Who says dogs aren’t thinkers?

By David Moody

April 1, 2014

What a long weekend, even if the weather did finally clear on Sunday and the first real glimpse of what Mother Nature has in store for the warmer months did make an appearance. For me personally, it was trying, to say the least, and yes, this is going to be one of those columns where you actually get a glimpse into my personal life.

I am 46 years old, a confirmed bachelor, and at times find I am my own worst enemy. Having been married twice, which would entail two divorces, you would think it would be somewhat obvious that a female and myself living in the same house may not be the best mix. Sort of like gasoline and a match, truth be told. But, like most men (just ask any female you know) I never seem to learn.

It seems somewhere along the way, I made some sort of out-of-body, subconscious, lost my mind altogether decision and have two pets to occupy my time. They fill what most would see as far too many hours of solitude. I view it as an unbelievable gift. They are both female and remind me constantly of what a terrific sense of humor the universe has and each, in their own right, deserves a small introduction.

First, there’s Mariah Catty, the co-dependent kitty, a small and waifish 3-year-old who is the epitome of femininity. She walks into a room as if she was on a catwalk — pun intended — and often deigns to allow strangers to pet her. As for me, she is under the delusion it is my life’s purpose to see to her every whim and to always comfort her in some way.

On top of that she has this weird eating disorder where she falls into a complete panic if her bowl has even the slightest vacancy. She eats constantly, and yet never gains weight.

Second is Lola, the Diva of Destruction, the newest and costliest member of my little family. Although she was supposed to be a mutt, it turns out she is a purebred Belgian Malinois, a police dog who will eventually consume more pounds of food in a week than I will in a month.

Lola is the penultimate care free friend, excited to just be excited, when she’s not eating all of my clothes, shoes and electronics. She is entirely too smart and sensitive, and often will sit in the rain staring at me for chastising her, refusing to come in until I have apologized.

Over the weekend Mariah was in heat, the pleasant and ear grating event that I ALWAYS seem to forget is going to come back as soon as it ends. For hours on end, no matter the time of day, she walks through the house screaming “Harold” — who by the way is my niece’s husband.

I am convinced she’s in love with him. So up and down, over and over, night after night this continues, my nerves frayed and patience stretched to its maximum capacity.

“Harold! Harold! Harold!”

Finally, even Lola is looking at me as if I can do something about it. At some point, though, she decided to fix the problem.

The last I heard “Harold!” was at 2 a.m. Sunday, and then it sounded muffled and distressed. I got up once again, of course, only to discover Lola has found the answer to our prayers. In the living room is a 35 to 40 pound, 4-month-old Belgian Malinois puppy, seated firmly on the cat’s head and smiling at me.

Good girl!

Now if the dog will remind me, we’ll have heard the last of “Harold!” before next month.