Mah Dawg Can Purr
I’ve been trying to teach Mr.Cat how to purr. Actually, I think he knows how. In fact, I’ve caught him at it once or twice, when his guard has slipped, or when he savors that first gooey slurp of cat food juice. And there are times when I rub his head when he drools, from his nose actually. But mostly his attitude — quite typical, I’m afraid — is that he should be fawned over to the limits of obsequity. I’m not entirely in his clutches. If I stroke him improperly as he sits in my lap, he gives me a little bite. The kind where he clamps his mouth on my hand but doesn’t break the skin. At that point, I remove my hand from his mouth, and chuck him off my lap. The relationship is a work in progress.
I mention the purring thing because I feel with all of the attention — indeed servitude — that I tender in his direction, I’m entitled to some recognition. I mean, it’s not like I’m obligated, in my mind. Why can’t he take a cue from the dog, who every time I so much as think in his direction, he wags his considerable tail? And it’s not like Buster is trying to get something; he’s genuinely happy to have me around.
Being that he’s a sixteenth of a ton and mostly Lab, Buster’s tail is something of a mixed blessing when it wags. It clears off tables, and creates havoc among the domestic plant-life. There’s a rubber tree in my office that must think its always hurricane season.
Not that Buster isn’t right to be happy. Truth be told, I fell in love with him almost as quickly and as deeply (considering his genus) as I did with Linda, although his presence was not why I married her, despite what some sniggerers might insinuate. He and I have grown to be great pals. We go for our walk-ie’s every day, and he follows me about, parking himself with a noisy sigh that with his considerable bulk does fill a room.
Buster was eleven on my fiftieth birthday, which in dog years means he’ll be about 77. So he’s getting on in years, and it is easier to contemplate my own demise than his so I don’t. And he certainly isn’t anywhere near the end of his string. In fact, that old saw about how you can’t teach old dogs new tricks...pshaw. Buster is still learning. I just taught him to offer me his paw when I say the word to him. Okay, he does so a bit reluctantly. Maybe he even raises his eyebrows, or lowers them, in his canine expression of patience, but he gives me his paw willingly.
But the really big news is that Buster has learned to purr. That’s right, mah dawg can purr. When I have both hands on his head and my fingers massage that back of his jaw below his ears, Buster goes into ecstacy. He oohs and moans in a cadence that is as close to purring as any non-feline might attempt.
I’m thinking he might give Mr.Cat lessons. Uh-huh.
And that’s SetonnoteS...I’m Tony Seton.