Five star frog splash

Blanche got sold down the river years ago.

Blanche has two speeds—fast-forward and pause. She throws herself around in glee, looking like she’ll fly out of her skin she’s so happy. She runs up and down the apartment and jumps into the air and twists around. Her eyes open wide, and her pupils dilate, and her tail wags in a clockwise circle. Blanche looks like the veterinary training manual depiction of canine happiness.

But I sold Blanche out.

Loki is a mysterious cat with a dark, sinister past. He’s a thorough gentleman, don’t get me wrong. He always shows up in formal wear: black tuxedo, pressed white shirt and tie, white cuffs of his shirt barely peeking out from his jacket sleeves. But Loki’s youth was a troubled childhood. Constantly moving from one apartment to another, fighting parents, verbal abuse creeping too close physical violence, and, eventually, a broken home.

Loki’s with me and Matthew now, and at least he doesn’t have to deal with the abuse anymore. I try to respect Loki’s boundaries, appreciate that he’s been through some tough times and let him dictate the terms of our relationship. Matthew’s approach is a similarly well-reasoned philosophy, but completely opposite—treat Loki like he’s a completely normal cat. To Matthew, treating Loki like a normal cat means playing with him in a physical way you might treat a kitten. He imitates professional wrestling.

“Half Nelson! Oh! And Cactus Jack reverses out and sets up for the flying elbow!”

“Matthew, please quit wrestling the cat,” I ask him.

Loki stays put for the most part and lets Matthew wrestle him, but it just doesn’t look like the cat’s having fun. He tenses his body in fight or flight mode, drawing back onto his haunches a bit. He presses his ears back against his head. His eyes widen and his pupils dilate in the manner of a veterinary training manual depiction of feline discomfort. It’s suplex time for the American Standard Shorthair.

“Let’s make a deal. When we get a dog, you can wrestle the dog any time you want.”

“Done,” Matthew accepts.

We had to wait a while before the time was right for us to get a dog, and meanwhile, every time Matthew had the choke slam gleam in his eye, I’d intervene; “No way Matthew! Don’t touch the cat; we’ve got a deal.”

Matthew would whine a bit, but he knew that glory days were on the horizon.

And finally, Blanche came into our lives. A fifty pound, good natured, white with red spotted basset hound, Blanche will stand and politely wag her tail through just about anything. Including professional wrestling. As Matthew sets her up for another pile driver, sometimes she looks me in the eye as if to ask, “Won’t you help me?”

I always say, “Nope. I sold you out years ago to protect the cat. I can’t do a thing for you,” as I rub the cat's ear, and he purrs, eyes closed, in tranquility.