The TV is off at the house right now. We might turn it on later, but no screen could possibly be better than what’s going on with the dog and the cat.

Coco is cat hunting, which means she sits on the end table and looks behind the couch and the recliner as best as she can through her mop of hair and her one eye with a cataract.

Coco is a dark gray shih-tzu in need of a bath and a haircut. George Lucas must have had a shih-tzu that looked just like her, which subsequently inspired him to create his much beloved Ewoks. Her garbled growl sounds like a Star Wars creature and only solidifies her alien bearing and simultaneous cuteness. She is no dog, this much is true, except for the proof on her pedigree papers.

Zelda the cat has made her way to the outside door and is inspecting the cracks and crevices around it, caterwauling and looking back at me occasionally, as if I’m really going to let her go outside: “Please, Mom, please! I want to go visit my friends and play in the road and stay awake until dawn and maybe find a boyfriend and I promise I’ll be good! Please oh please oh pleezeeee!”

She abruptly stops her begging and comes to the couch, and even her tone of meow changes: “What are you doing, Mom? Can you pet me for a little bit?” And a little bit is all that is required, for Coco also comes to say hello, and for a moment, they are friends.

All is quiet when the TV is off, and I become more attuned to the real world. I hear the washing machine running and the fan on my computer humming.

Coco is now on the arm of Sweet Husband’s chair. She snuffs quietly, continuing to look for Zelda. The cat’s presence has been good for her. It’s easy work being an only child. 

Remember, she’s not a real dog.

A sibling, whether human or animal, keeps you on your toes. You can build character and learn how to resolve conflict in healthy ways, thereby making you a better person.

That is, if they don’t claw out your eyeballs first.

Since Zelda’s been around, Coco’s focus is stronger and better. We are going on almost thirty minutes now that she has sat on the arm of Sweet Husband’s chair, which is at the bottom of the stairs, looking for Zelda. 

Zelda ran up the stairs about that long ago, and she proceeded to look at the wall. Her own version of high entertainment.

Sometimes that’s about all I can do myself. There’s a certain satisfaction and unloading of the day’s burdens that can only be found by staring at a wall. 

If only Coco’s sense of direction and hearing were better. She’s looking at the floor and toward the stairs, back and forth, and continuing to snuffle. 

She knows Zelda’s favorite place to explore.

There is a small shelf that adjoins the stairs, and above the shelf is a small crack that leads to under the stairs. Zelda has turned the space under the stairs into her personal jungle gym, American Ninja Warrior obstacle, and Crossfit challenge. She doesn’t stay long, and when she emerges, we praise her for contributing to the family, either through dusting with her long, black coat of fur, or by keeping the mice away.

But Zelda is not there, for Youngest Daughter has collected her already and tucked her in bed. She reports that Zelda is a good bed buddy. The cat sleeps curled up against her favorite person all night long.

Coco also has made her way to the other end of the couch. It is bedtime. She scratches and digs into the seat with furry paws, and I’m glad we’ve got faux suede fabric. 

We’ll never have a fine Italian leather sofa, and I’m okay with that. I’d much rather have my own little Ewok stretched out, at peace and in her favorite spot.

I’d rather look at that than at a TV screen.