or orphaned flying squirrel babies, but I have nothing against them -- and it had been years since I watched a show like this -- so I settled in for an hour of wholesome viewing pleasure.

The wild horsey program was filmed and narrated by this fantastic holster-hipped lesbian, whose name escapes me. She spent several years intermittently tracking and following a particular band of wild horses in the Rockies. From what I understand, wild horses live and travel in small packs, led by a dominant mare (feminist horses! -- who knew?!?), a few additional mares, their foals, immature horses of both sexes, as well as a lead stallion. Sometimes there are also less-dominant males in the pack, who prefer to stay on the fringes of the band. These are the gay uncles, I'm assuming.

Most of the show was centered around one horse: a beautiful, nearly stark-white creature, whom the filmmaker christened with the pretty lame-ass name of Cloud. We watched Cloud grow from an unsure, wobbly-legged foal into a handsome full-grown stallion. We also got to know several of the other horses in his life, including his doting mama, his siblings, his pack's feisty and protective lead stallion, and his friend, a blue roan paint horse that, after being plucked from the wild and rounded up for auction, the filmmaker ended up adopting. My favorite amongst these was one of Cloud's sisters, who was a total slut. She hadn't even arrived at full maturity, and the amazing little tramp was shaking her ass in the face of every male on the mountainside. I expect to see her on "Maury" next week.

The whole experience of this show was really insightful and a lot of fun. True, it was a bit different watching this kind of program stone-cold sober -- mainly because I could actually follow what was going on. Cloud and his entourage just warmed my heart; they lived basically and simply, looked out for one another with unconditional devotion, and asked nothing more than the necessities: a little pasture, a little love, a little sun. In a way, I envy them.

All this got me to thinking how cool it would be to become a wildlife documentary filmmaker. I mean, I could never do it. There's no way I have the physical stamina to schlep up and down mountains and through rain forests with a camera strapped to my shoulder and a backpack on my back, lugging a little red wagon stocked with books, all manner of Body Shop products, and an endless supply of Sour Patch Kids. I also don't possess the scientific knowledge to know much about my subjects. You're talking to a guy who dropped high school biology mid-year so he could VOLUNTARILY join the crayons-and-circles-of-paper class.

But observing, documenting, and living with the animals in such an intimate way would be so intriguing. Which led me to the logical thought, Hey! I could do this without leaving the comfort of my own home! So I, inspired by a horse-loving lesbian I've never met, spent the day yesterday observing the cats and making mental notes of their every move. It would help if, when you get to the next section, you imagine a soft British voice reading the words aloud; this will give the full effect of my very own wildlife documentary. Ladies and gentleman, enjoy the show.

National PornogrGeographic Presents
"Tracking the Elusive Wild Housecat"
with your host, Donn Brody-Streep
(sorry, my agent FORCED me to change my last name)

"It is 5 a.m. Our subjects have been up all night: playing, scratching their scratching post, rolling around on the kitchen carpet in an attempt to clog the evil vacuum cleaner yet again, and tearing up and down the hallway, thereby terrorizing the downstairs neighbors. Our two subjects are a breed of the elusive wild housecat; there is a lean orange male named Fergus, and a rotund black-and-white female named Claire.

"When their handlers have not gotten out of bed by 8:00, Fergus begins jumping atop the bed and darting across their heads before fleeing the room...only to return moments later and do the same thing again -- repeatedly. Fergus, typically quiet, is something of a chatterbox in the mornings. More accurately, he's a squeakbox, since the creature doesn't seem to know how to meow. Claire is fairly silent, less interested in her handlers and more focused on sitting on a single square foot of a corner of the aforementioned kitchen carpet. Indeed, this is the spot she stays for most of the day and night.

"Once the handlers have started their day, Fergus continues squeaking with great urgency, though nothing seems to be wrong. The food dish is mostly full, the water is changed and clean, and the litterbox is freshly de-pooped. Having tired himself out, Fergus retires to the living room window, where he gazes into the top of a huge tree and wishes bloody death on those fucking birds.

