Deciding Who's Alpha

Some people are simply not 'animal people.'

Take my family, for instance. My father had a deep-seated loathing of cats and dogs, and I can't recall any of his eight brothers or sisters owning pets.

As adults, my two sisters owned a cat and a dog, respectively. The cat, for reasons known only to him, woke my sister Rose one morning by sinking his claws into her face. Bu-bye kitty. My other sister, Diane, was persuaded by her children to adopt a pure-bred cocker spaniel, whom she named 'Nicky.' Nicky was, in my opinion, pure evil: the poster-dog for overbreeding. She slunk around the house with a sullen expression on her face. When they   
returned from their walks, Nicky would allow Diane to begin removing her collar and leash; however, if this process took longer than 3 seconds, which it invariably did, Nicky would suddenly growl and snap at Diane's fingers.  To dog peed on the floor whenever greeted by anyone who did not live in her house (me), and despised other dogs (well, mine). If Diane tried to pet Nicky after a certain hour in the evening, Nicky would turn on her. My sister, who had done such a magnificent job of raising her children, failed miserably when it came to raising her beloved pet. Nicky was never shown who was alpha dog, and she tried to assume that role. Disaster ensued when Diane tried to assert her authority. Nicky passed away last year, and my sister is blissfully pet-free.

Never underestimate the importance of the alpha dog, even when it's a cat. When my husband and I first married, he bought me a beautiful yellow lab puppy. Hobey was full of puppy energy, and the first time we brought him into the house, he ran around knocking things over. My cat, The Stick (so-called because she of her puny size), took one look at him from across the room, and immediately sized up the situation. She took the most direct route from her place by the door to where Hobey was sitting (I believe she circled the walls), and introduced herself, spitting and clawing. Poor Hobey didn't know what had hit him. From that point on he never questioned her authority. Soon they became best friends. The Stick would sit for hours licking Hobey's head, and they would curl up together, this tiny cat encircled by this large dog's front legs. Ten years passed. A week after The Stick died (of old age), Hobey too passed away. The vet said he probably had cancer. I believe it was because of a broken heart. Certainly mine was broken.

I've often reflected on the reasons why we humans allow ourselves to grow attached to animals whose life expectancies are so much shorter than our own. Surely we know that our hearts will be broken when they die. But the need for a companion animal, another sentient being who will offer us unconditional love, is so strong that it overrides all else, and we 'animal people' will keep offering our hearts to a succession of pets. Even alphas like Nicky who haven't learned who's boss.