Rocco,
the cat who let’s me live in his house, talks a lot
for a cat.
He chirps, chortles, meows, and yows
between extended naps. And I respond, which leads to a cross-phylum kind of
conversation of his meowing and my matter-of-fact patter. I refuse, however, to
speak to him in baby talk. I treat him as my equal, even though there are
things I can do that he can’t, and vice versa. I’m
not flexible enough to lick my own ass.
But
back to the baby/pet talk. I recently had a first-hand baby talk experience at
a check-up with the vet the other day for Rocco and his sister Dixie. Rocco was
surprisingly timid, and the vet was very sweet, with an abundance of
affirmations: “There, there,” “Aww,” and “What a good boy.” The thing is, when
explaining to me and my wife what she was doing during the exam, she didn’t cut
the pediatric palaver – and I loved it. I pointed this out to the vet and she
laughed, but kept talking to me like I had four legs.
We
walked out at the end of Rocco and Dixie’s appointment, and I felt elated,
appreciated, and loved. I felt like an animal. That is until I tried to get
my wife to address me in pet-speak (because I’m a good boy, yes I am).
She refused. Me-ouch.
So I was thinking. What about Rochester
bands incorporating this idea in their between-song banter? I’m not just
talking about the pretty voices like Mikaela Davis or The Demos or Jon Lewis.
But don’t you think it would be trés cool if Hot
Mayonnaise’s Jorge Alvarado offered you a treat simply for rolling over in
front of the stage? Or what if Sulaco’s
bass-slingin’ Lon Hackett scratched you behind the
ears. Or better yet, how cool would it be if the entire audience at a
Pony Hand show started howling like cats and dogs in heat? Fetch! F-out.
This article appears in Oct 24-30, 2018.
