By Lisa 
We got the critters.
I was told, before I met Mark, that no one would want me because I had too many critters. And that was true. I had four doggos, two or three cats (you can never tell if you are truly the owner of a cat. Ask your neighbors about the rando cats who are “yours” and I guarantee most of them have different names and a whole lot of different food from a whole lot of people. Adulterous little Fur Traitors.)
Mark, thankfully, had two doggos already. When I met them for the first time, I made sure to bring treats and toys. Mama didn’t raise no fool.
I met a beautiful little white dog named Lola and the world’s biggest sheltie named Gracie. They were both shy of new people, but we bonded immediately (treats and toys, belly rubs—I’m not completely stupid). Their Pop, aka Mark, went by the serving sizes on the dog food bags, whereas I believe in the ignore the science, cook their food, give treats philosophy.
These pups loooved the new treats, bananas, and whatever else I was eating. (And yeah, I know not to give them chocolate, grapes, artificial sweeteners, etc.)
I noticed they never bothered Mark when he ate—just me. Sucka. They knew I would give up all the foods for them.
I brought my own gang o’crazies up to meet them a few days later.
No problem. Whatsoever. Everyone got along, which was weird considering Mark’s dogs didn’t leave the house much, and mine stayed only around each other. They all knew this was their pack.
My little Mama has always talked about how much I loved the TV show Lassie when I was little. She always said I needed a Lassie dog. As soon as I saw Gracie, the Sheltie who looks like a collie, I knew they all were mine, including that big man who I now call my husband.
Now that we are a settled married couple of two years, we learn that one critter begets another. All of ours are “fixed,” so it ain’t from the natural method. There must be a sign on the house in critter language that beckons all things furry to come our way.
Roxy the Cat tolerates the doggos but scares off all other cats except Billy Bob, our big fat orange Garfield look-a-like. Other folks in the neighborhood likely think Billy is their cat, which is also true. Billy is the cul de sac cat, left by various owners over the years. I took him in and tried to keep him in, but he is a howler who insists on being outside for a few hours a day. He eats here, and a few minutes later, I spot him at my neighbor’s house behind me, waiting patiently for his second breakfast. He is a foodie.
Another recent acquisition is Big Head, a semi-feral ginormous tuxedo cat who stands in our garage (or on the roof of my car) staring through the back door glass until one of us comes out to feed him. Roxy steers clear of Big Head, likely because, well, he is BIG. He never lets anyone get within four feet but glares at his bowl until it is full, then creeps over to eat. I have spotted him more than a block over. He must also be a foodie. He definitely ain’t starving.
Occasionally, we have a possum in the backyard whenever we leave a bowl of cat food on the patio table. He stares at us, asking, “What are you looking at?” and then goes back to chomping his food.
We also have a small box turtle that has us as a regular fast food stop, and he also comes into the garage and stares at the cabinet where we keep Big Head’s cat food until someone comes out to feed him. He stares, waits, eats veeerrryy slowly, and looks at us like, “You can go now.”
Like Rodney Dangerfield, we get no respect.
Every couple of weeks, Roxy the Cat delights in bringing us lizards without tails, flying birds, dead birds, and a whole lot of feathers. One morning, I spotted something running along the baseboard in the den and into the open pantry door. A mouse. I screamed like…well, a little girl in her 60’s.
I kept hearing the song “Ben” in my head. I love all animals, but a mouse cannot be in the house, especially near my Nabisco saltine crackers, LaraBars, and Texas Toast garlic cheese croutons. I got my patient, sweet husband out of his shower to dig around in the pantry on his hands and knees and gently grab our mouse. “Gently, Baby, Puleeze, don’t hurt him!”
Mark shuttered a little as he grabbed the squirming mouse and carried it out into the woods. “Yes, GENTLY. I heard you the first time.” If you ask me, he was kind of cranky.
Mark also has to remove the lizards and birds, which is yet another benefit of having a husband around.
Lately, Livvy, our big pit-lab-anybody’s-guess doggo is so scared of Lola Pie, our “sweet” yet highly spicy Maltese, that she wants to go out front, where Lola is not. She has started bringing us gifts too. Bigger ones.
A couple of weeks ago, it was a front leg bone. With some meat on it. In the garage.
Today, it was a lower jawbone. With teeth. A lot of teeth.
She dropped it at my feet in the kitchen.
Yep, I screamed.
Mark to the rescue!
Poor man. My hero!