DOGS RULE

By Alan Barasky

It was the damn cat’s fault that Cindy and I broke up.

Cindy knew I hated the sneaky, stuck-up little fur ball, but she had still staged a one-woman filibuster to get me to take Whiskers while she consoled her just dumped best friend with a last-minute girls weekend in Vegas.

“She won’t be any bother at all!” Cindy had cooed in that “I’ll make it worth your while” voice all girls seem to instinctively use to manipulate their boyfriends. “She has her own litter box” (meaning I have to let an animal crap in my house all weekend), “I just had her nails done, so she can’t scratch you” (though we both know she wants to) “and she’ll probably just ignore you altogether” (an emotionally satisfying weekend for me).

I caved, of course – never had a chance – so on Friday night I was watching Whiskers stalk the leg of my coffee table and wondering if any of the guys could sneak away to O’Douls for a brew and maybe a game of eight ball.

My doorbell rang and as I opened the door for my brother-in-law, Kirk – another fight with my sister, judging from his hangdog look – out scooted Whiskers, right between both sets of legs.

“You gotta be shittin’ me,” I grumbled in Kirk’s face.

“What?” he protested. “Your sister’s impossible! Come on, you lived with her!”

“You didn’t see the cat, huh?”

“Cat? When did you get a cat?”

“Cindy’s. I’m watching the damn thing for her and it just ran out the door. Help me find it.”

“I thought cats didn’t run away. Isn’t that like the only reason to have one instead of a dog?”

“Tell me about it.”

“I’ll be out in a sec. I gotta get a beer first. Want one?”

“Sure.”

While Kirk raided my stash of Miller Lites, I looked around the front yard for a black cat – at night, with clouds covering the moon and my unincorporated neighborhood still waiting for long promised streetlights. The only light that penetrated the inky gloom came from the stop sign at the intersection down the street. It was one of those rural signs that was lit up so that drivers who’d been cruising for miles without having to slow down would be sure to see it. Bulbs blinked around its perimeter, but from where I stood about a hundred yards away, all I could see was an octagon that alternately came to life and disappeared. Not much help for a one-man search party.

I walked across the yard and knew I’d reached my driveway only because the sound my Nikes made changed as they went from grass to blacktop. I couldn’t see a thing.

I walked back inside. Kirk had his feet up on the coffee table, working on his second beer and watching the Cubs new rookie pitcher blow gas past the Cardinals. I settled in next to him on the sofa.

“You know,” I said to Kirk as I popped open my first cold one, “my next girlfriend’s gotta have a dog.”