In winter months your Manhattan Voyeur turns a sharp eye on the beings with whom I share my indoor landscape.
Ten African violets notice no season change. They bloom away, a sweet garden. I know just how much water and fertilizer they love.
My cat Gizmo (named by his former owner) is a stitch. Kidney problems and attendant low energy haven’t slowed his stealth. He knows he’s not allowed in the bedroom so that’s his Garden of Eden. If by mistake I don’t close the bedroom door, he’s instantly hot to trot from 40 feet away no matter if he’s been soundly sleeping.
When I shout at him he scampers out of the bedroom like a kitten totally thrilled by his few seconds in forbidden paradise.
We’ve added a gorgeous black poodle puppy to our ménage and I call him the puppy from hell. Every day he invents a new bad behavior. He terrorizes the darling dog for whom he’s supposed to be a companion. He eats his poop. He doesn’t just bark when my partner Joe leaves them apartment, this dog screams earsplitting prolonged agonized screams.
Which brings me to his final affront (I’ve omitted many which include soiling his crate)’ this dog doesn’t particularly like me. He refuses to make eye contact no matter how I beg and cajole. If I’m trying to play with him and Joe so much as rustles in another room, the dog jerks away from me.
His trainer, a smart cookie, says he may have ADD. She’s joking but I wonder. I do know that dogs live in the moment, whatever that means. She says he doesn’t want to please us. He much prefers to pee and poop whenever he wants. Her instructions: walk him every two hours to the same spot and reward him with playtime when he pees and poops outdoors. God forbid we scold him for his indelicate indoor habits.
I tell myself that being adult means making commitments.