The Dogs Don't Like The Smell Of Your Children.

Meet Audrey. She is my eldest child, an ebony-tickedOriental Shorthair cat. It's funny how when I'm on the computer at home, she will howl at me until I spin toward her so she can jump on my lap to "check her email." She's the kind of cat who likes to take swings at the television screen when she sees something on Animal Planet that pisses her off. Because she can't get her slap-happy paws on whatever's on the screen, she will actually walk behind the set and see if the object of her curiosity is hiding back there. She's like, eight pounds and fearless. Forget Beyonce: Audrey is Sascha Fierce.

But what's really interesting is that Audrey rocks hard. When I go downstairs to shovel out the listening room that's under construction, she insists on coming with me. When the stereo is on, she hangs with her dad, jumping on top of the speakers (I have free-standing, old-skool Bose speakers and not some 5.1 Whaddafack nonsense). What's great about the kitty girl, is that she's down with anything her old man plays. I have seen her smile and whip her tail simultaneously to disparate titles as Saturday Night Wrist and The Black Parade. She once stared at the speaker cabs warily while Mindless Self Indulgence was in rotation, convinced the band were actually rolling around in there. But what really gets me is how she responds to music in the extreme metal/hardcore/grind/noise quadrangle: She rubs her face on the speaker and naps. Or, if I'm going through boxes of books, bills and magazines, she'll curl up between dad's kneecaps and snooze. But when the sonic onslaught ends, she wakes up, either suddenly or gradually with a HECS. (That's Highly Effective Cat Stretch in the Pettigrewdian nomenclature.) This week, she was inexplicably content around the recent discs from '90s nihilist attitude rockers Harry Pussy (please hold your groaning; I realize puns are the lowest form of humor) and The Order Of The False Eye, the latest from Florida tech-metal maelstrom Gigan. I have absolutely no theories on why this is. Could it be that the frequencies of some of these recordings are horrific to some (aka Mrs. Pettigrew), but positively blissful to other species? I personally know people who can't sleep unless they have a white-noise source running in their bedroom (a small table fan, the hum of a small refrigerator, an air conditioner set on fan operation); do animals respond that way to music?



Meet Bowie, my eldest Shetland sheepdog. He's not a guard dog as much as he's an "alarm" dog. (If somebody five blocks up the street slams a car door, he's barking like a maniac.) I have seen him get in front of my wife and his sister (our other Sheltie, Louise) to stand down a free-roaming, aggressive pit bull until I came by to chase the bastard off. He's loyal to his fam and I love him more than some members of my extended family. He is positively TERRIFIED by the stereo. He can be downstairs hanging with me, but as soon as I put something on--even the most austere tracks imaginable--he is back up the stairs like he just remembered there was a 30-ounce ribeye waiting in his dog bowl. That one I can't explain. Is his hearing more sensitive and acute, therefore any spectrum of significantly amplified sound works his nerves?

Maybe he prefers Nickelback. Hey, kids always rebel against their parents, right?