I am not a dog person. This really comes as a shock to me (but probably not to anyone else) because I always thought I was. I had two dogs growing up, and I liked them both just fine. I did NOT want to come to grips with being a cat person rather than a dog person—ever. I was a girl and a dog person—not a cat person. I thought that not being a cat person made me interesting or something. I even dated guys who reminded me of dogs. It seemed like a good idea, especially since I was never going to be a cat person. Dogs are loyal, sweet, and smart, right? Who wouldn’t like to date someone with those qualities (considering past relationships, this ended up being a horrible idea.)? I even thought about how silly it was that my childhood dreams for my future (trophy wife, actress, coffee shop owner, librarian, someone who had an apartment…) had one thing that tied all of these other dreams together: the fact that I would have a cat. As I grew up, the name of my feline companion changed from Heathcliff to Gatsby, but as sure as I loved Holden Caulfield, there was no way that I would ever call myself a cat person.
I came to the “cat person” realization when I got my cat, Gideon. I picked the kitten up from the middle of the road and cradled him in my shirt. His eyes weren’t even open yet. It was an easy transition for me to go into caregiver mode for this tiny, fluffy, potentially dehydrated and hungry kitten. And I was even willing to thank God for rednecks since Tractor Supply Company allowed its patrons to take animals into the store so I could, at the very least, get him some water. While I was there, someone referred to him as my kitten, and, honestly, as soon as someone gives me leave to own a fluffy thing, I refuse to say no. Fluffy thing is MINE, and I am going to keep it. You go ahead and pry the fluffy thing from my clammy, dead fingers. That’s pretty much how Gid and I have been ever since.
The whole “not being a dog person” thing didn’t hit until we got our dog Gilbert. I was ridiculously excited about getting a dog, and I expected to take to the dog like I take to all fluffy things—if it ends up in my house, it is a family pet. He is a good dog, sure enough, but somehow, he doesn’t feel like he’s mine. Maybe it’s the way he tries to claim my pillows with the gusto of a drunken frat boy. Maybe it’s the fact that he chases Gideon out of the living room. Maybe it’s the way he eats cat crap. Maybe it’s the way he barks when I come home late. Maybe it’s the fact that I can’t just leave my food out anymore without hearing him howl and beg. Maybe it’s how disgusting he smells. Nope, I don't even like saying "I love you" to this dog because it would be a lie. I think back to when Prof. Holt asked my class if we'd rather be stuck on a desert island with our pet or a significant other. I honestly said, "Depends on the significant other and the pet." Gideon vs. any of my exes? Gideon wins hands down. Gilbert or exes? Sad day, it's a bit of a toss up.
At any rate, I’m sitting in between him and Gideon right now. Gideon is sitting up and looking as though he actually has some idea of what’s going on while Gilbert is looking at me all sheepishly with his gold eyes, stretching and all, with his ears purked up like if he had an extra brain cell or two, he’d totally have some clue about something. I’d say he knows I’m writing about him, but I doubt he’s that smart. Instead, I think he just hopes that the cough drop I put in my mouth was a treat for him.
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