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with oafish good will, her optimistic overtures were met with a murderous attack. My own cowardly dog was bullied on and ordered about, as was my other cat, Sam. Pet-owner vows are sacred in my book, and although I sometimes thought about it, divorce was never really an option, so we have coexisted now for several years. Sure, it's a 70%-30% relationship, and I'm the one cleaning up the hairballs, but he's not all bad.

My quiet, sheltered neighborhood makes a great cat habitat. No loose dogs prowl, traffic is light, and the sunny rocks around my little pond are warm nap spots.
In summer, Mr. Friendly and Sam are let in and out as they please, but must come in at bedtime. Sam, suffering from several types of neurotic affliction, occasionally goes out the front door and is thrown into a panic, since he can't understand how that relates to the back door, and fears that he's lost. For the most part, however, they hang around the back yard and don't venture far.
Winter is another story. Sam won't go out at all. He stands at the open door, screaming into the cold briefly, and then runs deep into his basement hiding places. Mr. Friendly is no wimp. In all but the worst weather he demands two brief daily trips outside. The third commercial in the nightly 10 PM drama is ideal. I run to the kitchen during the break, let Mr. Friendly and the dog out, and run back to the TV. Within five minutes the dog is back, scratching on the door, usually just when Sawyer and Kate are getting sweaty, or Dr. McDreamy is removing a brain tumor, and I must hurry. Cats take longer than dogs to transact their essential affairs, so a few minutes later, at precisely 11 PM, I call Mr. Friendly inside, and make it up to the bedroom TV in time to see what jams our hometown neighbors have gotten into today.
This system works, 99% of the time. Last night was the exception.
Confession. Repentance. Absolution. That's how it should go, but two out of three ain't bad. He's always had this attitude that says, "Yeah, so you saved my life. Where's the Friskies?" I'll silently live with my guilt and try to be a better caregiver. I bet there will be a hairball on the sofa this afternoon.

Learn more about this author, C. K. Patrick.
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