How a dog-lover came to have a cat

It’s been said that there are two types of people in the world — dog people and cat people. You can put me down in the dog column, I think.

Growing up on a large piece of property in Washington state, I had the company of several dogs. My mom and step-dad got an Irish setter named Jack when I was still in preschool. A golden retriever named Lady joined Jack shortly thereafter. The gentleman we got her from said he was disappointed she hadn’t turned out be a good bird dog, so he gave her to us with the warning that she was already pregnant thanks to his neighbor’s dog, a German shepherd.

So, shortly thereafter puppies Ed, Charlie, Ricky and Matthew arrived. Growing up, they all walked me down the long, long driveway to the school bus stop every morning, and they were all there waiting for me at the gate when I got off the bus every afternoon. Several summer days were spent running around in the pasture playing with my pack of friends. One of my favorite games was to wait for the grass to grow tall, then sneak out and throw myself somewhere in the field and lay down quietly.

Mom would then let the dogs out and it was a contest to see which one would sniff me out first (it was usually Ed). Sadly, dogs grow old faster than we do and as the years went by they began to succumb to disease, sickness or old age. Amazingly, Jack out-lived them all. I was a senior in high school when mom asked me to take Jack to the vet as he was once again sick. We had made many trips in recent years as poor old Jack’s body began to give out. Nevertheless, I was stunned when the vet told me that the best thing I could do for Jack that day was to say goodbye. A young man of 17, I was a total wreck when I called my mom to confirm, petted Jack one more time, then said goodbye and drove home. He had been one of my best friends since I was 4.

Ever since, I have spent most of my years with dogs. Some great ones — Maybelle, our black Lab/German shepherd mix who is the most loving and loyal dog I have ever had and extremely intelligent, too. And Cooper, our chocolate Lab that I never wanted (never been a big fan of chocolate Labs. They look to me like they are a cross of a Lab and an orangutan). But he’s been wonderful and I love him anyway. My oldest son AJ field-trained him and competed a few times.

And we’ve had our duds, like Matty, the black Lab/pitbull mix that was constantly pushing his boundaries and testing me. But through all the years, not one cat. To me, cats are not capable of being loyal like a dog. Oh sure, as a kid I had a farm cat I liked, Robin. My mom found him one dark and rainy night when he was an abandoned kitten being attacked by dogs. In a moment of pity, she rescued him and brought him home.

Being raised with dogs, Robin thought he was one, too. That was how he was exempted. He ate with the dogs, lay down with them, ran with them. Heck, he even joined the dogs in chasing cars up the driveway or pedestrians along the fence (that was actually pretty funny to watch). So we decided he wasn’t a cat; he was a dog in a cat’s body. But my friends who had “cat” cats. Ew. They did their business in a litter box (Robin went outside with the dogs), which I found appalling. Then there were the hairballs (again, Robin took care of those outside).

And while you could train a dog to never, ever do something, the best you can do with a cat is to train it to not get caught doing something. When my younger siblings would leave uneaten food on the kitchen counter, it meant hearing a “thump” as Robin jumped for his life off the counter when he heard us coming into the room. Gross. So, despite my fondness for Robin, I have had a no-cat policy.

Dogs are your best friends. They care when you’re hurt. They want nothing more than your affection. They’re protectors, defenders and loyal to the end. They forgive you no matter what. But cats? Cats will let you know when they want you to pet them and when you’ve had their fill of you, they’ll walk away.

Feeling sad? Had a bad day? You’ll get as much sympathy from a houseplant as a cat. About the only time you can count on attention from the cat is when they think you’re going to feed them. Like to get out and explore the great outdoors? Ever seen anybody coming off a long hike with their trusty cat running by their side? Me neither. Remember those movies when Jimmy fell down the well? The dog went and got gramps. The cat stood on the well and watched him splash around — until that got boring. Then he just went somewhere and took another 10-hour nap. And let’s be honest, dogs are manly pets. But a cat can never be a pet for a “real” man.

About two years ago my youngest son, Benjy, started begging me for a cat.

“No way,” I said. “Absolutely never going to happen.”

AJ had my back on that one. “Yeah, Benjy. Listen to dad. Cats are stupid.”

So imagine the look on his face when I came home one day with a gray-and-black tabby kitten. I was a traitor. How could this have happened? Turns out a co-worker of mine was involved in some sort of cat rescue and one day she arrived with a cat carrier, sat it on her desk and then left for a few minutes. Until this day, I’m convinced it was a scheme. As I sat at my desk, I could feel little eyes on me. I would glance over sideways now and then and see them staring at me.

Finally, I got up and walked over and looked through the door. In an unusual moment of pity, I opened the carrier to scratch his head. I expected him to cower into the back, perhaps hiss or something. Instead, he immediately stretched his paws up on my chest and pulled himself up into my arms and began purring. When my co-worker returned, she literally stopped in her tracks. I had teased her about cats for so long

I just looked up at her and said, “So, what’s the plan for the cat?”

Apparently, the previous owner hadn’t liked him, and had kicked and beaten him so much that one of his rear hips had been shattered. The cat rescue people had managed to have him all patched up and he was ready for adoption. That evening, without calling my family first, I drove home with Thomas the cat (he came with the name). Benjy was excited and I told him, “Here’s your cat. Feed him, clean him — but he’s your responsibility. He’s your cat, not mine!”

Then I got to learn that cats decide such things, not people. Thomas follows me everywhere. He’s on my side of the bed. He’s on my office chair. He’s on my lap when I’m trying to write these columns. If he wants up, he stretches his legs up on me and stares at me until I pick him up, where he then flips over on his back and goes to sleep. It’s ridiculous. He entertains us with the nutty things he does, like when he scratches his back. He accomplishes this by going to the top of the stairs, rolling over on his back, and sliding down slinky-style head-first. It’s the goofiest thing I’ve ever seen.

So I now have Thomas the cat. Around here he’s usually called “the dumb beast” or just “beast.” And I’ve softened up to it. After all, he’s not really a cat. He’s a Thomas.

Ben Compton is a Palmer resident and publishes his column under the tagline “Compton’s Corner,” the same title used by his grandmother, Phyllis Compton, a longtime Frontiersman columnist.