"Claire remains on her corner of carpet. Whenever the handlers walk by, she emits a small meow and rolls with some effort onto her back. One would think this is an open invitation for a belly rub. However, every time the handlers reach down to pet her, she jumps away, startled, as if she's never seen them before in her life. She calms herself by going to the food dish and eating.

"As the morning progresses, Fergus grows bored of his window seat, hops down, and slips under the bed. This is what wild housecat experts call his "happy place". He curls up in a ball and falls asleep. This is how he spends the remainder of the morning and the entirety of the afternoon.

"Claire remains on her corner of carpet. Occasionally she gets up to eat, but then returns.

"Throughout the afternoon, Fergus is conspicuously absent, while his sister stays on high alert at her station. When a handler walks by with a particular footstep she doesn't like, she jumps back, startled, as if she's never seen him before in her life.

"She calms herself by going to the food dish, then returns to her post.

"Late afternoon. Fergus has emerged from his happy place, soft and warm and eyes barely open. He rubs across the calves of his handlers, ignores Claire, and has a drink of water and a bite to eat. After this, he disappears into the litterbox for a few minutes, in view of his sister who is watching from her corner of carpet. He gives her a disgusted look. She jumps up, startled, as if she's never seen him before in her life.

"She calms herself by going to the food dish, then returns to her corner.

"As darkness falls, Fergus is snuggled on the bed with his handlers, one of whom is reading a book, the other watching a movie containing aliens, spaceships, and Pia Zadora. Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Claire rises wearily and now she, too, must use the litterbox. She is in there for an inordinately long period of time, as after she has pottied, she seems to enjoy scratching the hell out of the interior side of the litterbox. Once the novelty wears off, she goes to the food dish and returns to her corner of carpet.

"Night has arrived and the handlers are turning in. Fergus lays at their feet awhile, until he's sure they're asleep, before hopping off the bed to prepare for a night of play.

"Claire remains on her corner of carpet."

The Secret Lives of Cats

I think my cats are hiding something from me.

OK, in all actuality, I think they're hiding a lot of somethings from me.

It's already been established that, while I love my cats, I am at heart a dog person. My domestic animal experience extends to that of the canine variety, and I've come to know the personalities of pooches pretty well. It's not like it's that hard. Reading a dog's face is infinitely easier than reading a cat's. When you look at a dog, it doesn't take Hercule Poirot to figure out what the dog is thinking. They wear their emotions on their fur. There's no mystery, no pretense. Dogs are unashamedly honest.

Not so with felines. Cats' faces are considerably more inscrutable. It's perfectly feasible to have a cat for years and assume that the cat likes you. Then one day, seemingly out of the blue, the cat tires of the charade and tries to maul your bald head in your sleep. And yes, this happened to me. A while back, I was in a deep, unshakable sleep -- dreaming of, I'm sure, either car accidents or my teeth falling out (I dream of these two things all the time) -- and when I woke up, I felt something sticky on my head. I rubbed my hand across my scalp, only to pull back back a blood-smeared palm. Then I saw my pillow, and it too was covered in drying blood. I had no idea what could've happened -- I hadn't even woken up!

And that's when I spotted Claire, sitting in the corner, leveling me with her maniacal stare, and meticulously cleaning, what I can only assume, was my blood from her chubby paws. Yes, ladies and gentleman, my cat tried to murder me in my sleep.

I don't know why I was so surprised, really. Claire has always preferred John, and she's made no effort to prove otherwise. She'll allow me to pet her, for about two seconds, before she flees the room in terror. John, however, can massage her saggy belly, scratch her head and ears, and soothingly brush away the copious amounts of loose hair she wears like a midget woolly mammoth.

But I never thought she was homicidal. Sure, she's sort of a spazz, but I've always been drawn to spazzes, and the ones I've known had never tried to maim me. It was clear to me after that night that Claire wanted one thing and one thing only from me: my death.

Since the evening of the attempted murder, she and I have made a truce. I forgave her for trying to scalp me, and she agreed to give the vegan cat food a shot and not eat anymore rubber bands. It was a fair trade. Over time, she's even allowed me to pet her. Once for an entire ten seconds, a record for us.

