At the Copa

I’m not writing a political post today.  Remember, I said I wouldn’t do that anymore?  So I’m going to tell you about Rude the dog.  Kind of.  I know you just can’t  wait!

But first, though this is not a political post, I’ve been contemplating the idea of health care being a right, and what I would write about that if I were going to write about that.  Since I’m not going to write about that, I’ll just suggest that if you’re interested in reading about that, and my view of that idea, you should read what someone else wrote.  Of course, that author doesn’t say exactly what I would say because, having grown up in the military and being a recipient of that socialized health care system, I have a few more ideas I would add, though those ideas would muddy the waters of the point being made in that piece, and I like the point.

Anyway . . .

Rude the Dog (aka Jake) has decided it is his sworn duty to protect us.  From the cats. 

Well, okay, maybe he’s not trying to protect us so much as he’s trying to protect our bedroom.

Right.  Maybe he’s not actually trying to protect our bedroom as much as he’s just into terrorizing the felines, who hang out in our bedroom.  Our bedroom is, at it were, the Kitty Copacabana*.  It’s where all the hip cats hang and party as only cats can: stretch out and sleep, lick yourself a bit, give derisive looks to whoever dares  darken the doorway with their shadow, sleep some more.  Actually, it sounds like my kind of party.  Well, except for the licking yourself part.

So, you’d think we’d remember the Kitty Copacabana factor and clear the room each night before we go to bed, but we’re thick that way.  You see, Rude the Dog sleeps in our room, doorway gated, each night so that I know he is not chewing up any of my furniture or major appliances in the dark of the night.  Not that he has chewed up any furniture or major appliances since joining our family, but he did kill my favorite pair of summer Sunday shoes, and if you know me you know I don’t take the destruction of perfectly comfortable, cute shoes lightly.  It might as well have been the oven.

So each night we go up to bed and take Jake with us.  We put up the gate (which he can jump, by the way, but chooses not too as long as McH is in the room – he loves McH – I told McH he gets that dog in the divorce – but no, there isn’t really going to be a divorce, it’s just a joke) . . . umm? Right.  Anyway, we put up the gate, close the master bathroom door so he can’t get to the closet full of perfectly cute, some perfectly comfortable, shoes (no comments from my family about just how full of shoes that closet may or may not be), and we get all comfy in bed.

Then, just as I’m drifting off (it doesn’t take me long) the barking and reciprocal hissing ensue.  Right at the head of the bed.  Because that is where the cat is hiding, under the head of the bed.

At this point I shoot bolt upright in bed and do some hissing of my own, which sounds something like, “For the love of God!  He is going to wake the baby!”  Now, for the record, I do not consider this taking the Lord’s name in vain, because it is generally just the beginning of the following prayer, which ever parent knows well:

Please, God, don’t let the baby wake up!  Please! Please! Please! Please! Please!

Please, God, don’t let the baby wake up!  Please! Please! Please! Please! Please!

Please, God, don’t let the baby wake up!  Please! Please! Please! Please! Please!

Please, God, don’t let the baby wake up!  Please! Please! Please! Please! Please!

Then McH has to drag the dog from the head of the bed down to the foot of the bed, where they both sit on the floor, out of any possible kitty line of sight, and wait while I get down on my hands and knees and try to coax the cat out from under the head of the bed.  It takes a few minutes, but so far I’ve always been able to get the cat out.  Then I carry him tenderly to the doorway and dump him on the other side of the gate, where he can run to the safety of the nether regions of the house.  End of story.

So the night before last we were going through this nightly ritual, I put the cat out of the room, we convinced the dog he really didn’t want to jump over the gate to go after him (we don’t close the door so as to better hear the children if one or another wakes up in the middle of the night), and then, as we were settling back in bed, had a little conversation about the cats and the dog.

I commented that I wished the cat would just charge the dog and put him in his place.  I’ve seen both cats do it on a few occasions, and the dog always turns tail and runs.

Then I commented on how I’ve seen the cats work together and double team the dog, and how funny that is.

“That one really surprised me,” McH said.  “I’ve seen it, too, and I didn’t think the cats were that smart.”

“What do you mean?  Cats aren’t stupid,” I countered.

“No, I don’t mean cats in general,” he explained, “I mean our cats.”

“What do you mean our cats are stupid?” I asked.

His answer was that they are, in his opinion, inept at catching mice.  I explained that they only play with the mice they find because that is what cats do before they kill mice, and our cats don’t get to the killing part because they are so fat, dumb, and happy they don’t need to kill anything to survive.

“Maybe,” he said without conviction.

So, you know, it served him right when he woke up early the next morning to put the dog out and almost stepped on a dead mouse** the cat had left right outside our bedroom door.  You don’t suppose the cat had been eavesdropping, do you?

And George, if you’re out there, Tewt the Newt says hello.

*Have I ever told you the story of McH and Barry Manilow’s “Copacabana?”

**We have never seen a mouse in this house, nor have we seen any evidence of having a mouse in the house.  The cats, however, have access to the garage, so I’m hoping that is where the cat found and killed it.

9 thoughts on “At the Copa

  1. Christina

    Note to self – go to linked article BEFORE starting to write your comment! Um yeah, totally absolutely agree on the political topic you are not blogging about. Socialism is alive and well and on the rise in America. Cuz it worked so well for Russia you know.

    Love the dog/cat story! Cats are definitely smarter than we give them credit for… though our boy cat was not exactly showing off his intelligence at 5:45 am this morning when he decided to repeatedly open/slam the bathroom cabinet door right next to R~’s room, thus waking my little girl a full 2+ hours before she needed to be up… GRR.


  2. Okay, the mouse story cracked me up.

    You MUST tell the story of McH and the Copacabana, which, to the best of my knowledge, you have not told before.

    Also….shhhh…I am a secret Manilow fan. (Do you think that will ruin my blog-cred as a die hard Eminem fan, do you?) (Hey, it IS possible to love them both. In totally different ways and moods.)


  3. rainbowmom

    I don’t believe I’ve read the Copacabana story. I’d love to though.

    I’m glad the cat stopped at the door and didn’t drag the dead mouse under your bed.


  4. Here kitty, kitty, kitty…we could use a couple of cats to take care of the mouse problem in OUR garage. The weather has turned chilly and now they seek to lodge amongst our outdoor gear. Grrr, I hate mice! Wanna lend us yours?


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