Our Pets Give More Than They Take
I find myself losing sleep and space around the house to our dog and two cats, while gaining much more.
There’s an ongoing turf battle inside our house, and I am losing ground daily.
The numbers are stacked against me. A hair-shedding, tail-wagging mix of Husky, Collie, German Shepherd and Chow Chow. A plump orange companion, born as a cat but ostensibly bred to believe he too is a dog. And a second feline, scrawny and skittish, as cold as her steel gray coat.
Their three versus my one. That’s the score, every day. I barely stand a chance.
And to think, I welcomed all into our family, encouraging them to make themselves at home. That they did, before claiming the home for themselves.
It all began in the wee hours of a mid-June Saturday in 2020. Weeks of phone inquiries and on-line applications to adopt a ‘pandemic pup’ turned up only disappointment. We had two shelter cats and sought a third rescue for our first family dog. Eventually, and finally, my wife, Monique, wrote a heartfelt letter describing our situation and history as animal adopters, and posted it to our Petfinder profile.
Within a day or two, she got a call from a woman volunteering at a no-kill shelter in Alabama that regularly ferries animals to New England. Long conversation short, she had great news: there were dogs available to us. We picked out a little guy with big pointy ears, a button nose and button eyes; his sandy fur accented by white highlights, with a white nose, white underbelly, white paws and a white tip of his tail. We planned to pick him up on their next shuttle run north to Hartford.
Two weeks later, we woke up well before daybreak and loaded into the minivan parked in our suburban-Boston driveway. Two kids, ages 8 and 9, and their two parents, about to drive roughly two hours to meet who we now consider our third child.
As directed, we ended up in a dark parking lot a few blocks from Connecticut’s state capitol building, anxious for the arrival of a white van at the end of a 16-hour journey. A half hour went by. Then, impeccably timed to the crack of dawn, the van appeared, turning into the lot. Cars all around us started their engines and, unscripted, formed a single-file line of sedans, SUV’s and our trusty silver Odyssey to begin the slow procession to our pet adoptions.
Stuck in the middle, we inched forward, pulling alongside the van at 7 a.m. We checked in with the driver, a friendly middle-aged woman. A teenage girl, her COVID mask pulled down to reveal her wide smile, hopped out of the van carefully holding a tiny bundle of fur and passed it through a second-row window into the arms of my daughter, who went to kiss the puppy.
“It stinks so bad!” she happily proclaimed, as the little guy’s tail swung to and fro. The backseat was a picture of cuteness: brother and sister, still in pajamas, fawning over their new bud, whom they named Obi, in honor of a Jedi master.
A much-needed bath upon reaching home preceded the housebreaking process. His, and ours. We didn’t need long to train Obi. And Obi didn’t need long to train us.
We bought a large dog crate with a plushy red bed, but were easily persuaded by a fine whine one night to let him out and onto our queen-size mattress. Once opened, the door remained ajar and the red bed became a favorite resting place for our oldest cat, Leo.
We vowed we wouldn’t spoil him, but soon Obi was allowed a seat at the kitchen table. When we gathered to eat, he joined us; climbing onto the chairs, wriggling between our backs and the chair backs, and, once tall enough, resting his chin on our shoulders. Sometimes, if someone was late to the table while others linked hands, readying to say grace, he hopped onto the vacant seat and extended a paw too.
We swore after painting our living room and buying a new sofa that it would be kept nice — the old leather one had literally collapsed under the weight of kids and at the claws of cats — but soon conceded there was no keeping Obi away. Plushier than the red bed, which, like the crate, was long gone by then, it became one of Obi’s favorite resting places.
All the while, he got along well with the cats. Obi and Leo instantly bonded, while Little Kitty, an ex-stray untrusting of anyone, kept a respectful distance at first. Shortly before Obi turned one, Leo passed. Soon afterward, a kitty we call Chili, up from Tennessee, moved in and made fast friends with the dog. As Chili clung to Obi, Little Kitty, not to be left too far behind, suddenly became sociable.
Always yearning to be outdoors, she cut in on Obi’s routine by shadowing him and Monique on their early-morning walks. She did it by sneaking out so much initially that Mo invited her to tag along. To this day, they all go out together. Little Kitty follows to a certain point and returns home for a dish of cream, while Obi and Monique continue to a nearby pond.
But as Obi, a momma’s boy from puppyhood, has made nice with the cats, he’s asserted his Alpha instincts by challenging the man of the house. He started with the sleeping arrangements. No longer content to curl into a ball on the foot of the bed, he reoriented himself, stretching out between husband and wife.
Protective of Monique’s space, he invaded mine. My half of the bed became my quarter. Lately, it’s been less.
Nighttimes repeat themselves. I step into the bedroom to find Mo reading and Obi pleading; on his back looking up at me longingly for a belly rub. Always, I oblige. And always as I finish, before I can slip under the covers, he flips himself around and burrows into the bedding. At that point, Obi is immovable; scoffing as he sniffs at my futile efforts to elbow him aside.
Most nights, I awaken several hours later to a pair of paws sticking me in the ribs. Some nights, after Obi presumably overheats, I find him on the floor as I head to the bathroom. On those nights, he restakes his claim with comedic timing; waiting until I’m within a step of him on my return, springing to his feet and narrowly beating me to the bed. Every time. Even in my half-asleep annoyance, I can’t help but be amused.
Whereas Obi makes it hard to get into bed, Little Kitty makes it difficult to stay there. She’s not only closed the distance between her and him; she’s done it between her and us.
Envious of the attention paid to Obi, she seeks the same. Should I sit in bed with an open book, she’s right there: on my chest, blocking my view of the pages, asking with her eyes to be scratched behind her ears. When the lights go out, she sleeps between Mo’s pillow and the headboard. But on first movement in the morning, she’s back at it, imploring from atop my chest: let’s go! And if I’m unresponsive, she jumps on the nightstand and starts knocking things off. Phone. Books. Eyeglasses…
Little Kitty’s attention grabs don’t end there. If, say, I’m on the sofa, seated where Obi leaves room for me to sit, she digs in. Scratch! Scratch! Scratch! Her nails pierce the fabric of the sectional and, instantly, she has what she craves: my undivided ire. I give chase, cursing as I go, until she scoots out of sight.
Amid all this commotion, Obi lounges comfortably and Chili remains unseen; he’s probably on my bed, keeping the dog’s spot warm for later. He’ll have his moment another time, likely in the kitchen or attic.
In the former, I’m no longer able to sit at the counter in peace to eat lunch or work on my laptop. Previously too heavy to reach the kitchen counter in a single bound, Chili has either lowered his weight (doubtful) or upped his vertical (improbable but possible). He now makes it easily: in my face, starving for food and attention.
In the latter, where my office is, he shows off his newfound hops to disrupt whatever I’m doing at my desk. I’ll be in the middle of reading or writing. Chili will sneak up and claw the back of my chair. I’ll turn around, then hear a big flop, as he lands in front of me. It’s a wonder the desk hasn’t collapsed.
Three pets on three floors. Their encroachment is unending. There’s no enticing them to stop. Not empty threats. Not sweet talk. Not savory treats. They aren’t about to give up what they’ve gained. Nor am I.
Obi, Little Killy and Chili take a lot. But, deep down, I know they give more. Like stories to tell and smiles that go with them; from car seats in Hartford to kitchen chairs near Boston; from morning walks to evening wind-downs.
At the end of the day, being left with less than half a bed isn’t half bad, because life is a lot fuller having them around.
Bob Socci has been the play-by-play radio broadcaster for the New England Patriots since 2013. You can find some of his other work at www.bobsocci.comand www.985thesportshub.com.