Yet I can't shake the feeling that both Claire and Fergus (who genuinely does like me and doesn't try to bump me off) have some secrets behind those unreadable whiskered grins.

Let's take Fergus first. He has several nicknames in our house, but the ones we most often use are Gus and Squeak. The latter name comes from the fact that Fergus can't meow. Try as he might, and oftentimes he seems to be trying quite earnestly, all that comes out is a slight, high-pitched squeak. He is very squeakative in the mornings, and becomes less so as the day goes on. Since all his squeaks sound the same, it's hard to deduce what exactly he's trying to communicate. He comes across with a great sense of urgency, especially considering that he only squeaks when he's looking right at you. He rarely squeaks from the other room; it's usually when he's right in front you, eyes locked with yours, that he lets out an urgent squeak. I've been trying to translate said squeaks in an effort to respond to his concerns, and I can narrow it down to the following:

1. "I enjoy sitting in the living room window and looking into that big tree. But those fucking birds drive me crazy. Will you kindly shoot them?"

2. "My sister is a sociopath. Your attempted murder is only the beginning of her wicked plans. Please give me the phone so I can call juvy."

3. "I need bus fare to Washington, D.C. I have been named a United Nations Goodwill Ambassador and must be there to accept my plaque. Then I'm off to the Congo with Angelina Jolie!"

Of all of these, number 2 sounds the most plausible. Though, being Fergus is my little orange angel, I cannot entirely rule out number 3.

But Claire has an agenda of her own. Firstly, I suspect she enjoys Internet chat rooms. Somehow she has learned how to turn John's computer on, which in my mind can mean only one thing: Claire is sick of living in a houseful of disinterested men (two gay and another who has lost his sexual organs) and wants to meet a nice heterosexual bachelor with working genitalia. Who can blame her?

Secondly, I think she's a closet Buddhist. Claire rarely gets into things (that's more Fergus's domain), but one thing she consistently pushes over and rolls to the center of the room is a small jade Buddha figurine my mom gave to me. Claire is fascinated by it, and even when I scold her about the situation, she refuses to budge. Her dedication to the dharma is just that strong. However, if I allow this theory, then it would be highly unlikely she is a serial killer-in-training.

There is so much going on in their brains that I may never figure it out. Cats are an unsolvable mystery, and I think they like it that way. Why give up all your secrets, when the magical reality you create by not doing so is endlessly interesting? In that, cats are selfless.

Behaving As If The God In All Life Mattered

I try to avoid posting animal rights rantings. It's not because I want to ignore or downplay my own animal activist leanings, it's simply because the term "animal rights activist" is a loaded one. Our culture seems to view animal rights activists as PETA-worshiping, red-paint-throwing, angry social misfits. I don't think any of those adjectives can rightfully describe me. I'll fight for the animals in my own way, and it won't be by picketing the local KFC in a chicken suit, or by screaming violent (though witty) epithets at old blueblood broads who wear fur.

Several years ago, MacHaelle Small Wright wrote a wonderfully-titled book called "Behaving As If The God In All Life Mattered". The book is part autobiography and part intricate examination of the cooperative relationship between man and nature. Sound like a hippie-dippy, touchy-feely treatise on New Age concepts? Well, it's not. In fact, the book is smartly and sensitively written, and much of the ideas it explores border on quantum physics.

Ruminating on the title alone is a valuable lesson. How can each of us, in our own way, behave as if the God in all life was equal and worthy? What can we do to honor the divine spirit of commonality and communion we share with nature? How can we better recognize and respect the unspoken interplay of support and assistance provided us by the animal (and plant) kingdom?

Every day, I try to behave as if the God in all life matters, and when I see that others are not behaving the same way, I grow very, very upset. I am a work in progress; my sensitivity levels, especially when it comes to the treatment of animals, is extraordinarily high.

