Talk is Cheap
By: Janice Arenofsky
Tags: Xmas, Pets, Talking, Criticism, Compliments

Pets

Talk is Cheap

Yadda-yadda-do-do-do on xmas eve

Photo by Łukasz Rawa on Unsplash

It’s widely known by humans that pets speak in the various languages of the countries in which they have permanent residency but one night a year. That night falls on Christmas Eve. U.S. pets, for instance, do not speak in English or ESL at any other time during the year. Sad but true since it’s a great loss to music, literature, and foreign language classes. Think what pets could contribute to global communication if they only chose to be heard more than one night. Ah me!

That said, at least we have the advantage of getting feedback from our pets during that window of time on Christmas Eve between the hour of midnight and 5 a.m. The little chatterboxes really talk up a storm during those five hours, and it’s a mixed bag of profoundity and profanity with a small smattering of deviltry thrown in to spice things up. I enjoy it heartily.

How do I know they talk? Well, doofus, I’ve heard them. I make sure to clean my ears of wax at least two weeks in advance, and then I station myself under the master bed or in the closet and listen to what my pets have to say. It varies from year to year. You never can tell if they’re going to criticize you for, say, the fact you ordered their food late once and they had to rough it a few meals with white-meat chicken and oatmeal for two days OR if they’re going to commend you for the fine sanitation and safety job you’ve performed during this dangerously pandemic year.

One year they decided to hold a debate and they split into two teams. Their forensic subject? Did the male person like them as much as the female person? I’m not going to bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that the cats were extremely critical of the male person’s klutziness, which resulted in several near collisions and tails caught in slammed doors, as well as his protracted phone conversations that disturbed the cats’ slumbertime and were, frankly, boring as hell.

I’ll let you figure out which team won the debate, but the consensus was that the woman person — that would be me — showed a more caring attitude even if she displayed a borderline-too-casual attitude about adhering to feeding schedules.

Another year the gabfest started promptly at midnight and was so lovely I thought I was in another tabby’s house. Both the male and female persons got five-star reviews on TLC, and compliments relating to cleanliness of litter and dust-free chairs and carpets flew freely. I was so deliriously happy I almost cried, mind you, and that’s pretty darn hard when you’re crammed under a king-size bed with a quilt and two pillows.

Of course there was that dreadful year of ugly repartee that we don’t talk about. I don’t quite know why the pets ganged up on us, but they did. It might have had something to do with the house being painted, all those horrid smells, and the fact I crated them for nearly eight hours for two weeks.

They said horrible things like we were never home, we never tuned into animal-related TV shows, we never took showers, we never read the newspapers, etc. Much of it was made up, but they kept shouting these accusations so loudly and repeating them so many times that they practically convinced me that I was the worst owner in the world. I think they were then watching too much of the Trump soap opera on CNN. Then, at exactly 5 a.m. they gathered right outside my hiding place and yelled, “Fooled you, duped you” and went straighaway to their beds, laughing hysterically as they slid into their cuddlers.

I was horrified that first of all, they knew where I was hiding and second, that they’d play such a lousy, low-down, rotten trick on me. Believe it or not I thought twice about feeding them in the morning, but I relented. I guess they had already factored in my nebbishhness. So not to worry. Fortunately the little dears have never played that trick again. I guess they’ve matured considerably since then. They also didn’t like me stomping around the house and vowing I’d throw away all their toys.

I have no idea what they intend to do tonight except of course talk. Since that rotten trick that we don’t talk about, I’ve changed my hiding place. Now I stay in the closet with all my smelly running shoes that I never throw away because you never know when you’re going to need an extra pair.

I know they know where I’ll be tonight, but they’ll pretend they don’t know my ears will be pressed to the closet door. They’ll probably kick off the chatroom with complaints and then move on to gossip about the neighborhood pets and their “stupid” owners. They always seem to orchestrate a great finish. One year they said I was the coolest owner in the whole development. Another time I was the first person they would go to in an emergency. It’s almost as if they know I’m taking notes. Because I am.

I like to give myself an A-B-C-D-F score for the year based on the pets’ commentary. It helps me self-evaluate. It also helps me evaluate them. Oh yes, I do give them ratings, and this helps me determine how many vet visits and nail trims per year. They don’t get away scot free even if it is xmas and a time for peace and goodwill among men. I can be forgiving but that’s not until Yom Kippur!