Dogs or Cats?

People ask it like it’s a personality test.

As though the answer reveals whether you are loyal or aloof,
needy or independent,
playful or discerning.
But maybe it’s not that black and white.
Maybe it’s not even about pets.

Maybe it’s about how we love.

Do we want someone who runs to greet us
every time we walk through the door,
no matter how short we’ve been gone?
Or someone who appears silently,
a presence warm and purring,
when we most need comfort—
but only when they choose to come?

Some questions are too small for the lives they try to contain.

Look at them.
Our cat—nearly nineteen—deaf for years now, but missing nothing.
She hears the house with her eyes, her bones, her knowing.
Two owners. Two countries. Twelve houses.
A thyroid that forgot how to behave a decade ago—
and yet she carries on, younger than her years,
more elegant than her ailments.
Change comes, and she simply shifts with it.

And then the dog—
barely eighteen months old.
All softness and longing and love she can’t contain.
She is the heartbeat of the house now,
bounding into every room like it’s Christmas.
Even the cat, who once ruled alone,
has granted her a place. (Though she may never admit it.)

There they lie:
the old queen and the young enthusiast.
Each at peace in their own skin.
Each making room for the other.

I don’t to try to pick sides.
Now I just love anything bears the quiet wonder of life.
Anything that stretches in the sun.
Anything that listens without hearing,
or forgives without being asked.
Anything that carries age with grace,
or youth with joy.