When they let him out, it’s usually late in the evening, well after dark, and his master plays fetch with him in the halo of porch light. He’s an exhuberant dog and surprisingly gentle for animal that is caged so often. He fetches whatever his owner throws and brings it back on the trot to the man’s hand.

This activity – rather, the sound of it – sets our dogs into a fury of barking in which, again, they run up and down the privacy fence imagining all the fun being had by another canine they sometimes listen to bark.

I suppose even in the canine community, there is a sense of keeping up with the Joneses. When Bodie is playing with his owner, our dogs probably feel left out or envious of the play going on within ear shot of the territory they protect from butterflies, grasshoppers and the occasional rowdy squirrel.

But part of me hopes that they understand how well they have it – that Bodie’s life is predominantly punishment for his breed and temperament, something he can no more control than the next dog or human being for that matter. Because of the way God made him, he’ll live his life playing a blood-thirsty sport that will at least let him run the hills and backwoods of the plain states. Autumn is Bodie’s season and, though it’s a shame to see him locked up at all, it seems especially wasteful in October.

Quail and wild turkey are wandering in open fields and even the deer have taken to mating in the moonlight. The natural order is taking its annual course as it has since the beginning of time and one dog is being denied his birth right which is to chase those animals through thickets up hillsides to strange, loud sounds ringing out behind him that suddenly felll the creatures he had on point.

If his owner is to commit the dog’s life to hunting and his days to lying on a cold cement slab, then he should use every opportunity to hunt on perfect afternoons like this so the dog can serve his purpose. Until then, Bodie is left to the annoyance of the barking from ordinary mutts – our mutts – who have lived spectacular lives free of the leash. They might be lazy and they might be bored, but their hunt is in the backyard and they give the appearance of being merciless killers as long as their target stays on its side of the fence.

Stripe, the gray-backed cat with white fur reaching from his neck to far under his belly, has impeccable timing and a cunning attack style. His assaults are so well executed, it’s as though he sharpens his claws for hours waiting for one of the humans he shares a bed to make a middle-of-the-night restroom visit, then strikes.

Groggy and unsuspecting, his owners don’t have a chance to stare a stumble to the bathroom before he pounces on their toes or tears white lines into the thick flesh that covers their heals. What follows the immediate kicks to dislodge him from the body is a quick flow of profanity-laden laments cast out to the darkness and a sleeping partner lit by red alarm clock digits.

Stripe’s sleep schedule is merely his most painful habit, not his most annoying one. He also eats six times a day and walks intentionally underfoot when he hasn’t been fed, which, with so many feedings, is basically the full day’s length. He has a Barbie and the 12 Dancing Princesses food bowl that’s keep in the master bedroom and when it’s empty or low on food, he follows his owners from room to room, crisscrossing between their steps and giving a meow that, at his age, amounts to little more than a pathetic whimper.

If I were hoping to adopt a cat in hopes of creating a strong stock of felines, he wouldn’t have been my first choice. My wife actually met his siblings at the animal hospital he was adopted from and all three seemed to be of greater size and of more secure emotional states. But given his smallness and frailty – and the hopeless look in his clear green eyes – he was the cutest. In a house with three children and a wife as sappy as I can be, the “cuteness factor” outweighs all other criteria.

And, he is cute – with boundless energy. From nowhere, he darts across the living room floor in hot pursuit of the air. Last night – or should I say, early this morning – he had to be taken down from window screen he had climbed, plucking the tiny squares with all four paws and creating a music that sounded as though it came from a deranged harpsichord.

I am amazed at how quickly after adopting pets from animal shelters that they seem to forget their abandonment and the destitute lives they were so lucky to leave behind. He is three times the size he was six weeks ago and nearly 10 times as demanding.

Despite his numerous flaws, he’s a good boy that isn’t as conceited as most cats. In fact, in referring to him as “good boy,” it’s easy to draw parallels between his demeanor and a dog’s. Stripe comes when he’s called, sometimes, and seems loyal to the man of the house, the way dogs can be. He is not my best friend, but he’s as close as a cat will ever come to that consideration.