Note: nicknames, a time-honored tradition, are a regular practice here on EoG. No, my Mother’s given name isn’t Cork Head. And no I’m not dating the cute chubby boy from Modern Family … Although I wouldn’t say no to pie baking in matching burgundy dinner jackets. Rather, the names are a way to protect privacy. Besides, if those closest to me ever decide to pursue legal action, I can always claim it’s not them.
However, my pets are allowed to be called out by their true identities, along with their stage last names, Dog and Cat, respectively. (As in Molly Dog and Cheetoh* Cat.) But on their worst behavior, say when Molly ate an entire nest of baby rabbits and puked them up in the living room, or when Cheetoh climbed a curtain and brought herself and the rod avec curtain on an eight-food crash, their actual surnames are used. Generally at a loud decibel.
My co-workers/pets, a golden retriever, Molly and a lady orange kitten, Cheetoh, are loyal, annoying, and a large part of my work day. They are 12 years, ten months, and 81 pounds apart, yet their daily routines are almost verbatim.
Both have no qualms about waking me, then napping when it’s actual daytime. They like toys and love treats. Neither has shame about doing their business, and have joined forces against the vacuum, hairdryers, or any other noisy appliance. And no matter how long I have been absent, both practically knock me down at the door.
They are also the most agreeable co-workers I’ve ever had … no offense, work friends.
This is not Cheetoh. She would never sit still long enough to have her picture taken. Really, this doesn’t even look like her. Just imagine a less orange, older kitten who’s in some form of trouble.
Cheetoh is the nosiest of cats (though in the scale of cats, I have seen very few of them). Out of my feline knowledge, she’s less bratty than the girl cat in Aristocats, and far less cunning than the Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland. Unlike ‘ol Chessy, Cheetoh always gets caught.
Curiouser and curiouser, she prefers investigation over whatever consequence may arise. Usually with quite ordinary things. I’ve seen her stare, consider, and ponder various events for hours on end. Bath time, she loves it. Paper sacks, a source of pure joy. (“I bet they can’t figure out how this sack keeps moving,” she thinks. Rustle, rustle.) Any string must be pawed at – guard your drawstrings, boys – even at feet away. Battery-operated mice are a real hypnosis. And if you’re under a blanket, beware; her claws do not distinguish between friend and foe.
As for consequences, they hold no merit. Falling doesn’t seem to hurt, while slipping into sinks or bathtubs, feet-only or waist down, only fuels her need to be in the know. She will sit (soaking wet) at the edge of an occupied tub any day.
She’s also very good at jumping and walking on faces that should be sleeping.
As for Molly, the retriever, her days of curiosity are over. After 91 years of observation, she’d rather fill her days with sleep — like 20 hours of it.
Another main passion is crumbs – whether they be on the floor or on a still-full plate. She always wants all of your food. Onions? “Those smell awful,” she’ll say, then continue begging. Whether hunting or looking for approval, her days are spent underfoot; she needs to be as close as possible to activity. Her love is so intense, that, when not sawing logs, she needs to be within 14 inches of a human at all times.
The one manner she does offer is bathroom privacy. This “courtesy” probably hails from her heightened nasal abilities. She may have lost her hearing, but crack open a block of cheese and her arthritis-ridden legs will carry her as fast as they can without face planting (which happens every third-ish time).
This unhealthy lifestyle has left her with a mouth stench that will turn your nostrils in. Come thunderstorms and she’ll be blowing crap breath your way after every bolt of lightening. In her younger days, all 80-odd pounds of her would’ve jumped into my bed, just so I could protect her.
This isn’t my pet either.
Need proof? Molly has never been to the beach; she’s far too home body-y.
Cheetoh hates dancing; she likely hails from Bomont, the town from Footloose that outlawed movement to rock music. Molly, who has years of wisdom on her side, loves dancing. She has one move, but busts it out proudly.
Molly is smart enough to dig into the trash while you are sleeping; Cheetoh jumps onto the trash can, completely dumping it. This calls attention whether or not you are sleeping.
Molly is terrified of fighting, while Cheetoh has yet to see a good old-fashioned sibling brawl.
When Molly wants outside, she finds you and annoys you through loud breathing or standing where you are walking. When Cheetoh wants outside, she waits silently by the door. On every occasion I’ve found her there, I have no idea how long she’s been waiting.
They may not be efficient workers, but they have yet to harp me about deadlines or ill-placed photos. Until they become grade-A nags, I think I’ll keep them.
*Yes, Cheetoh has an “H” at the end of it, in spite of the fact it makes her sound like a sorority prize. No statement here; Manny just can’t spell and we decided to keep it.