Dear Pet Lady,
I was talking with my friends at the Curling Club on Friday, and they think you are completely off your gourd. They wonder why a hip alternative paper like Seattle Weekly would allow you to write for them. Please explain!
Confused
Dear Confucius,
The Pet Lady once had a cat just like that. This little beast came from Great-Uncle Pet Lady’s cattle ranch outside of Sunnyside, Washington, where its mother had met her demise at the fearsome jaws of a coyote. Said feline, apparently traumatized by this formative experience, would flee wild-eyed from everyone but the Pet Lady, to whom it took an obsessive, inexplicable shine. It would follow the Pet Lady around like a dog, lying in the sink when the Pet Lady attempted her toilette and sleeping near or, if possible, on the Pet Lady’s head. After the Pet Lady took a jaunt to New York City to buy a winter coat, it urinated in the Pet Lady’s fine Skyway brand luggage in silent but effective protest. Most disturbing was how it would burrow insanely into the Pet Lady’s neck and drool copiously into her hair. To escape, the Pet Lady ultimately fled to a bohemian expatriate community in Paris, France, leaving the crazed cat with relatives, where it has lived under a bed ever since. She recommends you do the same.
The Pet Lady
Dear Pet Lady,
I love my mother dearly, but she has more than 20 cats. They are, for the most part, good cats. But I’m allergic to that many cats in such a small space, and when I leave, I usually have a bad case of laryngitis. Do you know of any good hotels in the central Florida area?
G.T., Seattle
Dear Little G.T.O.,
Puppies eat shoes—it is just what they do. You might think about asking your guests to remain shod for the safety of their footwear. If they must remove their shoes, put them on the mantelpiece for safekeeping. In the meantime, cherish the chewing and urge your visitors to do the same. The Pet Lady can remember when Sophie, the Pet Parents’ Australian shepherd, was a sweet little puppy, peeing on newspapers in the kitchen and eating the Pet Lady’s feather-bedecked mules. The next thing one knew, dear Sophie was graying at the muzzle and had to be carried up the steps because of her bad hips. Indeed, the merciless march of time continues inexorably, so treasure the moment, even when it involves angry one-shoed departures from your home.
The Pet Lady
Hounds of hell nipping at your heels? E-mail thepetlady@seattleweekly.com or send a telegram to: The Pet Lady, c/o Seattle Weekly, 1008 Western, Ste. 300, Seattle, WA 98104.
