Fighting like cats and dogs

Cavanman's Diary

Are you a dog person or cat person? I like both, but for different reasons. Dogs are truly man’s best friend and only a cold heart could not love them and their innocent, happy outlook. Cats, though, also have a best friend – themselves. And a part of me has to admire their scheming, narcissistic ways, too, their Machiavellian ability to cloak their malevolence in cuteness in order to curry favour.

I’ve always believed that if human beings were removed from the equation - and there’d be no feline tears shed if they were - cats would soon be in charge, dogs demoted to a sort of tail-wagging servant underclass. I’m basing this on first-hand experience of late.

Whenever I see one of those idyllic photographs of a grinning dog with a cat sprawled across its back, I always end up sighing wistfully. We have both – a cat and a dog – and they are the best of enemies. Or, to be more accurate, one is a sworn enemy of the other.

You may remember the cat, Punk, who was the unwitting star of several columns, generally focusing on her intransigence towards humans and her outright unwillingness to pay her way by, for example, catching the odd furry pest or maybe, just maybe, showing a little bit of affection towards her owners.

A few years ago, we were infested with mice. This was the time to shine for Punk, one would have thought, a chance to pay back all that time and money invested in her and her expensive treats and toys, which she, invariably, looked on with disdain.

But Punk paid no heed to the invaders. All the time I was on high alert, listening out for every creak in the walls and scurrying around placing chocolate-loaded traps and plugging high-pitched electronic deterrents into sockets, she eyed me arrogantly from her luxurious basket, wearing a look that seemed to say, “You work away there, buddy, but keep the noise down, some of us are trying to sleep.”

We live beside a river. I am sure there is no shortage of vermin knocking around, ripe for the torturing, if a cat was that way inclined, which Punk is not. She’s quite a nervous creature but she masks it with an air of superiority. If you want to pet her, great, just don’t over-do it. And if you don’t, well, all the better.

I’ll be honest, I was growing tired of her shtick, her lying up surveying the scene like a queen on her throne, sleeping half the day and only bothering to acknowledge us when she was hungry and wanted to stuff herself with packets of Dreamies (€2.60 a pop, not that I’m counting).

A part of me admired her brazen approach to life. Her number one priority was herself and the list ended there. There was no number two.

And then, this time last year, Punk’s world was rocked. Exactly 12 months ago this week, we got a dog. And it wasn’t one of these relaxed dogs who spend their days chilling out, taking things as they come, the type who are likely to befriend, or at least peacefully co-exist with, a cat. No, ours is a mental madra, a crazy canine who is excitable beyond belief and has absolutely no filter on her emotions.

The dog’s name is Cara; she’s a cross between a Border Collie (hence the excitability) and a Labrador. Cara is the opposite of Punk; where the cat is content with her own company (that’s an understatement) and literally doesn’t care about what anyone else thinks of her, Cara is friendly to the point of desperation.

She wants to be everyone’s pal, visitor and stranger alike. Don’t get me wrong, she is an adorable pet and, when it’s just us in the house, she is quite calm but when she encounters anyone else, she has three main settings: active, hyperactive and manic. And then, when she eventually exhausts herself the odd time, the battery goes dead and she sleeps soundly.

The smallest incident is, for her, a major event. If I go out to the kitchen to put on the kettle, she follows curiously, hoping she’ll get a treat or a rub on the head or, better again, that I might bring her outside and throw something for her, which is her idea of heaven on earth.

If we’re tying our shoelaces, she wants to be involved. If one of us walks up the stairs, she thinks it’s a race. If a bird lands on the lawn, it’s a big deal. And if there is a knock on the door, all bets are off; forget about it! Most commands, in that instance, are futile.

“Calm down, Cara,” I will order, as assertively as I can. In response, she will get even more worked up, looking at me, tongue out and eyes wide, with an expression which seems to say, “Good God, man, there is someone at the door! How can you stay calm at a time like this?”

Of course, it’s been fun having a dog. We had terriers when I was growing up and they were energetic; my grandparents had a huge, lovable Golden Labrador called Bonzo who was the opposite, a laid-back lug who didn’t get too worked up about anything, bar the cat, whose food he made it a daily objective to devour.

Which brings me to the dilemma we are in. You see, Punk and Cara don’t get along.

Well, that’s not strictly true. Cara gets along with Punk, we think, but can only express it in one way and that is by bounding towards her at 100 miles per hour, which Punk, so used to embracing day-to-day life on her own terms, is not one bit pleased about.

After a few attempts to introduce them, we gave up. The cat is just too put out by this bigger, stronger and less stable housemate. So, for a quiet life, we kept them apart and a truce of sorts broke out, each side conceding a little bit.

The back garden and living room became Cara’s territory; she is free to go ballistic to her heart’s content. Meanwhile, by day, Punk roams the estate, casting a cold eye on proceedings and making strange, in her own odd way, with neighbouring felines. When she wants to doze off or eat, she stays in the front room.

As time has gone on, the policy of détente, while not ideal, has worked out reasonably well, although every now and then I feel a pang of guilt when I remember that Punk is on her own in that rarely-used front room.

That was until last weekend, when I had a moment of clarity. Someone called to the house and, after enduring a robust welcome from Cara, enquired about Punk.

“Where’s your cat?” he asked.

“Ah, she stays in the front room,” I explained sheepishly, “the two of them don’t get on.”

“Poor Punk,” he replied.

Feeling guilty, I decided to check on her and it was only then that the truth dawned on me. When I opened the door, she glared at me, clearly annoyed that I had woken her from her slumber. It was then that it all clicked: this was all part of her plan!

Put yourself in her paws: all the same terms and conditions apply – no requirement to hunt mice, an endless supply of food and a warm bed – yet now, she has an entire end of the house to herself. And better than that, she even has idiotic humans feeling sorry for her.

How’s that for clever?