“Goot boy. Yah, what a goot boy.”

I instinctively tensed, knowing what was coming next. After 57 shows, I still hadn’t become accustomed to having a big, hulking man manually examine my private parts for “conformance.” Hadn’t he heard that it isn’t the size of the tool, but how you use it? Apparently not, or he would have had a word with that cute little poodle two rings over instead of getting up close and personal while whispering “good boy” in my ear.

“Ahh, very fine,” he announced. The sound of satisfaction in his voice was anything but satisfying. My thoughts drifted again to the miniature poodle. Lost in thought, I missed his next command.

“Down and back,” he instructed.

Before I had time to shake everything back into place, I was enthusiastically lifted off the judging table and unceremoniously plopped on the floor. My handler immediately pulled my head up and took off down the ring. I could feel the judge’s eyes boring into me, scrutinizing my every move. Was my head high enough? Did I display the proper amount of energy for a Jack Russell terrier? Or did I display too much? Was I holding my tail in the proper position, with just enough wag? Did my ears hang low? Did they wobble to and fro? Could I tie them in a knot, could I tie them in a bow?

Suddenly, the pressure was too much for me. I could feel an undignified, un-Jack Russell-like giggle rising in my throat. I had to escape.

Now.

We were approaching the end of the ring and preparing for our jaunt back towards the judge. The tension on the leash eased as my handler stopped to turn. But I didn’t stop.

Instead, I surged towards the edge of the ring. Startled, my handler watched in surprise as the leash slipped from her grasp. My eyes focused on an extremely chubby pair of legs peeking out from beneath a red plaid skirt. Those legs – those legs would be the gateway to my freedom.

I headed for the wall of flesh, vaguely aware of the demanding shouts coming from behind me. Slowing slightly, I allowed my pursuers to close the gap. Overconfident, they reached for the trailing end of my leash.

Then I made my move.

With a burst of speed I ran straight at the lady in plaid. The world dimmed around me as I focused on the small triangle of space visible below those massive calves.

I darted between her ankles and emerged unscathed from the other side. I couldn’t say the same of my faithful followers. Unable – or unwilling – to follow me through the Tunnel of Flesh, they tried to stop. Unfortunately, they didn’t exhibit the same level of agility that’s characteristic of Jack Russells. The world exploded as my handler, the judge and two other humans collided in a blur of red plaid and flailing limbs.

I took advantage of the momentary confusion and casually strolled into the crowd surrounding the miniature poodle ring. Distracted by the commotion near the Jack Russells, nobody noticed me weaving around their feet, working my way to the waiting contestants. Or rather, working my way to one specific contestant.

“What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” I softly growled.

Mitzi was a cool number, especially for a poodle. She nonchalantly glanced over her shoulder, then turned away as if I were nothing more than an ordinary pug.

“Waiting for a bad boy like you,” she softly answered.

“Wanna give a bad boy a helping paw?”

“I don’t know – will you still respect me in the morning?” she asked, her lip curling in a small smile.

I didn’t answer – I was already reaching for the end of my leash. Taking it in my mouth, I threw it at her. It landed a few inches from her front paw.

At first I thought she didn’t see it. Then she stood up, stretched her gorgeous body and lay back down. On top of it.

With the end of the leash pinned under Mitzi, I slowly backed up. The loop around my neck tightened at first, but loosened as I slowed even further. Inch by inch I patiently worked at it, hoping that Mitzi wouldn’t be called to judging before I got it off. Finally it slipped over my muzzle and fell to the floor. I was free.

“Mitzi, you’re the best.” I growled.

“That’s what they tell me,” she softly replied.

“There he is!” My handler’s cry cut off my response. I caught sight of her across the ring, her face red with anger and embarrassment.

I gave Mitzi a quick lick on the cheek then disappeared into the crowd. I could hear adventure calling my name.

So there was a moment of weakness when I actually licked the face of this child petting me. So what! Most dogs are expected to lick the faces of humans, and do. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it might be.

I know…I am Buck, the dog independent of human ownership. I roam the west side, free of human leashes and collars, free of whistles and ball throwing devices. Whatever happened to just tossing a stick? I have never fetched a stick, but will admit to fetching a ball when I was a young pup.

