‘Master of the House’ needs definition

There’s a song in the musical ”Les Misérables” called “Master of the House.” I’ve always liked that title. It suggests authority, dignity and unquestioned leadership. The sort of thing a man should naturally enjoy in his own home. I’ve occasionally considered adopting it as my official title.

Connie, my wife, thinks that’s hilarious and apparently absurd. Obviously, there’s some disagreement over the job description.

I’ve always believed the man should be the head of the household. Someone has to make the important decisions, establish the rules and maintain order. Connie has never openly challenged my authority. She simply ignores it and makes the household work. 

Take our household pets, for example. A few years ago, as our older dog was nearing the end of his life, I suggested we consider becoming an animal-free household. Think of the freedom. We could travel whenever we wanted without worrying about feeding animals, finding someone to care for them or arranging our lives around creatures who contribute nothing toward the household income. Connie listened carefully.

Then she bought Jasper. Jasper is a pure-black cocker spaniel, now about 3 ½ years old. He’s a handsome dog, although he apparently missed the memo explaining that dogs are supposed to like their owners, particularly the male owner. Jasper took to Connie immediately. Me, not so much until much later. So, exercising the sound judgment expected of the master of the house, I decided we needed another dog that might like me as well. I found Bee Bee, an adorable beagle/basset hound puppy, at the county fair. She was cute. She was compact. She was tame. She was free.

I picked her up. She wagged her tail and gave me a little lick on the cheek. I was done in on the spot. I brought her home.

Apparently, my firm opposition to acquiring more animals could be overcome by a wet tongue and a wagging tail. Bee Bee and Jasper spend most of their time outdoors, although they have access to the mud room. I figured that was a reasonable arrangement.

Then Connie decided we needed cats. I reminded her that my original proposal involved having no animals whatsoever. She listened carefully. She nodded in what I took as agreement. She even grunted out an “Uh huh,” in recognition that I had a valid argument.

Then we got Fluffy, and later, Stash. I’m beginning to suspect Connie’s definition of listening differs considerably from mine but you didn’t hear that from me. Fluffy is an almost entirely black cat who lives up to her name. She has moderately long hair … that gets all over your clothing. She’s relaxed, dignified and enjoys slow, gentle petting. Once you start, she’ll sit perfectly still and purr.

Stash is a tuxedo cat with a small, off-center white mustache. She’s a goofball whose squeaky little meow seems entirely inadequate for the demands she’s making. Unlike Fluffy, Stash prefers a firmer hand. She twists, squirms and repeatedly butts her head against your fingers until you provide the appropriate service.

Both cats also engage in an activity Connie calls “kneading biscuits.” They rhythmically push their paws into blankets, cushions and occasionally me. I’ve suggested that if they’re going to make biscuits, they should at least contribute something to breakfast.

Connie wasn’t impressed. Neither were the cats.

Now, I should explain that I’m a dog person. Dogs understand loyalty. They respect their owners. They appreciate a firm but fair leader. Cats apparently believe the owner is whoever opens the food container.

And while Jasper and Bee Bee have fairly limited access to the house, Fluffy and Stash have the run of it. I recently decided this arrangement needed reviewing. After all, I’m the master of the house.

I announced that I would no longer provide unnecessary attention to two animals who contributed nothing to the mortgage, utilities or grocery bill. Connie looked up.

“Okay,” she said.

I considered that a major victory. Then Fluffy wandered over and sat beside me on the love seat. I ignored her. She stared at me. I explained that I was establishing boundaries. She blinked.

Five minutes later, I was scratching behind her ears.

The following evening, Stash approached with one of her squeaky demands. I informed her that I was busy. She responded by ramming her head into my hand. Within moments, I was administering what amounted to a full-body feline massage while she squirmed around like a fish in the bottom of a boat.

Connie watched.

“I thought you weren’t going to pet the cats anymore.”  

“I’m not,” I explained. “I’m establishing control.”

“Looks like they’re controlling you.”

I ignored that observation.

Later, I found myself sitting on the edge of my couch because Fluffy was sleeping in the middle. Connie asked why I didn’t move her.

“A good leader,” I explained, “knows when to exercise restraint.”

She smiled. I was beginning to dislike that smile. 

The next morning, I decided enough was enough. I stood in the living room and announced that I was reclaiming my rightful position as the dominant male in the household. Connie continued drinking her coffee. Fluffy was asleep. Stash was making biscuits. Nobody seemed impressed.

Then I noticed Rocky outside the window.

Our neighborhood squirrel, the squirrel overlord that I have named Rocky, was perched on the railing, apparently watching the proceedings. Stash spotted him and launched herself toward the glass, squeaking furiously. Rocky didn’t move. He simply sat there, calmly chewing an acorn while Stash bounced against the window.

“There’s a male who knows who’s in charge,” I announced.

Connie smiled.

“Yes, dear. And apparently he’s the only one smart enough to stay out of the house.”

I considered arguing. Then Fluffy meowed. 

And the master of the house went to see what she wanted.