A treatise on the ownership of canine and feline

... and on the eighth day God created the horse in perfect image, to romp, graze, gallop, play and make manure wherever it darn well pleases, in divine grace.

So I keep trying to tell my dogs and cats that the dishes with the cute little paw prints on them are theirs and that’s where they get their food, down on the floor.

Other dishes and pots belong to me and placing a paw on my leg, or a claw, or sticking out an arm extension up to my plate at the dinner table does not stake their claim on the food contained therein.

The claw becomes annoying and your cute little faces have no effect on me.

The house is not a NASCAR racetrack, nor is it a speed event to beat me into the other room, and winning is only in your own little minds. Tripping me in order to win doesn’t count, and get that look off of your face.

My king-sized bed is the largest I can have to accommodate you all.

I cannot continue to be wrapped and permanently fixated within the sheet and pillows like an Egyptian queen in a sarcophagus, with you as my guardians of the night.

We are not doing a re-enactment of Cleopatra, you dogs are not Anubis and Kerberos, even though I look like walking dead come morningtime.

The girl kitties aren’t Bastet, Menhit and Sekhmet lioness goddesses. There is only one queen-goddess and that is me.

You lot can actually curl up to save space, it’s not necessary to do the canine super-stretch and you don’t have to sleep perpendicular to each other, either; let me teach you some geometry and what parallel means. We aren’t pretending to be Masonic compasses, so how ‘bout it?

I will not be exiled to the couch, and it’s quite okay that I turn over once in awhile. You don’t have to act like you are being monstrously inconvenienced.

Stop sticking your tongues out and extending your tails, me getting slapped and slobbered in the face in the middle of the night isn’t fun and games to me.

But hey, you cats are the greatest alarm clock ever, just the sound of you puking gets me up-n-at-‘em faster than lightning.

Think I’ll invent an alarm clock with the recorded sound of a cat puking, no one will ever snooze through their wake-up call ever again.

Oh, and I thought I should let you know that there isn’t a secret passage way out of the bathroom.

If I happen to win the NASCAR race, get there first, and manage to close the door, it isn’t necessary for you to post watch, whining, clawing, and what-have-you, while you can’t see me.

I went in the same door that I will exit and I have been using the same bathroom for years, so canine and feline assistance and attendance really isn’t mandatory.

Feline arms poking under the door won’t produce magical me and no, canine snarking noises won’t either.

I know that when we go for a ride and you dogs must stay in the truck, that you think a whole two weeks has passed since you’ve seen me last. That look of hey, where’d-ya-go, why-did-it-take-so-long, are-you-ever-coming-back, along with your happy wagging tails let me know how much you love me. I know, your tail and butt seem to have minds of their own, just wiggling and wagging.

When I return from town, you cats just open one eye and say, oh,- - yawn, she-who-provides-food has returned.

Yes, it’s true I prefer your company to some people, I like you all a lot better.

You are always, always happy to see me, and you don’t care what I look like or if the pork chops turned out a little bit dry at dinner.

But please, kiss me first and then go smell the other dog or cat’s butt, don’t do that the other way around.

I told visitors that you all live here and to stay off the furniture if they don’t want fur on their clothes. It’s fur-niture, get it?

I know you are just an animal, but you all are my babies, you just happen to walk on four legs and bark or meow.

I understand what “Rahr-rahr” means, really I do.

You all eat a lot less than some people do, and you aren’t asking me to borrow things all the time, like my truck, my tools, or my clothes.

In fact, you’re not at all worried about the latest fashion trends and you don’t need an expensive, fancy Coachella purse to show off in front of your friends.

You don’t hang out with druggies, and you don’t use alcohol and tobacco.

You’re schooling is a lot less expensive than college, and heck, cats don’t need any schooling at all, because they’re like, hey, take-a-hike-Ima-cat, and fill my food bowl on your way past.

Nope, I don’t mind a sleepy kitty or doggy at the end of the bed.

Now if I could just find a man who doesn’t fling the windows open in the middle of January and whose mother lives in Australia, I’ll be all set.

So long for now.

You all know what I say about kissing the dog.

Lovin’ all of mine to the immortal words of Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, “Happy Trails to You.”