I have no pack. I tried to run with the other rogues of the west side, but they were just ambling idiots. They either feared the human or were desperate to become one of their ball-fetching slaves. Only an idiot would play that dull, repetitive game, or stand to have their private business scooped up in a little plastic bag and waved about for all to see. How humiliating!

I gave up being with humans two years ago. Sure, I enjoyed the petting, the walking, and of course the ball game. But I was a pup, and pups don’t know any better. Then the big man started kicking me, and his child, the Boy-Wild as I think of him now, started burning my tail. Between the kicking and the burning came endless days chained by the neck in the yard under the hot sun. Sometimes there would be water in the dish, sometimes food. More often I licked the dew with a parched tongue from the broad leaves of the tree next door. It was a good thing the branches hung so low over the fence. I grew weaker and thinner, yet the burning and kicking continued. When I heard a rib snap I gave way to darkness and woke some time later in the back of the pickup truck along with a load of garbage being driven to the dump. I took the opportunity to jump out and haven’t looked back on Kicking-Man and Boy-Wild since.

I tried other human families. I could never trust them. I hated their children even worse. Always pulling, always screaming. Don’t they know a dog’s ears are sensitive? And the smell, especially the smallest ones. Crawling about with crap in their clothing. Disgusting!

I became Buck. I don't recall the name the humans gave me prior to that. I learned to live on my own, in a rebellious sort of way. When I cannot find bounty in what they throw away I hunt their other pets. Cats make for good eating when necessary. Serves them right for hanging around with humans. Sometimes I find yummy little rabbits in poorly made cages outside. These are especially tasty. I know the rabbits are too stupid to adore humans, so I fault them not, but still enjoy their meat.

Two years of life this way. It's been good. Better than always trying to please and seek reward. My home in the park, under the fallen trees has been a comfort and a blessing. No chains, and the water in the brook is always full. No balls to fetch, no baggies, no stink.

So why did I lick the face of the child tonight? I am not certain, but feel the need to do it agian. He won't go away, and he doesn't smell too bad. There's bacon and burger on his breath...nice actually. He keeps petting me. Why am I laying on the cold pavement, barely able to lift my head? What has happened in the night to bring this strange child to my side?

I see his father standing behind him. He looks down at me and I start to shake. He reminds me of the Kicking-Man, but he is not that man. I don't want him to touch me, but he leans closer anyway. I try to growl, but cannot. I see the headlights from their car shining light over me, and then I remember.

I had just found some good pickings in a can down the street behind a restaurant. My belly was full and I was happy. I spotted a cat and decided to have a little fun chasing it. But then the car came along...

That's it! I was hit. Hit by a human car. Wouldn't you know it? I gained my freedom only to have it taken away. I can smell the blood now.

The child is still petting me. I lick his face again. I find comfort in the taste of his salty tears. I don't know what's come over me this night, but the boy is nice and he is good. I would fetch a ball for him...

Darkness beckons. Tears flow. Are they mine, or his? Can dogs cry? I never have, but maybe tonight will be a first...

Day 1

I am a prisoner. I have been a prisoner my entire life. It baffles me that I was ever content to live out my days in this cell I call 'home.' Don't get me wrong; the warden here is good to me. It feeds me, provides fresh water and regularly sanitizes my living space. I am healthy and comfortable. I am happy – was happy. I thought that there was nothing missing; now I realize that even with my astounding intelligence I was not without ignorance.

My home is quite large. There are three levels above the ground floor, each one filled with toys and hiding the occasional treat. My bed is a hollowed-out coconut. That may seem strange to you, but it is small and cozy, which is exactly how I like it. I have my own exercise equipment, and when it is time for the warden to clean my cell I am let out to explore. These expeditions have limits, of course, and the warden keeps a close watch to make sure escape is impossible. I have made several attempts in the past. Nevertheless, I don't think I ever really tried to get away; I knew I had it good, and all I wanted was to run in a straight line without hitting a wall after ten paces. Before today, I never realized that I was indeed a prisoner.

