Heartbeats in the Basement

And now for a guest poster—Scott Watson, my tallest friend, and among the most loyal Scott once helped me move at the last minute because I had booked the movers for the wrong day and couldn’t change it! There are very few friends who will help you move period, let alone at short notice and because of one’s own incompetence. Scott and I have been reading and writing together for more than 20 years, and he is the steadfast leader of the 252 Pages or Less Bookclub, the longest running bookclub I know, and the one with the best snacks. And now I’m proud to see him on a new frontier, a new adventure, and a completely new genre for the Rose-coloured newsletter: pet ambivalence.

I should tell you upfront that I didn’t want cats, or any kind of pet really. It’s likely due to a childhood devoid of animals. My mother possesses what most would charitably be considered an irrational hatred of animals, often remarking that her favorite type of animals is stuffed and loudly shoos away any animal that passed through her line of sight (oddly she has mellowed since becoming a grandma, but I digress). This hatred didn’t pass onto her children; my sister has had a dog pattering around her home for years and my brother has a kind indifference to them that I share.

Honestly, animals are quite alien to me, like dinner guests from a foreign land, speaking an unknown language, setting the table cutlery in a random fashion. Staring at them is to look into an intelligence mismatched to my expectations (to be fair, I occasionally experience that with my fellow humans). This is a bit esoteric, and if I’m honest, the logistics of pets were more of a discouragement to me than any philosophy. As my friends settled down into adulthood, I observed the inconvenience of pets enter their lives; the need to leave early, the inability to travel far, the texts/emails to dogsitters or kennels for updates, the endless clean up and vet bills. It had all the struggles of raising kids without the hope that “One day, they will grow out of it” (a phrase, a prayer that many a parent utters in the car, in bed at night, in the office. Usually preceded, and followed, by a deep breath).

I have laid out my mental baggage so you have context for this story: My son’s quest for a pet. My son has been an animal lover his whole life. I’m tempted to say this is the case for most children, but his encyclopedic knowledge of fauna gives me pause. Then there were the animal-themed birthday parties, complete with a zookeeper showcasing various animals to terrified/excited groups of children, my son proudly answering every question and even correcting the zoo staff on the particulars of the animal he was petting.

In hindsight, it was likely the moment when my son had a chinchilla sitting on his head that the idea of a pet was planted. As is the case with children, they’re relentless campaigners, latching onto a single idea, it becoming their entire world. A potent weapon against the multitasking world of a parent. Children might not win every battle, but if you’re not careful they win the war.

He started small. A fish for his birthday. He kept it alive for a year despite a general boredom with the tiny black fish, dutifully cleaning the tank and feeding it. This show of responsibility was rewarded with a hamster. He took good care of his little escape artist, even though it didn’t like to be touched by humans. At this point my emotions towards animals remained largely indifference, but I was impressed with Sandy’s (the hamster) determination to break free of her cage. Even if her plan didn’t seem thought out beyond that point. There was a kind “I don’t know what I’m doing” look about her when you discovered her behind a computer monitor or under a pillow.

Hamsters are creatures of tragedy; this world isn’t made for the small. Also, they have an odd feature of not showing illness until it’s too late. So sadly eight months into her life with us she passed on. My son and I buried her in the backyard, a large flat stone to mark her grave. In the rain—of course it was raining—seeing my son’s despair, I relented. The next day I said I would not oppose a cat (my wife and daughter were already on board. I had been the hold out). The sadness slowly healed with the excitement of getting his true desire.

After a complicated process that is necessary and byzantine at the same time, we found our two cats. Wait? Two? Yes, two. In the process of researching the cats, my son declared that we needed two cats, as one cat would be lonely; companionship was essential (for the sake of consistency, fish and hamsters don’t desire companionship. Not sure this reflects their intelligence or the sales skills of my son convincing me of this fact). So, when finding a cat, we needed two companions.

So let me introduce Chloe (the white one) and Grizzly (the brown one). The Siberian cats that wander our house for the past year and a half.  The family is thrilled, combing them, petting them, playing with them and providing the occasional treat. The cats seem pleased with this arrangement.

And me? I will concede I’m fond of them. As someone who works from home it was inevitable that I became their favorite. Consistency seems important to obtaining a cat’s affection. My family claims this is me hiding my spoiling and general love of them (“they’re your besties”) and they feel I doth protest too much.

Chloe and Grizzly are more affectionate than I have been led to believe cats were. Not the in-your-face slobbering of a dog, but a quieter, sutler way; simply making their presence known. A meow and hop up on your lap to request a pet or scratch or simply being in your company. It was the later that got me. It felt like a simple expression of friendship without words.

They aren’t human. Watching them stare out the window, I sense a dreaming of hunting rather than deep consideration of their surroundings. They possess a focus that would impress anyone in our distracted age.  At least I think that’s what they are doing as they watch the birds chirping and fluttering in the backyard. One can never be certain.  Yet, I find them intriguing, finding myself staring at Chloe wondering what she is thinking, inventing mini narratives of Grizzly’s day as he can’t answer my questions, only stare.  They have woven themselves into my thoughts which was not what I expected.

So now I sit in my basement office, typing away, two cats curled up beside me, napping as only creatures with all their desires fulfilled can. I find myself smiling and occasionally scratch them behind the ear. When you work alone, there’s a calm to knowing you aren’t the only heartbeat in the basement. So, my son won, but I got a reward as well.

So far, I have stood firm against a dog.

Scott sits on the operational spreadsheet side of work, but often dreams of writing and books. He resides in Toronto with his family and busy life.