Tales of Ella the Circus Dog
2006-01-04 10:05 PM
Cat in the House.
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Why do we freak when a cat’s in the house? We’re like boys in a locker room after a woman walks in. Panting and pacing and puckering barks. On the edge of my tongue, gutterals. I growl and want to take Cat’s head off. Except that I know Cat. Known by the People as Ziggy, Zignacious, Zig, he’s a fine fellow who isn’t afraid of me and sometimes likes to play when I bow and paw the air. When I’m not growling and losing my head because he’s in the room, waiting for chow like the rest of us.
Poodle can’t see Cat, but when Cat slips through the room and Poodle catches his perfume, it sets her off. She is easily agitated. Her bark splits the air and I must answer her, and then Labrador flounders in, afraid that she’s missing the hunt, and Cat spreads his claws and springs to the floor, and we’re off. We don’t let up until Cat’s climbed up the fountain and gone over the fence, and then we sniff and snort and Poodle pees in the place Cat’s feet last touched before he leapt. And we put our noses in the air and wonder what the People are cooking inside the house.
When it was only me and Cat in the house—before Labrador, before Poodle—we slept side-by-side in the sun, and I melted into butterscotch before Cat’s eyes.
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