Cats own us, not vice versa.

Byline: Bob Welch / The Register-Guard

WHAT A ludicrous idea, this recent attempt to convince the Eugene City Council that people with pets be referred to as "animal guardians."

And what an equally ludicrous idea for the council to stick with its policy of referring to such people as "pet owners."

Anybody with a brain larger than that of a Chihuahua's knows neither label fits.

We don't own pets. They own us. And we don't guard pets. We clean up after them.

Having lived with dogs and cats for most of my life, I recommend that the City Council officially refer to people with animals as "pet hostages." This phrase better expresses the obvious truth that people living with pets give up their basic four freedoms - sleep, money, quiet and the right to unshredded sofa arms - to cater to some four-footed, conniving ball of pitch-pocked fur, giving it whatever it wants at whatever hour and at whatever cost. (Not that I'm bitter.)

They have us wrapped around their little paws, these creatures great and small and smelly.

Take the dog owner being dragged by a leash. Who's in charge here? Take the dog owner carrying a plastic bag full of - let's just come right out and say it - doo-doo. Who's in charge here?

Or take our cat. (Better yet, take all four. [e-mail].)

They have two basic purposes in life, these fickle felines: to go "out" and to come "in." After years of mulling these two basic instincts, I finally understand their deeper meaning: Cats want outside so you'll have to get up from whatever you're doing and let them inside. They want inside so you'll have to get up from whatever you're doing and let them outside.

That's it. The urge has nothing to do with what's outside or inside; they couldn't care less. They just want to remind you that they own you. It's a game with simple rules: They always win. You always lose.

This in-and-out instinct is as basic as the salmon's need to spawn, the main difference being that if you ignore them, salmon won't claw through the 1x4 molding around your front door and reach their fins inside and brandish them at you in anger. Or worse, go to the back door and shred the screen like Gentle Ben on meth.

As the "pet hostage," you either meet their demands or pay the price. They say "meow," you say "how high?" They say "feed me," you say "right away!" They say "I'm going to hurl right in your lap," your spouse says, "Oh, poor baby" - and she's not referring to you.

THERE'S MORE. One afternoon I was walking through the dining room when I had to step over a cat that was stretched out on the hardwood floor, fast asleep. This didn't bother me. What bothered me was that I'd never seen this cat before in my life. And it was sleeping after having sucked up our cats' food like an Oreck Upright.

To which I wanted to say: "Can I get you some decaf - perhaps an after-dinner mint?"

It isn't enough for our cats to hold us hostage, they now invite the neighbor cats over and let them humiliate us.

Where is our cats' sense of indignation? Of duty and honor to protect the home turf? I want our cats to hiss at this bewhiskered slacker. To get their hair up on end. To flatten back their ears in grim defiance and do that fake-punch thing, a la Rocky. Instead they yawn and go take a nap.

Cats nap for one simple reason: to rub it in. To remind you that as you rush off to your life of responsibilities and deadlines, they are sleeping. And when you return from a hard day's work, they are still sleeping, often in the same position. It's a control thing. Subtle, but powerful. You work. We sleep. Ha, ha, ha.

When they sense you might be starting to believe that the house actually belongs to you, they sharpen their claws on the arms of a chair, the animal equivalent of having someone not only smoke in the house, but flick ashes on your Duck football guide.

One cat, with all the aplomb of some teen-age tagger, hops up on your desk and - editors, I'm sorry, I didn't want you to find out this way - sprays on your list of work phone numbers. Our oldest cat went so far as to be hit by a bus - just to score sympathy points and ding me with a $400 bill for the metal plate the vet put in her.

All of this is to say: You are helpless in my paws. I am cat, hear me meow. Hear me scratch on the door with an incessant stop-start pattern more annoying than a single mosquito in a tent. Smell the calling card I left on your variable- speed drill out in the shop. See me each month in that PetSmart line on the Visa bill; yes, we can cost that much!

So against such a daily assault, why, you ask, do I have cats in the first place? Simple. I want to stay married. And every now and then, I confess, when I see a cat curled up in front of the fire or stretched out in a spot of sunlight or purring at the foot of the bed, I think to myself:

I'm glad I'm theirs.

Bob Welch can be reached by calling 338-2354 or by e-mail at [e-mail].