I love my little beagle Lacey. She is the cutest thing on the planet, if I say so myself. She is lovable and loyal and lively and probably some other L words. She is fun and fantastic, sometimes frantic and some other, uh…..F words.
But I am not a dog person.
She doesn’t seem to realize this and carries on in great dog fashion with lots of sniffing and panting and shedding. And eating and pooping and some very unladylike farting (aha, the other F word). She follows me around, and helps with the laundry, and lies next to me even now as I’m typing. She appears to be attached to me.
She doesn’t realize I am a cat person. Cats are lower maintenance than dogs. That old joke that dogs come when called, but cats take a message and get back to you later holds true. She doesn’t realize that cats come see you for a minute, get some lovin’, and then go away. I like that in a cat.
Lacey my beloved beagle is firmly convinced that her mommy was, is, and will always be a die-hard dog lover. She is so convinced that she routinely feels entirely comfortable crawling under the covers on my side of the bed bringing with her any amount of dirt, sand, and mud. She is so sure mommy is a dog lover that she races me every night to see who can get to the bed and under the covers faster. Mommy sometimes loses. Lacey thinks it’s the funniest thing. She proves this by suddenly becoming as limp as my hair on a humid day when I try to move her so I can actually lie where I’m supposed to.
Cats can be left alone for a weekend. While they may turn their back on you for a solid 24 hours when you return just to show you they can, it does make impromptu and promptu (promptu?) weekend trips much easier.
Dogs are under the firm belief that all trips in the car must include them and therefore, they are going on all weekend trips. Aren’t they?
My Lacey will not play with my husband unless I am present in the room. She will run all the way upstairs, stuffed animal gripped tightly in mouth, to get me and refuses to go back downstairs to play until I see fit to join her and her daddy.
Cats don’t care where you are in the house unless a large, smelly can of tuna is involved. I like that about cats.
Lacey gets so excited at the prospect of dinner that she does what I call the Dorothy Maneuver – jumps up, twists her little sausage body to the side and clicks her back heels together repeatedly. I have to laugh every time which I’m sure just encourages her even more, my laughter inadvertently training her to do it at every meal.
Lacey loves me. I love Lacey. I’m not a dog person.
Here she is now, nosing the side of my leg as I sit at the computer. Apparently, a treat is in order. Or a walk. Or a nap. Just NOT more computer time….please, mommy, please, mommy. Uh oh, she’s pulling out her best persuasive technique…laying her head on my knee and gazing up at me with her doleful brown eyes. Isn’t she sweet? I love my Lacey.
But I’m not a dog person.