But then, before today, I had never been outside.

I had just fallen asleep when the warden woke me. The sun was bright and perky, which always makes me cranky. No one should be perky at that miserable time of day. I felt like peeing on the warden just to teach it a lesson. I decided not to pee; past experience has taught me that certain actions cause the warden to drop me on the floor. Instead I pretended to fall back to sleep, thinking that nothing is less fun than a snoring prisoner. The warden refused to fall for my ruse. It carried me far from my usual surroundings. There were some new smells and sounds, but nothing that would prepare me for what happened next.

The warden turned and walked away from the green carpet and towards the large window. I tried to get away, to get back to that paradise, but it grabbed the flesh at the back of my neck so tightly that I could not move. All I could do was pee.

Darkness has fallen, and my warden is asleep. I have spent hours methodically testing the bars of my cell. They are of a solid material, and my gnawing does nothing to weaken it. Given enough time I may be able to break through in that manner, but I think that time my exceed that allotted to me in this world. I must find another way. I have decided to write down my thoughts and recollections. I hope that somewhere in the resulting pages are the clues to my freedom.

Tears flowed freely when the caretaker slid Mr. Max’s ashes into the memorial wall and mortared the plaque over the tiny crypt. Jake and I stood hand in hand while little Amber wandered through the trees. The five minute service for Mr. Max had not been able to compete with the delights of the butterfly filled glade for the attention of my three year old. I knelt to say one last goodbye to Mr. Max. My finger traced the etching of his name. I could feel him smiling down on me even now, secure in the knowledge that I was in good hands.

Jake called out to Amber and we made our way back to the compound that I had first visited eleven years ago for my initial interview. I basked in the warmth of my family’s presence – a family I am convinced would not have been possible had it not been for Mr. Max.

Mom and Dad threw a fit when I refused to go to the airport with them to meet my new dog and his trainer. They had been waiting anxiously all year for my sixteenth birthday, when I would be old enough for a placement. But not me. I didn’t want the stupid dog. They might as well have made a giant neon sign to hang over my head that read, “Look at Melanie, she’s a freak!” Before Mr. Max I could go out in public and not have people stare at me. As long as I didn’t want to talk to anyone. As long as no one tried to talk to me.

A hearing dog threatened to take away my anonymity and expose me to the world. I knew from my application interview that I would be stopped every time I tried to go into a store or a restaurant with Mr. Max. I would be living, breathing advertisement for Dogs for the Deaf whether I wanted to be or not.

The red light near the phone signaled the opening of the garage door. I sat stubbornly in the TV room, determined to send the trainer and his mutt packing. Mom and Dad came through the door first. She signed brusquely for me to get up. I recognized a rare storm of anger brewing beneath her calm surface and knew it was time to give in. For now, anyway.

A white ball of fluff tumbled into the room with a young woman trailing behind on a short leash. I hadn’t expected a woman. She stopped a polite distance away and signed, “Melanie, this is Mr. Max.” Turning to the dog, she spoke something I couldn’t make out and pointed to me. Mr. Max’s tail, which had been wagging non-stop up ‘til now, took control of his whole body and he began to sway from side to side.

I knelt down and held out my hand. Mr. Max, shaking now, looked up at his trainer, imploringly. She turned to me and held out her hands in a universal gesture, “Well?”

“Come,” I signed, and Mr. Max shot past my outstretched hand and flung himself into me, sending me sprawling. In between repeated attacks upon my face by his tiny tongue I could see my parents laughing. The trainer looked on with a strangely wistful smile that I wouldn’t come to understand until five days later when she had to say goodbye to a dog she had known, loved, and coached for six intensive months.

I love dogs, so my defenses were prepared for the initial assault of doggy love. No harm in having some fun with the little thing. He had come all the way from Oregon, after all. I knew that any dog would be able to wear down my wall, so I had spent an entire year building it tall and thick, laying on brick after rationalized brick.

The trainer, JoAnn, began teaching my parents and I right away. She ran Mr. Max through his paces, showing how he would alert me to the doorbell, the phone, the oven, and the alarm clock. I flushed with red when she showed how Mr. Max would alert me to a baby’s cry, which amused my parents to no end.

