“You look very walky,” my wife told me as I tiptoed toward the couch with a dog leash crammed my pocket.

Rigby Floyd agreed. He saw my fake-out “Oh-we’re-not-going-for-a-walk” walk, got up from his warm cushion and ran from me as if he were a nurse running from Benny Hill in the park.

Three things of note:

• For those south of 50, Benny Hill was a British comedian whose girl-chasing antics would land him in court in 2025.
• The silly scramble around the living room is a daily routine to get a Golden Doodle to go for a walk. Frankly, Rigby gets more exercise from this chase than he does from the walk.
• The Benny Hill Daily Dash is one of many slapstick examples of our pets controlling us. Forget Pavlov’s dog. We are Pavlov’s Pet Parents. They have conditioned us to jump, run, feed and clear paper (or any pulp-based product) from counter tops.

Cargo the Destroyer, a gorgeous tuxedo cat, is most adept at doing things that make good Presbyterians cuss. When she wants to eat, she waits until we sit down, jumps on a forbidden counter, stares at us and shreds anything she can find — bills, greeting cards, photos, you name it.

To say “We don’t own pets, they own us” doesn’t describe the totalitarian regime ruling our home. They act. We jump.

No joke: As I wrote that last sentence, Cargo and her feline accomplice, Catniss Poundcake, jumped on the kitchen counter. I yelled, “Get down!” They just stared at me. They will not jump down unless I physically get out of the chair.

I sat back down, and up they went again, staring, challenging. They like this game. It is as if Cargo tells Catniss, “Wait until he sits down. Wait. Wait. Go! You snag the paper towel, and I’ll take the utility bill. Remember, do NOT get down until he is on his feet.”

Other ways our pets control us:

• If Rigby sees any human on his walk, be it a friend or an ax murderer, he will stop, sit and whine until I escort him to greet the person. He is a big boy, and when he does not want to move, there is no moving him. That leaves me standing on the sidewalk, bellowing, “DO YOU MIND IF HE GREETS YOU?”
• It took years for Amy to allow Rigby to sleep on our bed. Now she loves having him. But in order for him to jump on the bed, he has to have a verbal invitation and — I am not joking — a smoothed-out comforter completely free of folds at his single entry point (he only jumps from the bed’s southeast corner).
• Eating paper on the counter is the cats’ go-to power move. They love the cause and effect. Amy and I get home from work, plop down in our chairs and, the second our bottoms hit cushions, the shredding begins.
• Often, they do this while we are eating dinner. It is common for one of us to chase one off, sit back down, pick up a fork, hear shredding and turn to the other: “Your turn.”
• On college football Saturdays, Rigby will paw at my knee until I get on the floor with him to play. When I finally get my creaky body on the floor, he’ll walk away. He just wanted to see me move.

It did not used to be this way. Fact is, I do not remember when the power dynamics shifted. Much of their routines are for attention.

And in the end, they get it. Catniss demands to be in my lap when I am working. She is here now, purring like a Camaro as I type with an index finger. Cargo, after attacking a cracker box, is finally napping. Rigby Floyd is on his couch, resting up to make sure I do not watch the UCF game at 4 p.m.

Yet when the comforter is just right and Rigby is stretched out on the bed so he can touch both of us, it is all worthwhile. We are comforted by his company and know that, when the sun casts its colors at dawn, we will wake up to the snowflake remnants of our cable bill.