The Animals

The animals don't know what to make of me. They don't seem to understand why, after years of leaving in the morning and coming home in the evening, suddenly I am here all day long. Maybe I'm reading too much into it, but I seem to be making them nervous.

Especially the dog, Stella, a dopey golden retriever who is nervous to begin with. Neurotic even, if you ask me. I spend most of the day in the dining room, which I have sort of set up as my "office," because I can spread my stuff out on the table, and as long as I stay seated at the table, Stella's okay, usually laying in her spot under the window, out of the way, but close enough to keep an eye on me. But if I get up to do something, she becomes distressed. She goes with me (or tries to anyway), wherever I go. She doesn't follow me, so much as accompany me, walking as close to me as she possibly can, trying to predict where I'm going to go and get there just ahead of me. Her predictions are not good, and we end up walking into each other, which only distresses her more. She waits for me outside the bathroom door and follows me back to the dining room where, after I have taken a seat, she paces around and around the table, her claws clicking on the hardwood floor. She does this for minutes. Does she count the circuits she makes around the table? I'll have to get back to you on that. Eventually, for whatever crazy reason, she decides she's paced around the table enough, and plops back down under the window. And then the slurping starts. It's like she's trying to get something off the roof of her mouth with her huge, wet tongue. Slurp. Slurp. Slurp. Slurp. Finally, right about when I begin to think this will never end, she quiets down and falls into a sort of half-sleep, ready to spring right back up if I need to re-fill my coffee mug or make a sandwich.

The cat, Paco, sits across the room from me, perched on the buffet, staring right at me. He's mad about something and he can stare for a long time. Longer than I can, it turns out. He's about 18 years old. I don't know how that translates to "cat years," but it's old. Really old. He's senile, and he's pissed off all the time. Unlike the dog, he does not follow me everywhere, but rather saves his energy for when I go to the kitchen, where he sits in the middle of the floor, where he is most in the way, and yells at me. I cannot describe the sound he makes, but it is not the typical "meow" of a typical cat. The noise is somewhere between the cawing of a crow and the bark of a small dog. Annoying, almost painful, and he repeats it, continuously, for as long as I remain in the kitchen. His needs are met, mind you. He's been fed. He has fresh water. All three of his litter boxes are clean. (Don't ask.) And yet, he seems to be demanding something, something he can't do for himself. He probably doesn't even know what it is, the old bastard. But sometimes I imagine that what he's really saying is "Kill me! Kill me! Kill me!" over and over again.

"Not today," I tell him, and head back to the dining room, with Stella close at my side (to make sure I find the way?), before resuming her pacing routine, around and around and around. Click click click. Paco jumps back up on the buffet (which is painful to watch -- he can barely make it), and resumes his angry staring.

I don't know how I get anything done.