The cat hummed as she paroled the perimeter of the rug.
The kitten bit her lip and lay down on the mat.
The cat wasn’t through. She started splashing around in the water dish. Hear the water? When is the last time you went to the bathroom? Ho, hum. Splash, splash. I love playing in the runny water.
The kitten crossed her legs. She looked worried.
Splish-splash. Splish-splash. Oh, how I love the runny, full, wet, drippy water.
The kitten turned a deep shade of purple as she held her breath. Unable to bear it any longer, she tore off the rug toward the litter box. Doing her business in record time, she raced back to the mat, coming to a dismayed stop at the edge.
The cat squatted at the corner of the rug, flipping a tassel back and forth.
Do you mind? her expression said to the kitten. I’m getting ready for bed.
Me, I’m fed up. It’s impossible to be in the kitchen with territorial cats nipping at my heels and both cats toying alternatively with starvation and kidney implosion so as not to lose their claim on the rug to the other.
“We have to take action,” I tell my husband.
He sighs. “You’re right. We’ve spoiled them. But with hard work and commitment on our part, I’m sure we can teach them to do better.”
I stare at him. “What?”
He stares back. “Weren’t you going to lecture me that we need to find new ways of reward and discipline, so as to create a more fair, harmonious environment where we all learn a lesson about love and sharing?”
“Uh, no. I was going to suggest we go buy two small, crappy rugs for the hall and let them duke it out there.”
He thought for a moment. “Okay, that’s good too.”
Too bad we don’t have kids. We’d make great parents.
-14-
El Toro Gato
I am envious of other people and their cats. Oftentimes it’s their close relationship and sometimes it’s just that their cats seem so…normal.
I was at a friend’s home the other day when a fluffy black and white cat with a jingling ball tied around its collar presented itself.
“Oh, how cute,” I said. “I have a tuxedo kitty too.”
“Watch this,” said my friend. She got down on all fours and the jingling kitty bounced over to her and they gently bumped heads.
“We used to just rub noses but now she likes to head butt me,” said my friend. She beamed at the El Toro cat.
“Isn’t that sweet?”
This got me thinking. Why doesn’t my cat perform cute tricks like that? She barely deems to let me touch her. As I drove home, I became more indignant. What was going on here? I pay for the food. I scoop up the kitty litter. I replace my sofa cushions monthly. I, too, deserve a head-butt.
The cat knew something was up the minute I walked in the door. This may or may not have had something to do with me immediately throwing my briefcase and purse on the table and dropping to the floor in front of her, arms splayed across the hall to prevent her untimely escape.
“Hi baby,” I said, easing my head down toward her.
“Nice kitty…”
My ophthalmologist tells me I am healing nicely and should be able to remove the eye patch within the month.
There’s a woman who writes a gardening column for the small town papers in our area. It’s the type of column I usually avoid reading as it involves things I know nothing about (dirt, nature, and enjoying dirt and nature), and never covers items I am interested in (how to air condition outside air or if it’s socially acceptable to plant fake flowers outside and try to pass them off as real).
In a recent column, this writer wrote about tales of animal heroism…three ants that worked to dislodge a splinter from the body of a fourth; mother dolphins that stayed with their babies trapped in fishermen’s nets, singing to them until both mother and infant drowned; and a group of sparrows that picked up a wounded sparrow and flew it off a busy street and into a city park. Anyone reading her article would come away with the understanding that animals are much more caring and compassionate then their human counterparts.
This woman needs to be introduced to my cats.
If I was lying stranded and bleeding in a net or on a busy street, the only reason my cats might be bothered to notice is if my mortal injuries delayed their feeding time.
Then they might nose me a bit in the hopes of encouraging me to get up and open the canister that contains their food before I expired.
But this implies my cats go outside, which they don’t.
They’ve gotten so prissy they don’t even try to hide the wrinkling of their nose, indicating distaste for my non-pleasing odor when I come in after a run. They are aghast that my parent’s dog will not only come near me but lick me when I am in this state. I see their stares of horror and try to explain it to them.
“She likes the salt,” I explain as the dog works her way up my arm.
The cats aren’t buying it. They walk away, tails in the air. I can hear their unspoken thoughts. That is just so uncouth and frankly, unsanitary. When is the last time that beast had her shots?
I hope they are referring to the dog and not to me.
Another friend walks her cat on a leash. “He loves it,” she brags. “He sits still whenever I get the harness out.”
I passed this information on to my husband.
“NO,” he said.
“No what?” I asked.
“No, we are not harnessing the cats,” he answered.
“I didn’t say I wanted to,” I said. “I was just telling you…”
“And you can’t make me,” he said crossing his arms.
“What? I never…”
“You can’t make me and I will leave you if you try to make me,” he said. “I’m a person too and I have rights and one of my rights is to not knowingly place myself in harms way.”
I rolled my eyes. “For heaven’s sake, I didn’t mean…”
He held his hand up, palm facing me. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s my final word.”
I sighed. “Well, okay, if you feel that strong, I guess you win. We won’t harness the cats.”
“Really? I won? I never win. Wow. I won. That’s great.”
A smile broke over his face and he wandered off toward the kitchen.
Well, what the heck. It just gives me more bargaining power for our next discussion. Which I happen to know centers around an agonizing amount of back work for him and a new garden for me.
Harness, indeed.
-15-
Bath Time
Pots and pans flew, foundations rattled, and howls reached the heavens.
It was time to bathe the cats.
“Bloody hell,” growled my husband, attempting to hold a snarling cat under the waterspout. The kitten had knocked the kitchen phone off the hook and was frantically trying to reach PETA.
“You got it, you got it,” I encouraged my husband from across the room. I didn’t dare get any closer for fear of being mauled.
This was the ultimate exercise in stupidity. Everyone knows cats bathe themselves. But I’d read a magazine article that touted the benefits of semi-annual bathing and decided our cats deserved only the best. And for this decision, my husband’s life now stood in danger.
“Come here and help me,” he barked.
The drenched cat’s eyes glowed a malevolent red.
She’d been around long enough to suspect the reason she was wet and miserable in the first place probably originated with me. Now as she heard me summoned, an evil grin spread across her face.
“Um, maybe not,” I said, backing against the wall.
“I’ve got to get the rest of these suds off her,” he begged.