By Bud Herron
Guest Columnist
Valentine’s Day is tomorrow.
For those of us in a romantic relationship, it is a must-meet- expectations day — a high-pressure holiday when proof of love and fidelity must be purchased and delivered or the consequences must be suffered.
After 53 years of marriage to the same woman, I get it. My learning curve wobbles back and forth between what sportscasters call “the joy of victory and the agony of defeat.” (You know, a five-course, home-cooked meal or a can of pork and beans.)
This year, however, I find myself with not one, but two females to please. You see, I fell in love again three years ago and then gradually discovered she loves me, as well.
This is no cheap, hidden relationship. My wife, Ann, has known about it from the beginning and (modern woman that she is) accepts it. Our trysts are out in the open — often out in my backyard or on walks through my neighborhood. Her name is Emily Dickinson Stover, but she goes by the simple name of Emmie. I met her about three years ago when she moved from Kendallville in northern Indiana into a home just a block from my house.
I was out for my morning stroll when she suddenly appeared out of nowhere, ran up to me and — without pause — gave me two quick licks on my left ankle. Somewhere down the alley I could hear a woman’s voice shouting, “Emmie, you come back here, right now.”
By the time Kim, her adoptive mother, arrived, Emmie already was in my arms, and in my heart. I immediately could tell the feeling was mutual as she looked me in the eyes then tried to climb up on my shoulder.
Since that day, we have bonded more and more. Whenever and wherever she sees me, she drags Kim in my direction. Once, when Ann and I walked by her house, she and Kim were on the front porch. Thoughtlessly, I spoke to Kim but just smiled at Emmie and kept on walking.
Emmie began to cry and struggle to free herself from her leash. What could I do but go back, sit down with her in the grass and scratch her belly?
Until I met Emmie, I had prided myself on being a “cat person.” I like cats because they are strong-willed, independent and self-confident — unlike most of the dogs I have known who have been willing to jump through hoops, chase sticks and sit obediently at the command of their owners.
Cats have no owners. They are in charge. Order a cat to “sit,” and he will look at you like you are nuts and wander off to scratch a hole in your new couch. Cats are the deciders. Relationships with humans are on their own terms.
Emmie is a Cavapoo — a cross between a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel and a Toy Poodle — but I suspect she has a cat somewhere in her family tree. She certainly will not sit on command or do any demeaning tricks for humans. She chooses who she likes, where she goes and what she does — preferring little or no input from her adoptive mom or anyone else.
Kim — who retired in 2015 after 32 years as an English teacher at Columbus North High School — admits Emmie is pretty much in charge of life at their house. She is “smart and willful,” says Kim, who started out trying some obedience training when Emmie was adopted, but soon discovered the trainer was actually being trained by the trainee.
I can sympathize with that. Since Emmie and I fell in love, I have taken her on walks a couple of times. We walk where she wants to walk, stop where she wants to stop and chase a squirrel up a tree when the mood strikes. She decides when it is time to go home and leads me there.
Emmie is cute, and she knows it. She tolerates other females, but is obviously partial to men. I have seen the flirting. But, just when I begin to feel jealous, she drags Kim to my back porch door, barks at my cats and demands that I come out and scratch her belly.
However, she does not like hats and uniforms or the men who wear them. She gives the postman a bark or two every day to show her disdain for his attire.
After her morning walk, she routinely plays a while with her toys, has breakfast and then goes to sleep on the couch listening to some light jazz background music.
That’s my Emmie.
Happy Valentine’s Day, love. (You too, Ann.)
