Tag: Tiger Lily

Pawing at love

~ Chris ~ 2 Comments

Now, it is true that Cubby the dog, who’s about the mass of a midsize carnival plushy, has no testicles. But that does not stop this little love-bird, this shameless horn-dog, from tailing a potential girlfriend. 

This is a perverse, lopsided love story, featuring interspecies and entertainment. It is a short tale about a dog and a cat, the former pining for the latter, and the latter not giving one goddamn. The cat’s sangfroid is nothing less than majestic. 

But Cubby can be a dingbat, as we all can in matters of the heart. He’s oblivious to Tiger Lily’s sniffy aloofness, her baroque indifference. It’s funny in its way, mostly in how it leaves Cubby bewildered, a Huh? thought balloon hovering above vacant brown eyes. He circles her, snuffling, his voluptuous tail flapping like a palm frond. And Tiger Lily rolls her eyes, arches her back, drowsily meows: buzz off.

It brings to merry mind the amorous cartoon skunk Pepe Le Pew who invariably falls hard for a cat he thinks is a fellow skunk and proceeds to wolfishly stalk her. Unrequited hijinks ensue. Does Cubby think Tiger is a dog? Doubtful. He’s just cultivating a crush on a foxy feline, I suspect. He’s lonely, and he’s got a hot roommate playing hard to get.

Let’s anthropomorphize even more. When he’s not giving her fluttery bedroom eyes, Cubs, in a snit of jealous rejection, assassinates Tiger’s character: Tease! Floozy! It’s like “Love Island,” without the love or the island (or the silicone, spray tans and lavish idiocy). It’s not nice, but again, the cat is immune to any emotional attentions from the dog. She shrugs, then hacks a magnificent hairball.

Cubby’s a blundering suitor, awash in ineptitude, like a teen boy trying to seduce a 40-year-old — the reverse equation of “The Graduate,” say, though I think the dog and cat are about the same age. Anyway. You gotta feel for old Cubs. Except when Tiger gets too close to his chew bone and he lunges at her, Cubby is a perfect gentleman. 

Still, in her slinky wisdom, the cat’s having none of it. Flowers fail, chocolates choke. The dog’s cute tilted-head gazes are wasted. His wistful woofs ignored. This, she decides, is strictly platonic. Cubs returns to his doggie bed, curls up and sighs. Tiger steals away beneath the sofa. And so the pets remain furry frenemies, barking up the wrong tree and purring in exquisite solitude.    

Dog: “I like you!”

Cat: “Yawn.”

Pet peeves

~ Chris ~ Leave a comment

Between the cat eating the house plants then vomiting greenery all over the place and the dog expressing his anal glands by scooting his butthole across the cream-colored carpet, the animals are just asking for a one-way trip to the pound. 

I jest, but it’s true that pets is only one letter away from pests. Love them as I do, these free-roaming (if housebound) creatures are high-maintenance, not quite like human children, god forbid, but demanding and nerve-wracking nonetheless.

Oh, what’s this adorable chunk of indescribable disgustingness? Just another hairball upchucked from my favorite feline. Thanks, Tiger Lily, you charmer!

Any responsible owner of pets knows the aggravation of keeping animals. That’s why I’ve owned so many pet rats over the years — low-maintenance while being cleaner than cats and smarter than dogs. That’s a truism that happens to hold water. And the rodents may just be funnier than cats and dogs, and more affectionate to boot. Plus they have a life-span a little longer than the common house fly, which actually drop-kicks your heart.

Rats always like to play and snuffle around. They are great explorers, endlessly curious and insatiably social. They hoard. They drink beer. They dig in the plants, climb all over you, squeak during belly rubs and, yes, even giggle with joy. Then again, they nibble anything in their path, from electrical cords to your favorite book.

Pets aren’t perfect. People aren’t perfect. And while my girlfriend isn’t going to express her anal glands on my light-hued carpet, she might dog-ear the pages and break the binding of my favorite book. Infallibility — let the Pope bask in that rarefied delusion.

So as I write about these pet peeves, the dog goes ballistic over the arrival of the mail. Screeches and door scratches, head nearly exploding with the notion of territorial intrusion. The dog is bored. Let him fulfill a sense of purpose for 20 seconds. Though, thanks to the hyperactive scratching, the front door needs a fresh paint job.

The dog, Cubby, grumbles as he comes off his hissy-fit. He relaxes, peers out the window for more invaders, then curls up in a ball like a sowbug on the couch. (He’s dark gray, charcoal, and small. Like a sowbug.) The cat … who knows where she went. She vanishes like the Cheshire Cat, but leaving no toothy smile in her wake. How come cats rarely smile? Entitled, they are, seething with grave self-importance.

Last week the dog shat on the dining room rug, an impressive tower of leaning Lincoln Logs, a bonfire yet unlit. The cat barfed out something bile-colored — an intoxicating shade of yellow, beige and lime green — and I, ha ha, got to pick it all up. Rascals!

The price of pets is worth it. They cost time, money and exasperation. They get sick. The dog needs grooming. The cat tears up the carpet. Then there are the Sea-Monkeys, which live in a miniature saltwater tank. Let’s not get into the Sea-Monkeys.

Pets are gems. Strange animals strolling the halls, licking themselves obsessively, barking and meowing the call of the wild, oozing reciprocal love in our gorgeous, fantastically maddening peaceable kingdom. Sit, Cubby, sit. Thatta boy. 

The cat’s seething self-importance