st Who, Exactly, Is the Master?
The family loved the idea that the new kitty was to be the Watson to my Holmes. I took that to mean that he was supposed to be content with the role of sidekick, while I was the one solving the big mysteries. But it hasn’t worked out that way—especially when he hides every time I try to put him away, or jumps up on the table when we’re eating, or puts his ears back and bites me for his own mysterious reason. Which is why, sometimes, I at least show him the spray bottle—just to let him know who’s supposed to be the top cat on Baker Street.
But (especially considering the name we’ve given him) the question of who’s in charge isn’t quite so easy to settle. After all, our kitten’s fictional namesake is a writer. If Dr. Watson hadn’t recorded all the great detective’s cases, the world would never have heard of Sherlock Holmes. So isn’t it possible that my own little Watson has at least as much to offer me as I have to offer him? And I’m not talking about just the warm furriness of his extravagant beauty.
Like Sherlock with his spells of ennui, I’m always getting lost in human problems. But for Watson, the sound of crinkling cellophane is a source of wonder and a cardboard box to hide in or a ball of paper on the floor to swat at are enough to make him happy. And Watson is a model of patience. If he smells a mouse beneath our refrigerator, he remains staked out on our kitchen floor for hours. Even scooping out his litter box is good for me because it reminds me of Dr. Johnson’s dictum that “nothing is too small for such a small thing as man.� As I walk by in a cloud, he’ll leap up onto the top of an armchair and tap me with his paw, as if to bring me out of my human daze and return me to the moment.
But it’s much more than that. I was the father of two little boys who’ve now become men. And now that they’re grown and out of the house, Watson is the child who still sits on my wife’s lap at night, the little boy who will never grow up and go away from Papa. That’s not to say that all is well between us. I see the way he looks out the window and longs for the adventures of the forest. I know he’s still a half-wild thing—and that it’s wrong to lock him up.
But that’s the deal: I give him the safety of a home and he brings the forest inside with him. Why should I expect this bargain to be perfect? Watson doesn’t like it when I shoo him off the table and I don’t like it when he uses our antique loveseat as a scratching post. But when I lie down on the couch in front of the fire, he’ll often jump up on my chest—and sometimes we’ll take a snooze together and, in our creature warmth, forget about the differences between our species.
But (especially considering the name we’ve given him) the question of who’s in charge isn’t quite so easy to settle. After all, our kitten’s fictional namesake is a writer. If Dr. Watson hadn’t recorded all the great detective’s cases, the world would never have heard of Sherlock Holmes. So isn’t it possible that my own little Watson has at least as much to offer me as I have to offer him? And I’m not talking about just the warm furriness of his extravagant beauty.
Like Sherlock with his spells of ennui, I’m always getting lost in human problems. But for Watson, the sound of crinkling cellophane is a source of wonder and a cardboard box to hide in or a ball of paper on the floor to swat at are enough to make him happy. And Watson is a model of patience. If he smells a mouse beneath our refrigerator, he remains staked out on our kitchen floor for hours. Even scooping out his litter box is good for me because it reminds me of Dr. Johnson’s dictum that “nothing is too small for such a small thing as man.� As I walk by in a cloud, he’ll leap up onto the top of an armchair and tap me with his paw, as if to bring me out of my human daze and return me to the moment.
But it’s much more than that. I was the father of two little boys who’ve now become men. And now that they’re grown and out of the house, Watson is the child who still sits on my wife’s lap at night, the little boy who will never grow up and go away from Papa. That’s not to say that all is well between us. I see the way he looks out the window and longs for the adventures of the forest. I know he’s still a half-wild thing—and that it’s wrong to lock him up.
But that’s the deal: I give him the safety of a home and he brings the forest inside with him. Why should I expect this bargain to be perfect? Watson doesn’t like it when I shoo him off the table and I don’t like it when he uses our antique loveseat as a scratching post. But when I lie down on the couch in front of the fire, he’ll often jump up on my chest—and sometimes we’ll take a snooze together and, in our creature warmth, forget about the differences between our species.
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