By Gwen Rockwood, newspaper columnist and mama of 3
I thought empty nesting would be more peaceful. But as soon as the kids moved to college last month, a war broke out on the home front.
The only “kid” left in the house is an opinionated Corgi with short legs and an ear-splitting bark. Lately, Cooper has decided that – in addition to the Amazon delivery guy – our frail, elderly cat is his mortal enemy, even though the two of them rarely come nose to nose.
Percy the Cat prefers to spend her golden years in the sunroom at the back of the house, where she sprawls across shafts of light flooding through the windows. When she’s done sunbathing, she curls up in her bed for a marathon session of catnapping.
A French door separates the sunroom from the rest of the house, but it’s mostly glass. Each morning, the cat shuffles to the glass door and meows, which is how she requests that I serve her breakfast promptly.
Cooper interprets this innocent request as an overt act of aggression. His dog food bowl is about five feet from the glass door, which places it within the ever-widening security perimeter he maintains at all times. When he sees the cat, he presses his nose against the glass door and unleashes a barrage of vicious barks, complete with snarls and teeth-baring.
This loud, ugly scene is not what I wanted for my empty nest mornings. I was promised peace and tranquility. The phase of sibling squabbles is supposed to be over.
So, I moved the dog’s food bowl to the other side of the kitchen, completely out of sight of the glass door and the cat behind it. But what should have been a simple solution turned into a two-day hunger strike.
Most herding dogs don’t deal well with change. They need routine like they need oxygen. For Cooper, moving his food bowl across the room was equivalent to flipping the universe upside down.
Finally, I gave up and moved the bowl back to its usual spot. Then I tried sitting near Cooper while he ate, assuring him I’d protect his food if, by some chance, our elderly cat busted through the glass door like the Kool-Aid Man. It helped a little, but he paused throughout breakfast to cast nervous glances at the glass and the enemy behind it.
After a week of this nonsense, I dug through a cabinet until I found a roll of tape and a dusty stack of colored construction paper leftover from previous back-to-school supplies. Cooper paced back and forth as I taped several dark blue sheets of paper over the glass door, creating a makeshift privacy shield taller than the short dog and the old cat.
So far, my construction paper barricade is working. The barking fits have ended, and I’m finally enjoying my breakfast toast in peace. I’ve noticed that Cooper often cruises by the glass door and tries to peer around the edges of the paper wall – the very definition of “looking for a fight.”
He senses that his adversary lurks somewhere behind that blue ocean of paper. He squints as he tries to see a shadow moving there. He leans his oversized ears toward the glass, ready to launch an attack at any incriminating meows.
Tom and I have begged him to mind his own business – to let ancient, sleeping cats lie. But he’s a paranoid dog trapped in a body the size of a bread loaf, so he’s convinced that the entire world is his business.
We love this dog, but this ridiculous feud is making a mess of our empty nest.
Gwen Rockwood is a syndicated freelance columnist. Email her at gwenrockwood5@gmail.com. Her book is available on Amazon.
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