The Animal I Am

            I think we all want to be a certain animal. An animal who can snarl and not be told to be nice, behave, be anything but what it is. It’s why shapeshifters will always be popular. The ability to let the wild, feral side out is a dream for everyone. But of course, I want to be something noble, regal, something that flies, or runs, something with eagle eyes, owls’ hearing, strength of a bear, speed of a jaguar, loyalty and wisdom of a wolf. I’d rather not be a mouse or a rat, thank you very much.

            If I’m honest though, I think the animal I want to be, the animals I like, are not the animal I really am. I’m a dog person. Love their humor, their ability to scent, their loyalty, their unconditional love.

I have cats, but they and I just tolerate each other. They all but have “do not disturb” signs tattooed to their sides. They demand food when hungry or attention when they need a scratch. But otherwise, it’s a swat or bite for me and the dogs when we get a little too close. It’s their job, they believe, to keep the riff raff in our places. They are as cantankerous and irritable as I am.

            I’m afraid, I’m really a cat. I’m afraid, I love dogs because they are the exact opposite of me. The yin to my yang. The gentle to my irritation. The happy to my annoyed. I would be in an existential crisis by this discovery, except I’m too much of a cat to let the thought disturb me. There are some benefits to being a curmudgeon after all.