You know how they say getting a dog is what you do once you’re married, but not quite ready for kids? It’s like, you get a dog, and suddenly all of the married people you know begin to exchange knowing smiles and sidelong glances. Uh huh, we know what’s coming next!
Well, my husband, Jason, and I inevitably faced those knowing looks from basically everyone we knew when we announced after a year of marriage that we were adopting a dog. We both love dogs, have always loved dogs, grew up with dogs, and knew we needed a dog to make our family complete (well, at least until those aforementioned kiddos came along).
After much debate, we finally decided on a breed: Boston Terrier. We didn’t want a dog that was too big to control, but we also didn’t want one that was so small we’d have to worry about breaking it.
We became obsessed with Boston Terriers, researching them online when we were supposed to be working, talking to anyone who had ever even known someone that owned one, cheering whenever we saw one in a commercial or movie. At one point, a friend even bought me an adorable little porcelain figurine of a Boston Terrier, which I proudly displayed on top of the piano in the living room.
And then, low and behold, my parents knew someone who knew someone with a Boston Terrier that was available.
She was precious … 20 pounds of friendly, furry, fun – a total ball of energy. We spent time with her at the previous owner’s home and saw her amazing ability to jump and spin around in mid-air. She chased toys and played fetch, loved belly rubs and giving kisses, and seemed the perfect fit for our family. Her name was Daisy and we wholeheartedly welcomed her into our hearts.
But there was just one small problem … she still had to meet the approval of the matriarch of our family – Queen Sheba.
Shortly after I had adopted my cat, Sheba, from the animal shelter a few years earlier, she and I had settled into a comfortable life in my little apartment. I worked and went to school, and she was there to bat at my pen when I was working on homework, or cuddle in my lap during my hours-long phone conversations with Jason at his college a couple of hours away.
Sheba seemed to have almost an unhealthy attachment to me. She was VERY jealous and wouldn’t let anyone else pick her up. She was very skittish around other animals and people she didn’t know very well. She also seemed strangely nervous around Jason for some reason, but we chalked it up to the amount of time she spent with me when he was away at school.
After three years of this relatively calm existence with Sheba, Jason and I graduated from college, got married, and moved into our new house.
Sheba spent three days on top of the kitchen cabinets, refusing to come down no matter what tricks we tried.
Eventually, she adjusted to her new dwelling, but she never seemed quite as happy – probably due to the love/hate relationship she shared with Jason.
Despite these misgivings, Queen Sheba still seemed to relish in her role as dictator and apparent alpha-female of our household, flaunting her authority whenever possible.
The night we brought our cute little Boston Terrier, Daisy, into our home, we were as nervous as new parents bringing home a fragile newborn. We had researched proper ways of introducing animals, knew all about territorial issues, and THOUGHT we had everything under control. We decided to move the car out of the way, bring Sheba into the garage, and then bring Daisy into the garage.
In theory, this plan should have worked perfectly – the garage was neutral territory because Sheba had never been out there, and there was really no place for her to hide if she got away.
I took the dog around back on her leash to bring her inside the back garage door, while Jason stood ready in the garage, holding tightly onto Sheba.
I approached the door, with Daisy prancing and slobbering at the end of her leash. This lovable, cuddly pooch looked at me with an expression that was almost smiling.
I knelt down and rubbed her head, whispering, “Now you get to meet Queen Sheba! You all will be great friends!”
Yes, I was naïve, I will admit. But I had no idea what was waiting for me on the other side of the door.
I took a deep breath and cautiously turned the knob, as Daisy looked up eagerly at my face as if to say, “What fun adventure are we going to have now?” I opened the door to see Jason holding tightly to Sheba, who was watching me curiously.
I led Daisy in on her leash and closed the door… and then, in an instant, there was complete pandemonium. I kid you not, Sheba’s eyes actually widened as I watched them.
Within ten seconds, she had bit Jason on the hand and scratched him to shreds, the dog became a foaming rabid Cujo, barking and straining against the leash, and I was screaming, “Oh my God! What do I do? What do I do?”
In a panic, Jason yelled, “Get her out! Get her out!”
Just then, Sheba took a flying leap over the lawn mower and landed hanging by her front paws above the door frame.
I quickly stumbled outside with the dog as Jason herded the cat back into the house and tried not to bleed all over himself. Sheba fled to the bedroom and dived under the bed, Jason closed the bedroom door to keep the dog away from her, and I sat in the living room, trying to get my heart rate to return to a safe, normal level.
After much discussion, $180 worth of antibiotics for all of Jason’s bite wounds, and two other disastrous attempts at introducing the animals, we decided one of them just had to go.
Despite my husband’s protests, there was no way I could give up the cat I’d had for four years to keep a dog we had only had a week. We took the dog back to the previous owners, and within a day or two, Sheba came out of hiding and things returned (somewhat) to normal.
A few nights later, we returned after dinner with friends to hear meowing emanating from the living room. We thought that was a little strange, since Sheba hardly ever meowed.
As I moved down the hallway toward the living room, I saw something small glittering on the floor. I knelt down to get a closer look and picked up the unidentifiable object. It was small, white, and sharp on one end. I carried it with me as I moved towards the living room to further investigate the unexplainable meowing.
I turned the corner and saw Queen Sheba, sitting perfectly still, meowing at me with what I would swear to you was a smirk on her little kitty face. Littered all around her were more small, white and black pieces of something. She seemed to be saying, “I’ll show YOU what happens when you dare to bring a dog into MY house!”
That’s when I realized what had happened.
Somehow, this little cat had managed to knock the porcelain Boston Terrier figurine off the piano, all without disturbing the photo frames, sheet music, or anything else sitting all around it. Every single other object was exactly where it had always been.
Not only that, she had apparently banged the tiny figurine against the walls and batted it around the house so much that we found pieces of it strewn all around the kitchen, living room, and even down the hallway.
Sheba had made her point, loud and clear: at least for the time being, she was still queen of her kingdom!
This 100% true story is from my first book, Kentucky Family, published in 2012. I’m happy to say that a few months after this incident, we discovered a rescue organization a couple of hours away that had a boston terrier who was completely indifferent to cats. Sheba grew to tolerate him, and while they were never what I would call friends, they did manage to live in relative harmony until Sheba crossed the rainbow bridge a few years later.
Amy Bellamy, Author 
Adorable 💝
LikeLiked by 1 person