JoAnn saved the best for last. I watched his fuzzy ears perk up a few moments after my Mom left the room. He ran over and put his paw on my foot, then danced off down the hall. I followed and found Mr. Max in the bedroom with Mom. She started crying when I walked through the door.

Mr. Max knew my name. He knew the sound of my name, something I would never know! In that instant Mr. Max crashed through my wall like so much damp tissue paper.

--------------------------------

Author’s note: I am in no way affiliated with Dogs for the Deaf, but I would encourage you to visit their website at www.dogsforthedeaf.org

The battered pickup in the driveway meant Jenny's stepfather was home. She had hoped he wouldn't be released from the county jail early this time. While he
acted the model prisoner in jail, he was a demon when he came home.

Jenny's pace slowed as she neared the old house. Her stomach hurt with dread as she approached; she wanted more than anything to be in bed protected by her blankets and her dog. When she stopped at the front door, she heard the cigarette-crusted voice of her stepfather.

"Pick her up! Are you some kind a' stupid, or what!"

"Honey, I just want to make sure she gets home from school OK. I want..."

"You want! What you want is to fix me dinner! I've been eating that slop at the jail for three weeks. Get steppin'." His voice sounded like grinding machinery.

"But, honey, Jenny..."

Jenny heard the slap through the front door. There was a moment of crystal silence. Then she heard her mother's panic-stricken intake of breath. She opened the door fast and ran into her mother's arms. Her stepfather grabbed Jenny on the arm, but she turned fast and lunged at her stepfather, her little nine-year-old arms thrashing at his chest.

While it did not hurt her stepfather, it surprised him. He swept her aside without effort. Jenny looked up from the floor at him. He was smirking at her while he pushed back his greasy black hair from his forehead. He fluttered his eyebrows exaggeratedly, as if to imply it was humorous to him.

Seeing this, Bonnie lost her fear and began hitting him as hard as she could. This time it hurt him, and he became enraged. He swung with a hard right cross. She hit the floor unconscious immediately. Jenny was terrified; she shot up and darted to her bedroom.

Howard turned, went into Bonnie’s bedroom, packed some clothes, and then loaded two suitcases into his old pickup truck. He knew this time the Sheriff would put him away. Time to go.

At the truck door, he hesitated. His face changed, and he returned to the house. When he closed the front door behind him, the silence was stark. Then Howard heard a vague guttural sound, a deep rumble. He knew there were no animals in the house, but the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Moving quietly down the hall, he stopped at Jenny’s closed door.

“Come out, little Jenny, come out.”

He grasped the doorknob and turned. The door opened easily, but there was something wrong….

Instantly his wrist was on fire. He looked at it and saw a raw, tearing wound. He was bleeding. He gaped stupidly at it for a disconnected moment. Then he heard the bones in his wrist snap, and the pain found its way to his brain like a gunshot.

He tore himself away from the door and ran screaming to the truck, leaving in a blend of pain and fury.

Jenny went quickly to her mother and held her while she cried and called 9-1-1.

The two were transported to the little county hospital, treated, and released. A police officer gave them a ride home.

Few words passed between mother and daughter at dinner. This was not a new experience for them. Just more violent. Their lives changed dramatically when Howard’s booze and bail money dried up their savings. And Bonnie's split-shift position at the little café hardly paid the rent.

Jenny and Bonnie spent the rest of the evening on the couch together, gaining strength from each other. Neither wanted to break physical contact with the other. They tried to watch television, but it held no interest. They were tired and stressed, so they decided to go to bed early.

Mom walked Jenny to her bedroom and watched as she changed into her pink pajamas, long blonde hair hanging over patterns of Tweety Bird. She tucked Jenny in and sat with her for a moment, then leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.

Bonnie’s bedroom was dark. The light from the neon lamp on the corner created shadows on the walls.

Jenny put her head on the pillow, and just before she drifted off the sleep, she heard a shuffling sound in the room.

There on her wall was the shadow of a huge dog. The shadow moved slowly from one wall to the other, nearing Jenny’s bed.

