Long in the tooth

The cats greet me every morning in the kitchen with big, toothy screeches. 

They show me with the skeletal ridges of the hard palate as they unhinge their jaws - that they want their breakfasts. 

I move a new crop of overnight dishes from the counter to the sink, first things first: unearth the coffee machine from this mess we call a kitchen. 

One cat sits on the lid of the garbage can and mewls as if the decibel level of her caterwaul has a direct bearing on the amount of vittles I will trickle onto her plate, she watches me intently as I pour from the clear glass canisters rising from the counter like crystal silos in some reimagined castle in Oz. 

She knows I can be swayed.

The other cat stays low to the ground and waits impatiently. She silently swishes her tail and paces, drawing figure eights between my ankles until I fill her bowl. 

She has learned to scootch the dishware (and herself) into a corner to protect the meal from sibling rivalry. There’s no place like home. There's NO PLACE like home. 

The dog, exhibiting all the courage of a cowardly lion, exacts a tax if the cat doesn't cover her work. One swat will send her into the next room. 

My son calls the area of the counter I've dedicated to “pet-ween-meal snacks” the treat factory. 

“If you stand here for any amount of time you get a curious audience and a standing ovation.”

 

My family thinks the animals have me trained.

“They get morning treats, afternoon treats, walking into the house treats, oh-I-didn't-notice-you-there startle-me treats. Not to mention the I-just-went-for-a-walk treats and it's-not-long-now-before-I'm-gonna-need-my-after-dinner and just-before-bed treats.

They are even allowed to choose, using their noses to sniff out the treat of greatest desire with the old “pick a hand” gambit. 

The magic? They also get what's in the other hand, too. 

"You are a pushover."

I've always been a pushover, as my mother used to say. An easy mark. Soft target. 

“Maybe you're just kind-hearted.” 

My son has entered the chat. 

I'd been thinking aloud again. Going over the thoughts that snake through my mind as I wait for the coffee, unaware that there's no cup to catch them has they brew. 

The animals have vacated the vicinity now their tummies have been temporarily placated. 

“Who called you a pushover? I'll pummel them,” he said dancing and jabbing in at the air. “I’ll p-p-p-pulverize them.”

Pummel. Pulverize. Fighting words that sound like they are stuttered from a bygone era. 

I ask him if he’s familiar with the expression. 

“Pushover?” He looks at me like he hasn't known me for all 16 of his accumulated years. “Yeah. it just means someone who is easily manipulated. Someone who would do extra things they don't have time to do because …  well, I don't know why they'd do it … maybe just because someone asked.”

“Do you think there's a word that means the same thing as pushover … that maybe doesn't have the same negative connotations?”

The boy fell silent as he considered the alternatives. I could see the pages turning through the thesaurus in his mind.  

And that's when the cats settle in on my lap  and the dog curls up at my feet.  The house ... even in its cluttered disarray ... feels like home. 

“Maybe the word you are looking for is ‘mom’.”