Dear Stormy,
I have a golden retriever named Biscuit (yes, another Biscuit — I know) and a cat named Chairman Meow. The Chairman has decided that Biscuit’s dog bed is his territory. He sleeps in it every night. Biscuit sleeps on the floor next to it and just… lets it happen. He’s a 70-pound dog. The cat is 9 pounds. I’ve tried buying a second bed. The Chairman claimed that one too. I’m being run out of my own house by a creature that weighs less than a bag of flour.
— Outmaneuvered by a Feline in Fresno
Dear Outmaneuvered,
Let me explain something about cats. Cats are not pets. Cats are aorganized crime operation that has successfully infiltrated your home under the guise of “companionship.” The Chairman didn’t claim the dog bed. He claimed the territory. The bed is a symbol. This is a power move. And Biscuit — God love him — is the kind of dog who sees a coup and just lies down next to it. Classic golden. Loyal to a fault. The fault being: he has no self-preservation instinct and the political instincts of a throw pillow.
Here’s the thing. You think you’re the human in charge of this situation. You are not. You are a tenant. The Chairman is the landlord. He doesn’t pay rent. He doesn’t have a job. He has chosen to express his authority through furniture dominance and the silent treatment, and it’s working.
You have two options:
Option A: Accept the new world order. The Chairman has claimed the bed. Biscuit has accepted his station. You are a bystander in your own home. This is fine. Many empires have fallen this way. You can still get a good night’s sleep if you stop fighting it.
Option B: Fight back — strategically. Cats respond to one thing: inconvenience. Move the bed. Put it somewhere elevated where the cat can’t reach it. Get Biscuit a bed that smells like the inside of a liver treat bag. The Chairman will find something else to claim — probably your pillow, your dignity, or your will to live — but at least Biscuit gets his bed back for five minutes.
Stormy Translation: What you’re witnessing is the emotional equivalent of your roommate taking the good chair and you just standing there holding your plate. Biscuit isn’t being noble. He’s being a golden retriever. They’d apologize to the burglar for being home.
The Chairman isn’t going anywhere. Neither is Biscuit. Your job is to make sure the dog at least gets a cushion in the treaty negotiations. Because right now, the terms of surrender are: cat gets everything, dog gets the floor, and you get to pay for all of it.
— May your treats be many and your enemies poorly leashed
Stormy’s Ruling: In any battle between a cat and a golden retriever, bet on the cat. But buy the dog his own bed anyway — he deserves it, even if he won’t defend it.
From the page to the trail
