A Dog (and Cat) Story

Matzoh the St. Bernard

I’m feeding the cats while my neighbors are out of town. I’ve been doing this for years. It’s immensely convenient for all concerned. First, I love cats and can’t have them in the house anymore—allergies, ecological concerns, etc. So I love being able to pet, play with, feed cats, then come home to wash my hands and everything’s fine.

There’s also a dog. I like dogs but have never wanted or had one of my own. I believe cats are more suitable companions for writers. The dog in question, a short-haired St. Bernard, is barely more than a puppy but as big as a donkey. His name is Matzoh. He’s a Jewish St. Bernard.

I’ve met this adorable hunk, petted him and told him he was a good boy any number of times. That’s not the problem. The problem is I did not expect him to be in the house. Imagine the shock to my heart (I’m an old lady, you know) when I opened the door and this ginormous animal lumbered over to greet me. I hadn’t seen him for a week. In that time he’d doubled in size, shoved his muzzle into my chest. In a friendly way.

I know what you’re thinking: oh, she’s short. Watch it: you’re on shaky discriminatory ground. I’m not short. Some people are abnormally tall but I’m not short.

My first thought: they forgot him. I texted Christine: dog in the house! Christine texted me back: we did not forget the 120-pound dog. Well! I didn’t see the need for sarcasm.

I must admit I did see it, once I reconsidered my rash text. But I was in shock, remember. A person is liable to text anything when they’re in shock. I quickly sent another text, claiming that I knew they hadn’t forgotten him, was worried the dog sitter had. Now I didn’t sound quite so stupid.

Wait: he weighs 120 pounds? That’s what I weigh. I’m in the house to feed cats with a dog who weighs as much as I do and is as big as a Komodo dragon. This does not bode well.

Christine assures me by return text that Steve and Piya will pick him up. He’s going to stay with them for the duration. I wonder if they know Matzoh weighs as much as an adult capybara? (S & P are obsessed with capybaras.) That’s fine, but it’s 5:30 p.m. and I need to feed the cats so I can go home—ten steps away—feed myself and hubby and cozy up to grade essays. Time’s ticking, people. Steve and Piya are delightful but as far as I’m concerned, they’re late.

Having greeted me, Matzoh lumbers back to his bed that takes up half the living room floor and stretches out on it with a big sigh. Apparently, I interrupted a good nap. Encouraged by this behavior, I go to the kitchen, where two of the three cats are expectantly pacing about, like “hurry up that dinner, will ya.”

The third cat, Roo, will not appear. She did not think it was a good idea to get the second cat, the princess named Liat who loves being petted and knows she’s beautiful. Roo adjusted to Liat, but hates the third cat, Mephi and is outraged over the dog. Mephi is now tearing up and down the stairs in hopes that I will play with her, pounces on everyone, including the dog bigger than fifteen of her. Mephi is fearless and thinks everything is a good idea.

I open cans of cat food, wait. No response from the dog as big as a baby elephant. (It’s not Christine’s fault. Ben is the one who likes huge dogs.) I feed the cats. Not a stir out of the dog. Later Ben tells me, “we’ve taught him that feeding cats has nothing to do with him.”

When I leave, Matzoh doesn’t even get up to escort me to the door. I do get a slow, single wag of the tail.