Boots

BOOTS

“I know you hear me. Son of a gun, I know it. Those bright, green eyes of yours enlarge and stare pensively out into space. And you put on those nonchalant airs. You’re not kidding me, you little fur ball. You hear every word I say.”
Silence.
“Are you listening? Remember, I’m the one who saved your hash years ago. I hated cats back then. You were so tiny, though, fuzzy, black and white. Even then you had long, shiny hair that made you appear two pounds larger than you really were. Ah, I felt sorry for you, alone out there on the road. Abandoned by your mother. Boy, did she ever know what she was doing.”
“You nearly hit me with your car,” he criticized.
“You were lying out there in the middle of the road. Sometimes I think your mother left you there, hoping a car would hit you.”
“Raowwwww. I hurt my neck passing under some barbed wire. It became infected. If you knew anything about cats you’d know that a sick kitten is a liability to its mother.”
“So says you. I often wonder why I picked you up, but then I really had no choice. You were under my car. Strange how twice I drove along Woods Creek Road that very same night, and twice I nearly ran over you.”
“I’m not responsible for incompetent drivers.” He purred, jabbing at the air with his right paw. Boots did not have a typical meow. More like a mwooooooowwwwww.
“If I were incompetent you wouldn’t be here. Twice I missed you and twice jostled Virginia trying to avoid you. I never saw such coincidence. It’s as though you knew I would be going out for ice cream and planted yourself in my way.”
He gathered himself for a leap into the whirlpool where we kept a flow of dripping water. His majesty would not drink from a normal dish so we had to keep some water dripping in the whirlpool. He habitually crouched and sprang into it full force. We designed our bathroom with a sink and counter on each side of the room, the whirlpool in the center, private toilet on one side and a shower on the other. And he always felt very smug about the way he leapt in and out of the tub. (At nine, he is still limber enough to do so.) So he catapulted out of the tub, stretched himself flat along the green tile floor, and gazed into space as if seeing something invisible in the distance.
“I felt sorry for you, you little beggar. And how did you reward me? You took over my home. You walked right up to that dish of milk and drank as though passing judgment on my culinary ability. We fixed a box for you where you slept, and next day we brought you to the vet. She said you had fly larvae in your neck. In two or three days you would have been in the great beyond because they would have eaten their way into your windpipe. Really! I didn’t intend keeping you. But how could I set you loose in that condition? Virginia is a cat person. I am not.”
“You’re not much of a person period. You really understand nothing about cats.” He retorted with a snicker that angered me.
“They’re unappreciative little ingrates. Take you, for instance.”
“What about me?”
“Do you ever thank me for all the nice things I do for you? Ever show one bit of appreciation? You act as if I owe it to you. I buy you a soft mouse to play with and you ignore it. I buy you a luxurious cat tower and you never play in it. I buy all sorts of cat toys and you shun them. What kind of gratitude is that?”
“I suppose I am supposed to fawn and grovel?”
“Well, at least do something to show appreciation.”
“And what of the mice patrol I do around here?”
“Mice patrol? The one time we had mice in the kitchen you didn’t even know what they were. If I recall correctly, you cowered behind Virginia who was cringing behind me while I tried to bat the little varmints with a broom.”
“Yes, and nearly decapitated Virginia and me.”
“Mice patrol! Humph! That’s a good one. Anyway, we haven’t had a mouse since we installed that ultrasonic doo dad. And it doesn’t need cat food or hair ball medication; it doesn’t get sick all over the place; it doesn’t scratch its way to China in the litter box, and it doesn’t take over my whirlpool or my home.”
“That thing hurts my ears.” Jumping into the tub, he aligns himself under the faucet, catching the dripping water in a mouth that shows piercing, white teeth. Boots is long- haired, black with white paws and a white chest. Over the years he has acquired a majestic stature that makes him appear truly regal. His eyes are opaque, green oTrishs except when the lighting is right and then they sparkle like wet grass. Only his feet seem incongruous, white, and shaped like club feet so that I often call him “rabbit foot”. Half his snout is masked with a silky, black nose and puffy white cheeks and chin that resemble hoary clouds.
The water hits him in the nose and he sputters like an old tea kettle with a clogged spout. Pft… pft….pft-pft-pft.
“That’s the gratitude I get for watching over you in the hospital?” He rubs his paw acAllen his eyes.
“When I had my cancer operation? Is that what you’re saying?”
“I was there. There in your room. After Virginia fell asleep, I came to watch over you.”
“Are you suggesting an out of body experience?”
“And are you suggesting you didn’t know I was there?”
“Well, no, I can’t say that. There were nights I felt your presence. Sometimes I almost caught sight of you. But I thought it was the Demerol.”
“Well, it wasn’t. I visited you every night. Sometimes I even slept on your bed until first light. Then I had to return and protect Virginia. Only she didn’t need protecting.”
“If that’s true then thank you.”
“It was nothing. I did it out of love.”
“Just what do you mean ‘she didn’t need protecting?”
“Let’s not go into that. It’s a sore point,” he yawned.
“Well, you brought it up. Why not finish it?”
“What’s to finish? She showed up at the hospital with another man. She buried your dog with another man. She runs off to visit grandchildren. She’s never in bed in the morning. She has no problem getting out of your car during an argument and finding her own way home. Do I really need to draw a road map?”
“You’re baiting me again. Virginia is absolutely loyal to me-- body and soul.”
“Uh huh.” He rolled over on his back so I could rub his tummy.
“I hate when you do that. Are you trying to tell me something about my wife?”
“Moi? I only recite the facts. The conclusions are yours to make. Only if I were you, I wouldn’t be such a jerk about love. Follow the golden rule we cats follow. Love them and leave them. They’ll do the same to you if given half a chance.”
“You are jaded. Positively jaded. Life isn’t like that. Love isn’t either.”
“Suit yourself, big boy.” He shook his head side to side, “Only I wouldn’t be falling all over someone whose heart blows with the wind.”
“Preposterous! Virginia tells me I am her whole life,” I said.
“Wow! What do you expect her to say? Good farm help is hard to find. And you’re an O.K. sexual partner, I guess. Do you really expect her to tell you she is pining away to play mommy again? I didn’t think you were that dense.”
“Dense? You’re not only the prince of lies, you are a troublemaker you little fur ball.”
“Brother, arrrreeeeee you ever dumb, dumb, dumb. I once knew a man who bought the Brooklyn Bridge from a guy on the street and I thought he was dumb. But you would buy the bridge and then pay the toll to go over it.” He jabbed his paw at the air and continued.
“Just for the record, oh great wise master, when was the last time the two of you had anything to do with one another?”
“Not that long ago.” I retorted.
“Well, to be exact it’s three months, seven days and thirteen hours.”
“That’s a highly personal matter and none of your business.”
“Yeah, wise one, well what happened to those days she was climbing all over you? Is that my imagination?”
“Romance doesn’t just mean making love.”
“Heh, heh! What a snook. She fed you that line because she has no interest in sex. Well, not with you anyway. And another thing, if you’re all the rage in the bedroom why is she always flying places alone?”
“She only flies away because her grandchildren need her. And her aged aunt, that is only respect. And she has these relationships with other men because they resemble her father.”
“Her father? Well, he must have been Lon Chaney.”
“Lon Chaney? What does he have to do with all this?”
“He was the man with a thousand faces. So her father must have had a lot of faces and builds and look like a dozen or so people. Her father, huh?”
I walked away from the little beast. What crass arrogance? To challenge my relationship with my wife. She is like Caesar’s wife. Above reproach. And what if she did seem friendlier with other men? And what if she does rise early and fall asleep early at night? She is undergoing a period of stress, what with menopause. Why shouldn’t her interest in sex wane? We’ve been together for twenty years. That little beast. I’m getting rid of him. One way or another, he goes.



