Bob the Dog - Catism

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Catism

A Bob the Dog Story

Ronnie Smith c 2014

Bob the Dog - Catism

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It was relentlessly sunny again just as it had been yesterday and exactly as it would

be tomorrow. Bob the dog and I were out on the terrace, unable to move in the still,

shimmering heat. I was baking on a sort of wicker chair that over many years had

lost its shape to the point that it couldn’t really be called a chair and Bob was grilling

on the tiles, panting and dripping sweat off her tongue. We were, in fact, exactly like

the two old men in Chekhov’s short story ‘A Man of Ideas’.

Since we were sat there together, immobilised and melting, I decided to ask Bob a

question that had been bothering me for some time. ‘Can I ask you something?’, I

said.

‘Sure’, she replied without bothering to look at me, ‘shoot.’

‘What is it with you and cats?’

Bob slowly lifted her head. ‘What do you mean? What kind of a question is that?’

I noticed the irritation in her voice but I decided to carry on. ‘I mean, why do you go

bananas and chase them every time you see one? I mean otherwise you are as

perfectly rational and well behaved as a dog can be. It’s weird.’

She gave me one of her longer looks and tilted her head to one side. ‘Because they

are cats. I chase cats. What else do you need to know?’

‘But do you even know they are cats? I mean you see one and you start barking

wildly and chase it until runs somewhere that you can’t follow. Is that a conscious

thing or do you just do it on instinct.’

Bob the Dog - Catism

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Bob tilted her head in the other direction and continued to stare at me hard. ‘Of

course I know they are cats. You think I don’t know what a cat is? They are cats and

I chase them. It’s very simple.’

I felt compelled to press on. ‘And what happens when you catch a cat, which isn’t

very often as far as I can see?’

She sighed and let her head fall back onto the terrace. ‘Usually I get a piece of claw

lodged in the soft part of my nose which takes ages to remove.’

We sat quietly for a while, until Bob sat up and looked at me again. Obviously she

had been thinking.

‘They come in here at night when I’m tied up and usually sleeping. They creep

around on their soft little pads, they spread their noxious pee everywhere, they eat

all the crumbs that I leave lying around the yard for later, they sit absolutely still and

quiet, staring at you until you are driven out of your mind. They are devious and

tricky. They steal things and can’t be trusted. I chase them in self-defence because if

I let them hang around it always ends badly for me.’

I could see that she was getting quite upset. Cats were clearly a real problem for

Bob. ‘But dogs steal things too…’

‘No man,’ Bob sighed again. ‘We beg, we actually ask. There’s a difference. Cats

never ask, they just steal. I simply can’t allow them to come in here. This is my yard

and I have to control it. No cats and no exceptions.’

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She lay down again and I thought for a moment, something didn’t seem right.

‘Well’, I said. ‘I’m quite surprised. I thought it was just an instinct thing, you chase

cats because you’re a dog and you are programmed to chase cats. I didn’t realise

that you had figured out such a complex rational for attacking cats. I didn’t realise

that you were so catist.’

‘Excuse me!’ Bob spat the words out as she jumped to her feet. ‘You’re calling me

catist!?’

I was taken aback by the vehemence of her response. ‘Well yeah. It’s pretty clear.

Don’t tell me you’re offended?’

She walked towards me in a strangely menacing way. ‘I have nothing against cats in

general, I just don’t want them coming into my yard and turning everything upside

down. It takes me a while to put everything back the way I like it and I don’t see why I

can’t leave crumbs lying around if I want to. So don’t be calling me catist.’

She turned away and started to settle down again but then suddenly changed her

mind and came towards me once more. ‘And for your information I get on OK with

those two next door. They understand that next door is theirs and here is mine. And

you know what!? I bet you don’t even know their names.’

‘Of course I do’, I laughed. ‘Peggy and George’, I said triumphantly.

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‘Ha!’, said Bob, ‘Ha!’ That’s what you people call them but that isn’t their real cat

names. You just see them as useless pets, not as real cats at all. You hardly know

them, except to pat their heads and stroke them when you want to feel reassured.

So don’t call me catist.’ And she lay back down.

I thought for a moment about how this conversation seemed to have got away from

me. ‘OK’, I tried one more time, ‘so what are their real cat names?’

‘Forget it’, Bob said. ‘You couldn’t pronounce them even if I told you. Let’s just leave

it. Don’t embarrass yourself any more than you have already.’

I was really puzzled now and a bit concerned. ‘So what’s your real dog name?’

‘Look man, I don’t have one. You found me on the street, an orphan, I sat in the palm

of your hand, remember? Nobody called me anything until you gave me Bob. So I’m

Bob and I’m happy with that.’

She stood up, with a strangely disgusted look on her face. ‘I’m going over there to

lick my ass in the shade. I know you don’t like to see that… Maybe that makes you

dogist, for all I know.’

And off she went.