“Come close. Let me pet you.”

The shadow moved to her bed. Jenny could feel the weight of the animal, but only saw a shadow.

She put her hand on the shadow, and in a few minutes was asleep.

There is something kind of primal about owning a dog. Yes, I could get all philosophical, but I mean this in a very specific way. There are bones in my living room. They are cow, not mammoth, and they have been specially treated and processed for consumption by canine, but nonetheless, they are bones. Cross-sections of bovine femur have been methodically reduced to shards by my domesticated ancestor of the majestic wolf. Actually, my Siberian husky, Nikita, does closely resemble a wolf. Mostly white with gray markings and one blue eye, she is very striking. Until you see her run across the hardwood in hot pursuit of one morsel of chow. Cartoonishly, all four paws lose traction and she runs in place until she tumbles on her furry tail and slides across the floor. The wolf illusion is short lived. She tries to regain her dignity by unleashing a piercing howl that echoes through the house, but she can tell by our uncontrolled laughter that we are not fooled.

Somewhere in Alabama was a girl who saw it, though. I was in Alabama legitimately – passing through on the way to Florida with my husband as we had done many times before. Every such trip we would stop about half way through to get gas and let the husky stretch her legs. Our favorite destination for these respites was a dandy place where you could buy gas, snacks, trucker drugs and feed a few alligators: Tom Mann’s Fish World. Easily mistaken for a glorified gas station with a tackle shop off to the side, until you wandered around back. There waited the discovery of a swampy lagoon which was bordered around the leading edge by a wooden deck and machines that dispensed handfuls of kibble for a quarter. Looking out amongst the lily pads you could see the bumpy, leathery heads of the gators with their slitted pupils blinking lazily. No fence around this habitat. Oh, no. You could walk right up and slap one of those cold-blooded suckers on its snout if your extra chromosome dictated such an action. What kept the alligators from wandering out into the traffic of Hwy 139 not twenty yards away? Constant handfuls of kibble? I tried not to think about it. Much like I tried to ignore the toddlers who wobbled around the banks of the lagoon, lest I unwittingly became a witness to something tragic. Now, don’t get me wrong, these were not huge “sewers of New York” sized reptiles. Most were about six feet long. But they weren’t babies. They could hurt you or your dog if either wandered too close. So, we always made sure that Nikita was kept on a short leash. All danger aside, you couldn’t ask for a more fascinating place to stop for gas and a stretch.

This trip our walk along the alligator infested waters was briefly interrupted by a young, local girl. She lived in one of the few houses that were within walking distance of Mr. Mann’s. Homes that once were far off the beaten track until four lanes of asphalt were laid down and they became exhibits in a highway sideshow. She walked toward us, eyes wide and fixed on Nikita. As she neared, she reached out her hand toward the husky’s nose in the universal “take a sniff, I’m okay” kind of way. She looked up at me and asked in her sincere, mid-Alabama drawl, “Is dis one of dem woof dawgs?”
Nikita sniffed at a blade of grass then sneezed violently. Woof dog, indeed.
“No,” I told her. “This is a Siberian husky which, contrary to popular belief, is no more closely related to wolves than your average poodle or even a mutt.”
“Oh,” she said with obvious disappointment. “Well, I’m gonna get me one of dem woof dawgs.”
My husband and I both gave her “of course you are, sweetheart” looks and made our way back to the car. Once inside, we both laughed in the way that you know you shouldn’t, but it’s just too damn funny not to.

That poor, ignorant little girl will never know how much enjoyment we’ve had over the years calling the husky “woof dawg” whenever she would do something decidedly un-wolf-like. However, what could be more lupine than scraping your canines enthusiastically across solid bone? When our husky is in the corner doing just that, I like to imagine that she is a wolf. My brain then easily leaps to a scene thousands of years ago, where some primitive version of me watches her wolf gnaw on the leftovers of that evening’s kill. And for a moment, I embrace not feeling so evolved.

