Have you always thought that cats and dogs just instinctively hate each other for no reason? Well, I’m going to prove you wrong, by living a day in the life of a cat (again), and imagining the cat’s owner getting a dog.
The day the world came crashing down was when my human brought in a dog that smelled like overwhelming excitement and something else I couldn’t quite place. It had a sour tang to it, and tasted like bile as the stench came closer. It smelled a bit like the rotting food in the older human’s house when my human dropped me off there so I wouldn’t be alone when she went on vacation. I had always hated that smell, but there had never been anything I could do about it.
“Onyx! I want you to meet the newest member of our family, Bandit!” Hands that are warm and familiar pull me closer, and I let them. She seems so happy about this. . . New arrival, so I need to at least pretend to be happy along with her. I suppose it’s the least I can do. I’m pulled forward, almost right against the dog. He’s nearly eight inches taller than me, and he looks down at me with light blue eyes like the sky on a nice day.
You are. . . Onyx. I just keep glaring at him. If this rat thinks he’s going to end up taking my human away from me, he is in for a rude awakening. The only problem with that was that he suddenly took my place in the bed. Since my human had adopted me, I had been allowed to sleep at the foot of the bed, but I usually violated that rule by either sleeping on her pillow, or just on her chest. But when I went over to my spot on the bed, it was already occupied by a mass of brown and white fur. My mind flashes with thoughts of his blood on my claws, but then I think about my human’s sad brown eyes at the idea that I could have done something like that. I think about her eyes, filled with tears at the knowledge that I might have to be declawed like some feral cat.
The feeling doesn’t go away, but it stops swelling in my entire body, instead just sinking down into the pit of my stomach like the gross wet food I needed to eat to stop vomiting up bile. I skulk out of the room, curling up on the couch. At least that. . . that mutt wouldn’t take my place here.
As the weeks dragged on, there was more and more strangeness in the home. When I would run into Bandit in the halls, or outside in the yard, he would give me a look that I didn’t understand. Those bright blue eyes left a bad taste in my mouth. It tasted bitter and felt kind of like a bad hairball. He would just stare at me with that thousand-yard stare that my human had in her eyes when she had gotten the call that the woman who used to yell at her for not having another human to mate with had dropped dead like a fly. I couldn’t help but feel good when she got the news from the little square that squawked with voices I didn’t understand, hearing that the terrible shrieking woman who looked too much like my human had passed. It was unsettling. When my human was gone for the day, me and Bandit were left alone together. We would keep to ourselves, me usually finding a nice spot by the window to curl up and nap in peace, him just sitting there with that pained look on his face. There was one time, though, that he attempted to speak to me.
Onyx? My eyes snapped open at the sound of his annoying whimper. His language was hard to understand, all just yips and strange, high-pitched noises that made no sense to my ears. What was even more difficult for me to comprehend was that he was actually making an attempt to learn my language. It would be hard for any animal to understand, especially one that didn’t know the difference between a hiss and a yowl.
What is it? The dog was sitting on the couch, his head resting on his two front paws. How did Esme find you? I mean, I’m just kinda curious because you don’t seem like much of a. . . Feral cat. The question makes my throat burn. Had he once been a mutt out on the streets? With the look his sad blue eyes gave me, I could tell that there was something bad he hadn’t said yet.
Because I’m not a feral cat. Esme took me from an owner who used to hit me. His face looked pained again, his ears folding against his head. I couldn’t tell if he was angry or just sullen. It meant different things for different species. Oh. . . I’m sorry. I haven’t thought about that in a long time. Ever since Esme had taken me after the old, heinous witch had died, I had tried to forget about the way her bony hands would smash my head into the floor, or the way her shoe felt against my ribs, how the blazing sun beat against my skin, my fur just continuing to soak up even more heat. She had refused to let me in until I stopped crying for food.
It’s. . . Not your fault. The dog just continued to stare with his unnerving eyes. Another time, when Bandit had gotten out of the backyard when Esme had left the barrier that trapped us in the small strip of land, he had returned with blood on his snout. It was in his teeth, on his white paws. I hadn’t asked questions, just had helped him clean it. I remembered the taste of blood, back from when I used to spend all my time outside on the concrete that blistered my pads and killed birds in my free time. It was just a natural instinct. If you didn’t kill, you would be killed yourself. I just kept licking at his fur, trying to focus on getting the red that had tainted the snow white of his paws. We sat there in silence afterwards, him just staring out into space like his thoughts were rushing a mile a minute. For once, I don’t feel uncomfortable with him. The way he stares doesn’t make me feel like there are earthworms crawling under my skin.
When I watch her play with him in our little encampment of greenery, I feel something I’ve never felt around him before. He looks so happy, that usual far-off stare clouded with a joy I see nearly every day I’ve been with Esme. I don’t feel the usual burning anger I feel when I see her grinning down at him, or when his tongue lolls out of his mouth when his jaws are wide open. There’s a warmth in my chest that feels like it’s swelling in my lungs like a second heart. I can’t tell if it’s an I need to get away from this kind of tightness in my chest or a I want to get closer affection. I remember the hum of the tricky little light bugs from outside as we sat on the porch the other night. Me and Bandit had been at Esme’s feet, my shoulder touching his, when he had first spoke. You know, I really love her. And you, too. You guys are really nice. He hadn’t looked at me, but I could tell that there was the watery, glassy look in his eyes that he got when he was happy. Just like his eyes were shining right now in the honey gold of the afternoon sun. Her hands are in his shaggy fur, and it reminds me of the blood in his white fur from a few days ago. The thought doesn’t make me sad. Instead, it makes me feel like maybe, just maybe, it isn’t too bad to have another member of my family. Someone who loves the same person I do, and would defend with their life. Maybe it isn’t too bad to have someone who has the same kind of instincts as I do. Maybe, it isn’t that bad to have Bandit in my family.
So, to conclude, I like to imagine that there isn’t some instinctual kind of hatred between canines and felines that will always be there. Animals of any kind aren’t born to hate another, but instead to fear the threat of death from another. So maybe, there’s a chance that cats and dogs could learn to coexist, maybe even love each other. Eh, maybe it’s just speculation, but it’s a nice thought to have if you want a pet.
