The Truth about Kitties and Dogs

The problem with cats sometimes is that, well, they’re not dogs. A few weeks back, I called our cats so they’d come downstairs in the way a dog might. Nothing happened. I called again. Nothing. I looked at my wife, AKL, who said, “You have to call them in a higher voice — like I do — and you have to say, “Here, kitty kitty kitties….” She does so. And it works.

My problem with this is twofold: I refuse to use the “here, kitty” voice; and, well, I refuse to say the word “kitty.”

Over our six years of marriage, I’ve noticed that, though AKL and I ostensibly communicate well and are both native English speakers, we have different lexicons. There are words that she, as a woman, uses that I simply cannot. I’m not talking about sex-organ–specific slang or bodily function sorts of words that make some uneasy, I’m talking about everyday English.

In addition to kitties, there exist furry little bushy-tailed animals that hop around. I would call those creatures rabbits. I’ve always called them rabbits. AKL calls them bunnies. (Note: She also sometimes playfully calls our “kitties” bunnies. But I digress.) I would say I’m shorter than Shaquille O’Neal; AKL would say I’m littler. I have a stomach; she has a tummy.

AKL wears tops, I wear shirts. She wears jammies to bed, I wear boxers. No offense to the more fashionable guys out there, but men wear clothes, not outfits. And those things that professional sports teams wear when playing a game — they are not outfits either, they’re uniforms.

I’ve played ice hockey with cracked ribs. I’ve gone solo camping miles from civilization. I’ve done a gut rehab on our kitchen. It’s not that I’m not secure enough in my manhood to use these female-centric words, it’s just that — well — okay, maybe in part it is that I’m not secure enough in my manhood.

For bunnies to exist in my world would be to overturn too much I learned about living in the world as a man. The list of movies that can make me cry may start and end with Brian’s Song. Okay, maybe I misted up a bit when the Red Sox won it all in '04 — but not in a bunnies sort of way.

Still, I’m not suggesting that I’m a stereotypical guy. I grew up with a sister and female cousins, and I’m very sensitive — I own clogs for god’s sake. A friend’s wife even likes to suggest that he and I fall into a small sect of men who make great husbands because we’re “just gay enough.” Meaning, we cook better than our wives, dress ourselves well, and can use big words during a football game despite the fact that we’re straight. But still, that Y chromosome prevents Girl Words from even entering my brain, let alone escaping my mouth.

I should mention here, too, that AKL is by no means a girly-girl. She doesn’t wear makeup, hates perfumy smells, understands the rules of all major sports, and can bait her own fishing hooks.

But she’ll refer to my hockey socks as leg warmers. And when pressed, she might admit her favorite thing is cuddling.

So when your husband or wife, or sister, or mother, or whomever, claims that sometimes it’s like the two or you are speaking different languages, well, maybe there’s something to it.

I have friends up in Montreal whose colloquial Quebecois French is a different sort from the type I learned back in high school. So we communicate in a halting patois that is neither English nor French. Alcohol generally helps our understanding, but certain concepts are invariably beyond simple translation.

Similarly, the gendered lexicon surely limits us at times. It can be frustrating, but ultimately maybe it’s for the best. Let AKL have her secret world of kittycats and bunnies. Some things are innate — where I hear song lyrics, she hears something more like the sound made by Charlie Brown’s teacher — and it’s our differences, rather than our common ground, that give us things to laugh about.

If we can’t change our spots, I suppose the cats can’t either. I might not be able to teach them to come running when I call “C’mon, boys” — but they sure do jump to the sound of their food cans being opened.

Comments

[Henry Berger]

Ah, so. And then there's gendered shopping. I hunt, Mary gathers. I go
to one store, buy three pairs of pants, a shirt or two, some briefs,
and a pair of socks. From home to store to home again, 45 minutes.
Mary disappears mid-morning and the sun is setting when she returns.
And, "it ain't over till it's over," meaning try on, fashion-show, my
opinion, her opinion, whomever else gets to comment.

Oh well, as Jim Morrison said, "Nobody gets out of here alive."
Not even clothes trees!

Henry