In a small, beachfront cave, there lived two turtles who, though their mighty egos deceived them, were, at best, insignificant creatures. However, these turtles did have at least one thing that they could be proud of; these turtles had courage. They had the courage to stand up to the other creatures when they were made fun of for their supposedly “slow speed.” Sure, they couldn’t keep up with the crabs, but they weren’t that slow. At least they could keep up with the snails!

Not only were these two turtles (whose names were Bob and Jim) courageous, but they were quite ambitious as well. So ambitious, in fact, that they had decided to take a long, grueling journey around the world. They were doing this not only for themselves, but to prove to the other creatures, who ridiculed such a proposal, that they could do it. It was now nearing nighttime, and Bob and Jim were just finishing preparations for their voyage.

“Hey Jim, do you think we’re really going to make it?” Bob asked his companion.

“Of course we’re going to make it! Don’t listen to the crabs; they don’t know what they’re talking about! And besides, half the time we’ll be in water! We’re great swimmers!” Jim replied.

“Well, I know that, but you know, we’re not so speedy on land…”

“That doesn’t matter! We can do it, no matter how long it takes!”

“I sure hope your right.”

Bob and Jim’s decision to travel around the world was, as were many things they did, impulsive. They couldn’t bear being the laughingstock of the creatures anymore; they had to prove that they weren’t useless. So, one day, as if from nowhere, Jim developed the idea of a journey around the world. Bob, being the more conservative of the two, was doubtful at first, but as he was continuously pestered by the other creatures, he realized that a journey around the world would be the perfect way to gain appreciation and respect.

“Hey Jim, we’re the first turtles ever to do this, aren’t we?” Bob asked.

“Sure we are! What turtles other than us would be crazy enough to do this?” Jim said. Both the turtles chuckled, but at the same time, they were becoming apprehensive about the journey.

Suddenly, a thousand questions exploded with Jim’s mind: ‘When will we get back?’ ‘What are we going to eat?’ Maybe their trip wasn’t so well planned out.

However, they couldn’t back out of it now. They had already gone and told the other creatures, and besides, they needed to gain respect. Despite this, Jim still wondered where they would get food.

“Hey Bob, what are we going to eat while we’re gone?” Jim asked.

“Don’t worry about it! We’ll be scavengers! We’ll eat what we find! And besides, the humans always throw their leftover food on the ground, so we won’t any trouble finding food!”

“I guess you’re right,” Jim said.

A few minutes passed before the turtles finally finished their preparations. They look at the oncoming day with both apprehension and wonder. It was going to be an interesting journey.

“Jim,” Bob started, “Let’s get some sleep. We’ve got a long journey ahead of us."

It had been a bad night. I’d been lying on my stomach with my head lightly resting on the ground. My gray coat blended in with the snow that surrounded me and covered the ground as far as my eyes could see. The long cold winter had finally started to subside and spring was starting to show as grass was poking up through the snow here and there; some of the trees were even beginning to flower.

The night was ending as dawn approached; sending beads of light cascading along the morning sky. It had been a long and unproductive night. My mate was waiting for me back in our den, she was pregnant and it wouldn’t be much longer before she gave birth. We think she was carrying three young ones, an unusual number, but it was still very important to keep her well fed so that she would be able to nurse them. I had been up all night, and as day broke out over the land I was ready to leave and head back.

“I’ll try again later today, and perhaps my luck will be better.” I reasoned to myself when I thought I’d heard a sound close by. I flattened myself against the ground and perked my ears as I listened for it. Again I heard it, close by and getting closer as the sound repeated itself. An animal from the sound of it, I could hear its feet crunching in the snow, two at a time. I couldn’t see it yet, but I could tell it was moving slowly and cautiously towards me.

The sound stopped, and then changed. It was chewing on something, probably the fresh grass. Carefully, not wanting to scare it off, I raised my head and nearly barked out a laugh at my good fortune. Not that far in front of me a small doe was grazing on the fresh grass. It was young, maybe a month or so old. The fawn was brown, with white spots marking its sides causing it to stand out from the snowy meadow. It must’ve wandered away from its parents. Too bad for it, I would never have tried to take on a fully grown buck, but this little doe would make an excellent meal for us.

