Cats or Dogs?
There's a little of both in all of us
I grew up with both cats and dogs. As a kid, I never much thought about whether as a family we were dog or cat people; we were simply pet people. We loved both. But recently sitting around a fire pit in our backyard on an unusually warm fall evening, one of our new neighbors who has a cat revealed she had not just one, but two. One is a homebody; the other is an outdoor cat, she said.
This got me thinking.
“I grew up with a couple of cats,” I said. “They were always outdoor cats. It was about their freedom. Isn’t it always about freedom with cats?”
We laughed. But it was true. My cats and at least one of our neighbors’ were all about independence. And that, I recalled, was one of the reasons why I loved my cats. It was that self-determination; that sense of sovereignty.
Dogs? No so much. Dogs are social beings. They are descendants of pack animals. That genetic trait for togetherness is also why I love dogs.
It’s been years since I had a pet cat in my home. Dogs have ruled instead. But it wasn’t long ago when my dog Sam reminded me that her social nature wasn’t her only nature. She, too, might have be longing to be as free as those felines. Don’t we all want both social connection and freedom? Isn’t that human nature? Isn’t that nature, period?
I wrote about this in my book, Walks with Sam. It seems fitting to recall it now.
***
From Walks with Sam . . .
I shouldn’t do it. It’s illegal, I believe. But I do it anyway. My wife says I’m a risk taker, although this act is not at the level of larceny. I know I tend to push the envelope sometimes. But I love to see Sam run, the freedom she exudes, it’s refreshing and makes me smile. So, I do it. I set her free.
Early morning. It is the best time for allowing Sam off leash. Few people, if any are here at the park. Today, there is no one. The ground is soaked. There had been a great deal of heavy rain recently and the small pond has overflowed onto the soccer field and the playground. I know Sam will run through it, and know she'd be trashed when it is all over.
She bolts for the ducks in the now expanded pond, splashing her way through soaked ground, muddy water spraying up behind her. The ducks fly off and Sam stands elbow deep in the water watching them escape. She sees me on the asphalt trail and barrels toward me, runs past, stops, and quickly observes her surrounding, then zips off again toward a row of trees, rainwater puddled at their trunks. Sam slops and jumps and finds a stick. She carries it in her mouth, high and proud, and prances to the edge of the pond, water droplets flashing off her long ears.
For fifteen minutes, she romps. Happy, free, and soon tired. The tongue hangs long. On the far side of the playground, I see an older woman with two Beagles on two separate leads. She is watching me, watching Sam. It’s an accusatory watch. She’s judging me, this man with no leash on his wild dog. I call for Sam. She turns to catch the sound of my voice, and then dismisses it for another run toward the ducks. I call again. She ignores me. Sam has done this before, so I do what I’ve done before. I start to walk away from her, up the walkway and toward to the street. Sam has always followed, fearing, I assume, not being able to find me again. And, like before, she comes running. But when I reach out with the leash’s hook, she freezes. Oh no, no, no. I’m not doing that, she is certainly saying. “Come on, Sam,” I demand. “Let’s go.” Sam’s eyes are wide and wild. She steps back to avoid my reach. “Damn it, Sam.” I see the woman with the Beagles, her eyes still on me; the criminal that I am. Sam runs toward the playground, up the hill, through several puddles, and then stops to watch me. I walk away again, fifty yards from her. Sam eyes me, waits for a moment, then gallops toward me and follows behind out of reach. “On the leash,” I say, “Right now.” I think I hear her say, screw you. Yes, that’s exactly what she said. What a defiant little bitch, I think. I’m mad, but yet, inside I am giggling. I don’t want Sam to know this, of course. But, this cat-and-mouse game has become rather amusing, owner and dog, dancing around in the mud. Freedom—such a good thing, being carefree and limitless. Still, considering my own so-called risk taking, we all need a few boundaries to get along with the rest of the world.
I decide to stop trying to leash Sam and begin to walk home along the sidewalk. She’ll come, I say to myself, the little shit. Sam follows, yes, but again, just out of reach, a slow and methodical walk. I shake the lead in front of her nose, thinking she might try to catch it in her teeth and I can snatch her forward and grab her collar. But she’s not falling for it. I keep walking, up the small hill to the other side of the street, one block and then two. I shake the leash again. Nothing. I call her with an angry voice and she stands back and glares. Maybe if I crouch to her level, eye to eye, appear less of an authority figure, she’ll come close. I drop to the sidewalk, sit, and cross my legs. “Come here, girl,” I coo. “Come on, it’s all good.” She stands at arm’s length. Insubordinate. Calculated.
A half a block away, I see a woman standing near her home’s driveway, watching me. She must be judging me, judging my dog, and my pet owner responsibilities, just like the lady in the park with the Beagles. I got this, lady, I think. But of course, I don’t.
“Did she get off the leash?” the woman calls out.
“Sort of,” I say, standing now. “I let her off sometimes. She’s usually good.” I walk toward the woman, pretending to have things reasonably under control. “Maybe she’ll come to you?”
The woman, smiling now, says, “Hello, cutie. Come on. Come on.”
Sam watches the woman, but stands still. Sam knows what’s up. I walk toward the woman and now see her dog—a big, boxy chocolate Lab behind the nearby fence. The dog barks and Sam notices. This is it, I think.
“Ah,” the woman says, “I think you’ve got it now.”
Sam moves toward the fence to see her new friend, and sticks her snout between the bars. “Gotcha!” I grab Sam’s collar and yank her toward me. “You little shit.”
The woman laughs. I laugh. Sam snorts.
I snap the leash, thank the woman, and return to walking home. And while I grumble, Sam steps in silence, sullen but not sorry. I am annoyed, but I wonder: Am I not giving Sam enough freedom? Does she secretly long for it? And when a taste is permitted, does she find it so inviting that she would risk our relationship, risk my indignation? It’s silly to think this. Sam doesn’t understand any of it. She just wants to run, to exhaust herself in morning’s cool air, to feel the celebration of splashing muddy earth. She only wants off leash now and then. Just like all of us.
We are close to home now, a house or two away, and I unsnap Sam from her tether and watch her run through the yards to our home’s front door. She stands at the stoop and waits. Sam is happy but tired. I am no longer mad. How can I be? How can I have mistaken ownership for freedom, obedience for love?
The answer is right in front of me.
Photo: David W. Berner