Please don't be a Daisy

11-15-99

Okay, I have a not-unusual lack of things to report for today. Writing this journal makes me wonder if my life is really so boring. You know, it was a good day; I just can't produce any worthy events to talk about.

I hate always coming back to dog stories.

Why are veterinarians always dog people? The vet I work for and all of his assistants, excepting me, are dog people. His wife likes kittens "when they're small, but not when they get big." The woman who trained me to clean up dog shit is allergic to cats, and only spent enough time in the cat room to change their litter trays and fill their water. The afternoon receptionist, a high school girl who wants to be a vet, is totally a dog person. The vet himself makes snide cracks about cats, like when a woman called in frantic because her kitty was up a tree, and Dr. Figaro chuckled and said, "You got a gun?" (He was joking, of course.)

No cat person would want to be a vet. "Cat People," in the strictest sense, don't like dogs much at all. I never wanted to be a vet. I was a devout cat person until I met the two tiny dogs owned by John's family. Gizzy and Gunny, along with John's constant prodding and encouragement, convinced me that dogs are not all bad.

Of course, spraying dog shit four hours a day does not make me love dogs.

"Dog People," on the other hand, sometimes like cats. John is a recent convert to the "Dogs Rule, But Cats Are Okay Too" persuasion. Vets seem to accept cats as a part of their job. Love the dogs, love playing with the dogs and cleaning up dog shit and slitting dog tummies open daily, but cats are part of the package deal. Cat owners are over-protective and prissy and are not to be trusted.

I heard once that vets are most scared of being bitten by a cat, because cats have the dirtiest mouths. "They bury their poo," was the confidentially whispered explanation. The girl who told me that was pretty drunk on wine coolers.

You know what? I've been bitten thousands of times by cats. I'm more worried about their clean little claws. I'll tell you what, though, I have no desire whatsoever to be bitten by the mean Rottweiler who was brought in today. I'm not allowed to stick my hands in her cage. I wander into the cat room and pick up the ignorant kitten who sleeps in his litterbox and let him bite bite bite away at my hands. No problem. Who'd rather be bitten by a dog? Somebody explain.

My mother used to say (well, I'm sure she still says it) that she doesn't trust anyone who doesn't like cats. You don't have to own a cat, you can even have a dog, but you have to like cats. At least marginally. She evaluated all of my boyfriends in high school, and all the snot-whiny parents of her high school students. I agreed with her, unconditionally, like this was a wise platitude by which to live. As I'm thinking about it now, my mom's best friend for the last 30-odd years dislikes and distrusts cats. A little hypocrisy in my teachers, that's all I need.

When I was in high school, Mom and I developed this system of categorizing people based on our three cats. We had three cats:

Pandora
Tuxedo. Fat, insecure, bossy, unfriendly. Very defensive. hated company. Pretty much hated everyone but me.

Natasha
Siamese. Very classy; talkative and friendly in a country clubbish way. Loved those scandalous tummy rubs in private.

Daisy
Long-haired calico. Named after Daisy Buchanon in The Great Gatsby. The shoe fits. Ditzy, spoiled, and genuinely stupid, but cute all the same. All the guests loved Daisy, though, because she was so pretty and so friendly.

Mom and I'd sit around discussing people at school in terms of the cats. "He's such a Daisy!" It perplexed my friends. I stopped telling people about our system when they kept asking me, "So what am I?"

I've gotten off the topic. More than that, I've gotten very tired. Need Sleep. Tomorrow is my first day off since I satrted the job eight days ago, and I'm pondering the vast stretch of hours: whatever will I do with all that time?