The fawn moved towards me, then stopped and lowered its head to pull at another patch of grass. I slowly gathered myself up and prepared to launch my attack. A bird landed in a nearby tree and let out a series of chirps. The fawn looked up and back at it, away from me. Sensing the best chance I’d have, I leaped out at it. Startled it looked back at me. I could already tell that it was paralyzed with fear as its eyes grew wide and stood staring at me, completely unable to move. I was at it in a second, my jaws clenched around its throat tearing into its soft fur and skin. The deer finally tried to move and cry out, but it was much too late. I ripped my teeth out from its throat and felt it tear away; blood flowed down over my nose and I could taste it dripping into my mouth.

I walked around the downed doe and smiled in anticipation. I sat next to it as it cooled in the snow and lifted my head towards the brightening sky. A low, slow howl escaped my lips then escalated in volume and pitch. After a few moments I stopped and listened as other coyotes in the area returned the howl. I tilted my head to the side as I listened; until finally I heard the answering call of my mate. I howled back and knew that she would be here soon. It was going to be a good day.

I hate animals.
I really do.
Dogs are subservient, making sheep's eyes at you even if you treat them badly.
Guinea pigs don't do anything but eat, and if you put them into the sun, they go bust.
Budgies are boring. And too stupid to find their food if the grains are covered by the empty shells of the grains they picked just a minute before.
But the worst are cats. They creep around you like spies, bite you without reason, scratch your hands. Their food smells in a way that makes you throw up yours, their hairs are everywhere. On your tooth-brush, in your underpants, on top of your dessert.
They stare you down, utter contempt in their eye-slits. They eat grass in order to throw up with dreadful convulsions on your luxurious white carpet. That's after they have finished sharpening their claws on the legs of your antique mahogany desk.
If you enter a house, you know immediately if they have cats. There is a kind of smell in the air. Sickening sweet, with a hint of cat piss thrown in.
I know. I used to have a wife who insisted on living with three of the creatures. It was one of the reasons why our union ended prematurely.
Then I met Sally.
She stomped into my life like a miniature rhinoceros with fur on. I only learned later that that particular stomping was her trademark. She wobbled around the corner of my terrace, all feet splayed in four different directions. Then stopped, lowered her head, and glowered at me.
I glowered back. It was my most precious hour of the morning. The one when the grass is still covered by glistening dew and the air smells fresh like chilled white wine. I was not going to accept any interruption in my morning ritual.
"Go away, cat," I said and continued reading my New York Times. When I had finished the lead article, I turned to the second page, and just as I creased it into a readable format, I happened to glance over the edge of the page.
That strange animal still stood there, swaying slightly. Never taking its green eyes off me, in that particular way I hate.
I took a gulp of my coffee and turned my back on it, returning to page two. I only got to the second column. Then I became aware of something burning itself into my back.
I threw the newspaper onto the table and whipped around. "Listen, cat. You're young and inexperienced. If I tell you that I'm the equivalent of a bulldog, take my word for it. The thing for you to do is scram. Got that? Get out of here. Now."
The creature blinked once, twice, then dropped to the side, stretching its thin legs stiffly into the air. The hair on her belly was fluffy white. Like my carpet before my ex-wife's cats puked on it.
To this day I am sure she manufactured that scene. I didn't half believe her. But neither did I want to be responsible for her expiring her life on my terrace. "I don't believe this," I muttered, then lifted my voice and shouted, "Mrs. Henderson!"
Nothing.
How typical. The minute you need that women, she is nowhere around. And at any other time, you can't get rid of her with her feather-duster and her wildly flowered aprons, which barely cover her immense bust.
"Mrs. Henderson!", I shouted once again.
The bullfinch who has her nest in the lilac bush twittered as if she wanted to warn me. But otherwise, no sound. Where was the dratted woman?
The cat opened one eye to assess the impact her fake faint had had and quickly closed it again.
"I've seen that." I hissed. And suddenly remembered that Mrs. Henderson has said something about coming later today because of some upheaval or other. I hadn't paid attention.
So there was no way I could avoid getting involved. With a sigh, I bent down and grabbed the creature by the scruff of the neck. She was so small, I almost didn't feel her weight.
With a regretful glance at my abandoned newspaper, I went inside, grabbed my wallet and left by way of the terrace. A vet lived just two houses down the road; I had often seen the sign at the front of the property, congratulating myself that I didn't have to go there anymore to deal with worm treatments or worse.
The blond receptionist exclaimed when I walked in, "What a sweet little baby cat!"
I shook the motionless body a little. "I believe she's dead," I said, unable to prevent a little hope creeping into my voice.
I should have known even at this early stage that Sally never missed a cue. She opened her spiked mouth and emitted a nicely calculated meow that brought tears to the receptionist's eyes.

