They act like they’re mortal enemies, bitter rivals in the struggle for which one of them can demand the most attention from their owners.
They squabble, chase after one another, paws flying, growls growled, meows meowed.
But behind this contentious façade lies what might not be a friendship, but at least a mutually agreed-upon collaboration between Ripley and Kitty to drive us crazy.
I imagine they plot during the day, when we’re at work. Ripley’s in his crate, and Kitty paces nearby, scheming on how to get back at us for bringing Ripley into her life. Ripley, the Pinky in this Pinky & The Brain relationship, is cool with following Kitty’s direction since, you know, he is a puppy and wreaking havoc is par for the course.
What evidence is there to suggest their coordination? If it seems like a coincidence… and all that:
- Kitty knows just where to sit on the sofa to get into Ripley’s eye-line, just taunting him with her pudgy little face until he has NO OTHER CHOICE but to jump on the back of the sofa. Kitty will bat at him, to no effect. I yell at him to get down, which he does for maybe 10 seconds, then is back up the back of the sofa. Repeat until I scream.
- Ripley, like pretty much every dog, would much rather eat discarded plastic from the trashcan than the animal byproducts that compose his food (and really, who are we to blame him?) Ripley routinely gets into the trash, and Kitty has taken full advantage of this fact. Around dinnertime is the worst, so as we’re about ready to eat, Ripley’s busy tearing open a discarded ice cream carton. We scramble to get him out of the trash, only to turn around and see Kitty eating from our dinner plates. I let out a guttural yell of agitation.
- This last one hurt the most: I was so proud of myself, remember to get cash out early to pay our dog-walker, instead of forgetting until the morning of and having to squeeze in a run to the bank before catching the train. We usually stick the money in an envelope and leave it on the ledge by the stairwell leading to the front door. I set the cash (a couple of $20s) up on the ledge and walked into the other room to grab an envelope. Somewhere in those 15 steps, I got distracted and went to do something else, spacing that the cash was still up on that ledge. This is when Kitty, with the complete heartless disregard of a diabolical mastermind, casually makes her way up on to that same ledge. I can just imagine what’s going through her little pea-sized mind. “Whoops,” she thinks with a giggle as her back leg just happens to kick loose a bill. Not long later, I make my way back over there with an envelope, and literally say out loud, “There’s supposed to be two twenties here…OH SHIIIIII—” I begin darting around the apartment, trying to track it down, knowing already, in my heart of hearts, that all is lost. Then I see it: half of Andrew Jackson’s face. I snap my head around to the dog, who is sitting there, tail wagging, tongue hanging out in that perpetual “Look at this! You can’t hate this!” face he has. “Where’s the other half of his face, Ripley?? Where is it??” Of course, it was gone, the only other remnant of currency being the opposite end of the bill—the middle was entirely gone, lost to the same digestive track that intakes mulch and carpet. I let out a silent scream, a mix of disbelief and horror that $20 just—poof, gone.
Who knew that pet ownership involved so much screaming and weeping?