“Are you officially turning your key on getting the cats ?” – a text from my wife.
“Are you officially turning your key on getting the cats ?” – a text from my wife.
‘Turning our keys’ is a phrase we’ve adopted from nuclear submarine captains, who, according to the 1995 movie Crimson Tide starring Gene Hackman and Denzel Washington, may only fire nuclear missiles when each of the sub’s two highest ranking officers activate the launching system by inserting and turning their keys.
My wife and I aren’t often called upon to fire nukes. Requests are made the other to “turn their key” when it’s time to make the usual married-people decisions such as vacation locations, large purchases, home improvement projects, and, like now, adopting two cats from Pet Smart and bringing them into a house that already has two dogs. But this time a key turn-request isn’t really necessary, as we both have soft spots when it comes to animals. Her text could have said, “Are you officially turning your key on the orangutans?” and my answer would have been the same.
No, the dogs are not cat friendly, and we’ll have to get used to stepping over baby gaits all the time as we keep them separated, but it’ll be fun. It’s good to shake things up.
“My key is turned.”
Now we have two cats (Malcolm and Luna) that adore her, but for some reason run like hell whenever they see me coming.
Having grown accustomed to the rowdy, touchdown-celebration style greeting practiced by our dogs, watching animals flee from me feels strange. Having two dog means you always come home to a hero’s welcome. The second they see me coming up the sidewalk they tilt their heads back and bark like mad. In the language of dogs, which to humans sounds like one long, comma-riddled sentence of brain-piercing, single syllable cheers, they alert the entire neighborhood of my return. “BRAD IS HOME!” they howl. “HE’S FINALLY HOME!”
With no regard for braking distance, they come sprinting at my shins. They prance and mosh atop my feet, doing everything they can to trip me so they might lick my face. If they had Gatorade they’d pour it on me. If they had shoulders I’d be hoisted upon them. If they had cigars they’d light one up and stick it in my mouth. The only thing missing is Kool and the Gang’s Celebrate pumping out of the stereo and a ‘Brad’s #1!’ banner unfurling from the ceiling.
The cats, on the other hand, not so much. To them my arrival is not a cause for celebration. I do not inspire a party. They look at me like someone who has come to collect on a debt which they are unprepared to settle. With their long, furry tails sticking straight up in the air like a scorpion’s stinger, they run (trot, really) for their lives, shooting quick, fearful glances over their shoulders to make sure they’re not being chased. If they could block my pursuit with toppled furniture they’d be toppling it. If there was a panic room they’d be in it. If they could hold a baseball bat they’d be swinging it. When I do continue after them they move ever faster; four-legged animals seeking the shelter of the nearest four-legged furniture.
I’ve decide if I’m going to be treated like an ogre then I should at least have the pleasure of acting like one, so now I growl whenever the cats and I make eye contact. My already heavy foot steps now fall like thunderclaps, and when I reach to pet them I stretch my fingers out wide the way I would to pick up a football. Their eyes, typically the size of dimes, grow to quarters. Catching me playing with them this way, my wife shakes her head. She reaches down and pets the cats softly atop their heads and strokes the fur along their backs. “Ignore him” she says. “He’s used to playing with doggies.” Which is true.
My buffoonery and my wife’s caressing assurance are witnessed by the dogs from behind the gaits. They sit. They grumble. They stare, looking like two submarine captains deciding whether or not to fire a nuke.