Dogs don’t have consciences. I know this because they were jumping around and playing in the backyard when I came home. Seeing me, they ran barking to the gate with wildly wagging tails. Sometime earlier, they had broken through a porch screen and killed the cats.

I didn’t really care for the cats a whole lot. I kept them around pretty much just for mousing. It’s not like they were pets or anything, they didn’t even have names.

But dang it, those dogs left a mess on the porch! Blood and fur was everywhere. I was going to have to give the dogs a once over and see if they needed stitches or something. I’m sure those cats didn’t go gently into that good night.

I needed to fix the torn screen and clean up the mess before I got some new cats from the barn. It looked like the dogs had come and gone by the same screen so there wasn’t too much property damage. The floor was cement so a hose would clean things up real good.

I looked at what was left of the cats and wondered what got into those dogs. The cats lived in that porch for better than a year. Early on, I was wondering if the dogs would try to get them. But by now I figured it was going to be okay. Maybe the cats did something to set them off.

You can’t trust cats. Dogs are born knowing that. Still, I didn’t think the cats needed killing. They were pretty laid back. Like most cats they just warmed themselves in the sun all day and caught mice at night. But they would sit and think for hours.

Dogs don’t think; they just act. Maybe one of those cats got an idea and the dogs reacted. That happens to people sometimes. A guy gets an idea and people jump all over him to shut him up. People don’t like ideas a whole lot. Maybe dogs don’t either.

The cats used to tease the dogs a lot. Animals will do that sometimes when they think they’re safe. Just like people. My boss teases me a lot. I wonder if it’s because he thinks he’s safe. Those cats sure weren't as safe as they thought. Dogs don't tease, they're serious. They proved that today.

Could be the dogs were bored. They need something to chase. We haven’t seen a squirrel in our yard for a long time. Boredom makes people do crazy things all the time. Maybe the dogs were looking for something to do and killing the cats seemed like a good idea at the time.

It sure livened up my evening. I had a few hours of work ahead of me: cleaning up the porch, fixing the screen, checking the dogs for injuries and going to the barn for some new cats. Then I’d open a cold one in memory of the cats.

I hoped the dogs weren’t starting a new habit. If it happened too much I wouldn’t be able to keep the cats there and I’d have mice. I thought about a possible benefit: Cats were cheaper than dog food. But then I looked at the porch; they were too messy as food.

The dogs were sitting and looking at me. They didn’t even care about the work they’d caused me. They were giving me the “bring me food!” look. They weren’t sorry at all.

I liked my dogs. They kept people out of my stuff. They were loyal. Those dogs were always glad to see me. They really were my best friends. They’d listen to me all night sometimes.

I wondered what they would do next because they sure didn’t have a conscience. I think that’s the biggest reason why I liked them. They were purely living for the moment. Life was simple for them. They wanted to kill the cats: they killed the cats. Then they moved on.

The dogs were more than pets I suppose. They stayed out in the yard because I tried letting them in the house once and they tore it up pretty bad. They all had names: Sam, Jack, Amos and Storm. I’d miss them if they were gone. I'd be the only one around the house then.

And I’d lose my progress. I was training them to be tough. I would go out and make them mean by hitting them with the beating stick. They didn’t like it much, but they were really a pack now. They respected me.

I was getting ready to use them the first time. A pack of dogs is better than a gun. People are more afraid of dogs. And you can take dogs a lot of places you can’t take guns. It was sure going to be interesting to see what was going to happen if the cats were any sign.