Now, anyone who knows me, or even anyone who might read this blog from time to time, understands that I love movies. To me, there is nothing that compares to experiencing a great filmed work of art. For decades now, we've grown accustomed to the United States Humane Society's slogan popping up at the end of nearly every movie out there: "No animals were harmed during the making of this motion picture." And it's true. The USHS meticulously monitors all animals involved in the production of a movie. There are on-set specialists from the USHS who follow every step an animal takes and records painstaking notes down to the finest detail. These specialists even have a power that usurps that of the director: they can yell "CUT!" at any moment during shooting if they suspect an animal being filmed is in some sort of danger. It's a noble, compassionate job.

Yet knowing, and greatly admiring, this, I find even feigned violence to animals on film to be tremendously disturbing. I know that realistically (and legally) no animals are ever put in danger in a motion picture, but images of animal violence are nonetheless upsetting for me to watch. It's interesting to note that I can watch people get their brains blown out left and right on a movie screen (though I don't relish that kind of violence either), but the second an animal is the subject of such violence, I sorta freak out.

I almost walked out of "Cold Mountain" when I saw it in the theater. There seemed to be such gratuitous and senseless animal slaughter in that movie. I'm still haunted by "Cold Mountain"'s crazy-ass old lady and the baby goat she ruthlessly, frighteningly, butchers in her lap. The other night, I nearly stopped watching "No Country For Old Men" for its scenes of animal cruelty. Even the brilliant "Brokeback Mountain" had entirely too much animal violence for my taste. With the exception of "Brokeback", the only thing I remember about these movies is how heartlessly they portrayed our animal friends, no matter how staged or how many "No animals were harmed during the making of this motion picture" blurbs. It's the violence, real or artificial, that stays with me.

But at the same time, I can rightfully be called a hypocrite. For all my animal-lovin', vegantastic ways, I knowingly walked into Lars Von Trier's film "Manderlay" with the knowledge that a donkey had been slaughtered for a particular scene. And not in Movie Magic Land, but in real life. "Manderlay" was filmed in Sweden, and Swedish film law allows for the butchering of animals for the sake of a movie...as long as there is a veterinarian on-set to euthanize the animal immediately afterward. Actor John C. Reilly walked off the set of "Manderlay" due to the donkey issue and was replaced. It was a powerful, brave, compassionate move on Reilly's part, and I salute him for it.

So why, then, did I put down my hard-earned money to see "Manderlay"? Well, I am a Lars Von Trier junkie, and I've fallen in love with every one of his movies. Even "Manderlay" (the donkey scene, incidentally, ended up on the cutting room floor in light of the controversy surrounding it, as LVT didn't want the issue to take away from the film's central story). To be honest, it troubles me to a distressing degree that I may have indirectly supported the slaughter of an innocent animal for the sake of entertainment. I don't think this is what MacHaelle Small Wright had in mind when she explored the partnership between people and animals. I'm not perfect. As I said earlier, I'm a work in progress.

I will say, though, in my own defense -- as well as Von Trier's -- that the donkey killed in "Manderlay" was an elderly one that had already been slated for slaughter. I take a small bit of solace in the fact that the animal might have met a more "humane" end by euthanasia, as opposed to buzz-saw. But this is a fact, not an excuse, and it doesn't make it right. Alice Walker once said that animals exist for their own reasons. In other words, that donkey was not put on earth to entertain me.

It's also interesting to wonder if "Manderlay"'s script had called for, say, a dog to be killed instead of a donkey, would I have still seen the movie? If so, would I have still loved it? Is the life of a dog, or a cat, or a hamster somehow more precious than the life of a donkey, or cow, or pig?

I don't have the answers, and the few I can come up with are complicated and fraught with contradiction. But I do know one thing. Before I sat down and watched "Manderlay", I said a little thank-you to that donkey: a brief moment of silence for a voiceless creature that had to die for the sake of art. His sacrifice was not in vain.

Gone to the Dogs

"To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring - it was peace." -Milan Kundera


I noticed something telling about myself today.

Though I've been stuck in this abominable melancholy for months now, there is one thing and one thing only that consistently, always, without fail, cheers me up to the point of bliss.

