Me and The Lorenz

I was picking up friends a few weeks ago, where they were staying with other friends. I was a stranger to this house, in other words, and as the door slowly opened an older man (i.e., slightly older than me, still alive) stuck his head out and asked me a question.

I didn’t quite make out the question, although I heard the word “dog” in there somewhere. It was hard to hear because (a) that’s the way it is with me these days, and (b) there was a lot of barking.

What he’d asked was, “Are you a dog person?” It’s a good question with an interesting set-up—what happens if the answer is no? And the answer seemed important, since this gentleman seemed to be struggling to control something large and very anxious just behind the door.

But whatever he asked me, I said yes and immediately assumed the position, which is to kneel meekly in front of this animal about to introduce himself or herself, and present my face to be licked. I am indicating my surrender, in other words. I am saying, I am not worthy. It always works.

And I don’t mind dog licks. I am really a dog person.

More of a larger dog person, probably, although nothing against the smaller guys. They’re just a different experience. A large dog is either Chris Pratt or Dwayne Johnson—big and goofy, or big and intimidating. Either one is usually satisfied licking my face.

Small dogs are little Joe Pescis. They can be lots of fun but, in my experience, tend to have a screw loose. Definitely more of a larger dog person here.

Anyway. There’s this cat and me.

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Lorenzo is my son’s cat, and my son is very particular. He considers himself a cat expert, and while I don’t think he is, I accept his superior knowledge.

That said, I’ve been around a few cats in my lifetime. I got quite a few lectures before John left for Texas on the care and feeding of Lorenzo, which I listened to carefully. I feed this cat every morning, usually, so it’s not like I’m a bystander. He sleeps in my room quite a bit during the day, curled up on my ottoman.

But there were things I had to promise, which was basically to clean out his litter box, which John made out to be a bigger deal than I was willing to listen to. Heads up,  bud: I’ve done my share of that, too. We’re good here, me and Lorenzo. Both a little bored, but good.

I haven’t explained to my tenant downstairs that we’re alone in the house. I’ve seen him once, I think. I hear him get ready in the early hours, and then later on I see that he’s brought up some of his recyclables, which I go through and fix (I’m kind of a recycling bully, but a quiet one; still, if you’re going to go to the effort, stop ruining an entire batch by putting something dumb in there).

A Comcast salesperson came to the door, but I shooed him away pretty aggressively (politely). I’d rather siphon WiFi from passing strangers than sign a Comcast contract, which is what I told him, which from his expression is what a lot of people tell him.

So I think that’s about it. That’s the extent of my human interaction in the past 72 hours, not counting the electronic kind, which really doesn’t count.

I will see people. Tomorrow I have church, Tuesday night a party. I may wander down south today and visit a garage sale some young people I know are holding, trying to raise money for a school trip, although after Wednesday’s traffic marathon I’m not crazy about the idea of heading in that direction three times over the next few days.

My friend Liz noted yesterday that I seemed sad, which was appreciated and not untrue. It’s too quiet and lonely here, and I got some bad news about a friend. I think I am a little bit sad.

But everybody comes back Tuesday night, and I’ve got a busy schedule ahead. All shall be well.

It does remind me that I need people, though. I should have been a little more aggressive about staying social, but it was kind of a dead week.

And now this damn cat is parked on my lap, and I can’t type anymore. Everyone feel sorry for me now.

Chuck SigarsComment