I have pets.
Okay, let’s be realistic — there are pets living in this house that allow me to serve them.
The Cat — Hector Frankenstein
This little monster is Hector Frankenstein, and he’s the primary reason why I blog at work instead of at home. Hector was abandoned as a kitten and never learned proper cat behavior, like not biting so hard that you draw blood every time you’re annoyed.
His foster mother named him “Hector,” which I couldn’t remember to save my life, so I was planning to re-name him “Victor Frankenstein” simply so I could remember his name. That didn’t take, and eventually the name “Hector” stuck in my brain.
I tacked on “Frankenstein” because he is my beloved monster and I wouldn’t trade him for the world. He’s approximately four years old and is a mix of American Short Hair, Siamese, and cougar. Long live my kitty!
The Dogs — Sheba and Ray-Ban
These two little pipsqueaks are Sheba The Diva (the white one on the left) and her brother, Ray-Ban (so named because the first thing he did when he met my step-father was start chewing on his Ray-Ban sunglasses).
They’re part Wire Haired Terrier, part Chihuahua, and all around demanding.
Sheba isn’t too fond of cats, so she’s constantly giving Hector a hard time, but we try to keep them from annoying one another.
Ray thinks that he’s a guard dog, and will bark at everything and anything not nailed down or on fire.
Ray’s pastimes include barking at the neighbors’ dogs, chewing pig ears, and running around the back yard like a loon.
Sheba’s pastimes include barking at the cat, stealing her brother’s treats, and cuddling on the couch. They will be six years old in August.
There are two other full-time furry residents in this house: Calli-Ko, my late father’s (may he rest in peace) calico cat, who just turned 18 years old in March, and Michael McGillicutty, an orange and white American Shorthair cat with too much time on his hands, who is probably about 12 or 13 years old. He was a stray I picked up when he was a kitten, and I don’t have a good estimate of exactly how old he is. These are both my mother’s cats and live in the front part of our house, where they are both hiding because I want to take pictures of them and they want to thwart me at every turn.
We have one cat we’re fostering at the moment. She’s an older cat, but we’re unsure of her exact age. The family that had her can’t keep her right now because they live in an apartment and can’t afford the pet deposit. Her name is Oreo, and she’s a slightly-feral cat, something like Hector.
The dogs don’t hate Hector and Oreo, but they don’t understand the cats, either. Both dogs have approached Hector and Oreo like they were other dogs, inviting them to play and being friendly, but the cats both freak out when Sheba starts barking.
Meanwhile, Oreo and Hector get along about as well as a tornado and a trailer park. We kept them separate for a while when Oreo first moved in to prevent them from fighting, and letting them get to know each other’s scents through the door. When we introduced them face-to-face, we thought they would be used to each other enough that they’d at least tolerate sitting in the same room.
Oh, how wrong we were.
The fur flew in thick patches like someone stabbed open a sofa and tossed stuffing willy-nilly across the room. It took us five minutes to get them apart. There were no serious injuries, but I did end up with a puncture wound in my arm from someone’s teeth. It’s healed nicely. The cats were both fine, of course.
Sometimes the fur flies quite literally in this house, and sometimes it’s just a dust-up between pets, but I love my little monsters, and every itch, nip, meow, or woof reminds me why I’m happy to be these guys’ pet human.
Paisley Tea Cup 