Dogs.

We don't own one, but I am fortunate enough to work in an office with a few dogs. No, I don't mean the few co-workers I don't like. I mean real live dogs. I work with blind people, so guide dogs are of course welcome and embraced in my place of employment. It's one of the few positive things about my current gig, and I hold fast to it each and every day. One particular pooch, a fantastic black lab named Claire, is guaranteed to make me smile no matter how poopy my pants are. She is still young and, when not on duty, a playful bundle of pure nirvana. But when that harness is on, Claire is all bidness. (Just a word of blind people etiquette: never, ever approach, beckon, or play with a guide dog at work; if their harness is on, they are at work; and even if it's off, ask the owner before lavishing love on the dog. It's just polite.)

My own dog, Rupert, lives in Iowa with my parents. He's getting on in years, and when I moved to Boston, I made the painful though appropriate decision to leave him with my mom and dad. Not only had he grown incredibly close to them, but the feeling was totally mutual. It made it slightly easier to walk away knowing how much love, privilege, and comfort he was going to have. Though I readily admit that I miss him desperately every single day of my life. What I wouldn't give for the smell of his coat, the honey of his kisses, the sound of his singsong snore. But Rupert is living it up, I know that. He RUNS that house. And that's just as it should be.

My crazy love extends to all dogs, really. I can be walking down the street, my face so pathetic and long it's dragging the pavement, and someone can saunter by with a canine and everything instantaneously changes. Breed of dog is unimportant. Recognition from the dog is equally unimportant. Just seeing a dog is enough.

It's enough.

To remind me that there is still some goodness, love, and devotion in the world. To remind me there is still some untouchable innocence. To remind that some things never need be spoken to be rewarding, meaningful, and inspiring.

In closing, let me share some of my favorite dog-related quotes. The Kundera selection that opens this post is one of the best, but here are a few other great ones....

"There is no psychiatrist in the world like a puppy licking your face." -Ben Williams

"Dogs are miracles with paws." -Susan Ariel Rainbow Kennedy (SARK)

"Dogs' lives are too short. Their only fault, really." -Agnes Sligh Turnbull

"I think we are drawn to dogs because they are the uninhibited creatures we might be if we weren't certain we knew better. They fight for honor at the first challenge, make love with no moral restraint, and they do not for all their marvelous instincts appear to know about death. Being such wonderfully uncomplicated beings, they need us to do their worrying." -George Bird Evans, Troubles with Bird Dogs

"Properly trained, a man can be dog's best friend." -Corey Ford

"If you think dogs can't count, try putting three dog biscuits in your pocket and then giving Fido only two of them." -Phil Pastoret

"A dog is not 'almost human' and I know of no greater insult to the canine race than to describe it as such." -John Holmes

"The more I see of man, the more I like dogs." -Mme. de Staël

"Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole." -Roger Caras

"The dog is a gentleman; I hope to go to his heaven, not man's." -Mark Twain, letter to W.D. Howells, 2 April 1899

"No philosophers so thoroughly comprehend us as dogs and horses." -Herman Melville, Redburn: His First Voyage, 1849

"You think dogs will not be in heaven? I tell you, they will be there long before any of us." -Robert Louis Stevenson

"I wonder what goes through his mind when he sees us peeing in his water bowl." -Penny Ward Moser

"Children are for people who can't have dogs." -Author Unknown

"The more one gets to know of men, the more one values dogs." -Alphonse Toussenel

"Happiness is a warm puppy." -Charles M. Schulz

A Pastel Life (Or, Ten Reasons Why I Loves Mah Kitties)

"With dogs and people, it's love in big splashy colors. When you're involved with a cat, you're dealing in pastels." - Louis A. Camuti, DVM

All my life, I've been what you would call A Dog Person. It's not that I didn't like cats; in fact, quite the opposite. Several friends' cats held, and continue to hold, a special place in my heart. But I didn't have that connection that comes with cat ownership (a term that is a sort of a paradox because, as all cat owners often ask themselves, who really owns who in this relationship?).

Enter Fergus and Claire. They were two strays that were dropped off at a local shelter: Fergus from the wild streets of Weymouth, and Claire, not even weaned, found abandoned with her siblings and mother behind a plumbing company in South Boston. This was in August of 2005. John and I had decided to get a cat, and I was adamant that I wanted just one, and he/she had to be fully-grown, even geriatric, so as not to disrupt our lives with frantic kitty energy. Well, the moment we walked into Petco Adoption Day, and saw these two feline "siblings" (they had found one another at the shelter and were inseparable, so they were to be adopted as a pair), all my well-ordered plans fell to goo.

And something telling happened when my two eyes met their four. I found myself instantly falling into what I only knew previously as my "dogspeak". You know what I mean: it's that voice we all put on when we see a dog, or a cat, or a baby. Mine consists mainly of squeals of laughter peppered with kissy-face noises. I discovered myself on the floor, eye-level with these adorable little kittens, giggling and squeaking and kissing.

Later, we took them home.

The last two and a half years of cat-daddying have been fraught with lessons, and I wanted to put some of these lessons into a coherent structure to better see the world these creatures have opened for me. Respecting my bizarre passion for lists, I compiled just ten, of probably hundreds of reasons, why I adore my feline charges.

10. Cats are neat freaks. And so am I. Speaking in terms of the poo alone, it is so much easier to handle and discard a little tootsie roll than it is a hot steaming chocolate soufflé.

9. Cat kisses, which fall somewhere between the feel of velvet and the feel of sandpaper, are a divine exfoliation treatment. God's skin care line, if you will.

8. Cats make no qualms about the fact that they like some people more than others. While Claire clearly prefers John, Fergus is a little orange man after my own heart. I wish I could be so choosy, and blunt, with the people I come in contact with.

7. Cats forgive, but they do not forget. Cats are quite capable of holding grudges. They will eventually forgive any slight, but the memory of it will remain unerasable.

6. Stroking a cat, like stroking a dog, is a tremendously meditative experience. It has been scientifically proven that petting a cat or dog prolongs the life of the petter. And the animal, ever aware of their Buddha-nature, dwells nowhere but in the moment: the supreme perfection of the interaction with the present.

5. Cats will give you your space. If you don't feel like being lovey-dovey, or they don't feel like being loved on, they are more than happy to retreat to their own places. And without an ounce of ill will. Yet on the other hand, cats are also highly intuitive. I often get in those sullen, silent states where I just don't want to be bothered. It has been more than once that Fergus has curled up on my chest, eyes locked with mine, purring with an almost jarring vibration, and single-handedly (single-pawedly?) lifting me out of my self.

4. Cats are divinely content with their own company. If you must go out of town for the weekend, a cat is fine with full bowls of food and water and a clean place to potty. When you come through the door on Sunday evening, they regard you with a casual look that seems to say, "Meh. Back so soon?" I of course envision all sorts of feline debauchery in our absence: kitty keggars, little catnip doobies, maybe even a neighborhood stray invited in for a lapdance. But in all reality, the weekend was more than likely serenely quiet and filled with hours of sleep and maybe a little swatting around of a kitty toy or two.

3. The hacking-up of a furball can be a wonderful release. Every once in a while, one of the cats will grow a bit agitated and start making "uh-oh-I'm-gonna-puke" noises. Moments later, a gooey wad of hair will plop out of his/her mouth. After that, said cat will stretch languidly, rejuvenated, and scamp around gaily, free of that cumbersome lump in the throat.

2. Cats are amazingly limber creatures. If humans could achieve some of the positions a cat can (my favorite: "Playing the Cello", as John calls it), the need for sex would become obsolete.

1. Cats are discriminating. While dogs are blissfully boundless with their love, affection, and attention, cats prescribe to no such theory. A cat demands your feelings on their terms alone. And if they find it ill-suiting, they will simply walk away. They are complex animals, I would even go so far as to call them self-actualized. We must earn the right to be in their presence. They decide who they let in. There is something quite respectable in that.