He was still babbling when I returned to finish the discussion.
“Ah yes, her grandchildren. I guess she needs them. And her aunt, a woman she didn’t talk to for years? And as for the hospital, well, she just needed a shoulder to lean on. But for a human, he’s not bad looking. Well, as I said, suit yourself.”
“I was practically dead in the hospital. She needed someone.”
“Someone big and strong, a shoulder to lean on. A heart to hold her together while you were falling apart. Meorrrrr!”
“You little savage, I ought to wop you with a broom.”
“You’re not angry with me. It’s the truth that upsets you. But, hey, she does have some feeling for you. She’s sweet as brown sugar when she wants to go somewhere. Ever notice? And I suppose she is just being nice to these other men? Wahooo! ”
“Are you telling me my wife is having affairs with other men?”
“I never actually saw anything, but face it, lad, she doesn’t have the old fire you used to ignite.”
“I hate you, you little rat. Spreading dissention and evil. Why are you doing this?”
“I love toying with your mind. It’s like slumming, only more fun,” he rolled around and stood up, stretched and wore a smug sneer on his face.
“So all this was a vicious joke, just toying with me,” I sighed.
“Well, I didn’t invent the facts. I just presented them in a certain way.”
“Thanks… for nothing.”
“I was there at the hospital every night.”
“Yes, but don’t overplay your role.”
“Royalty never exceeds itself.”
“Yes, I understand. Royalty must have its privileges,” I chided.
“I do have royal blood, going back to Persians, Babylonians and the Egyptians,” he boasted. “Did you know my royal blood can be traced back to 8000 B.C.? That at one time, I personally was worshipped by a religious cult? Revered! I even got my long hair from the Persian breed which was intermingled with Egyptian short hairs.”
“Worshipped? By whom? You’re only nine years old and short of six weeks, you’ve lived here all that time.”
“Great God of cats don’t you know anything?” He emits a long, disgusted hiss. “I guess you think that stuff about nine lives means we escape death nine times.”
“What else?”
“For your information each life is a generation in which we live. Nine different generations. And not necessarily consecutive. They can be centuries apart. So I was revered by a cult who believed that cats have supernatural powers (which we do).” He bows his head humbly, the supercilious sot. There isn’t a modest bone in the little beggar.
“Supernatural, huh! Let me see you do something. Right now! Do a magic trick like make yourself disappear.”
“It’s not hocus-pocus magic. Its history. For example, my good friend, you’ve heard of Herod Antipas?”
“Herod Antipas? Sounds like an antipasto.”
“You don’t know who Herod Antipas is?”
“Herod who? Does he live around here?”
He snaps out his left paw, jabbing at air and flicks his tail. “Great Lord of Cats! Herod Antipas took Salome for his wife and beheaded John the Baptist.”
“Well, I know about Salome.”
“I knew her personally.” He bragged with that supercilious look on is face.
“You were there?” I question.
He nods smugly. “I even saw Salome do her dance of the seven veils only it didn’t make any difference how many veils she had because you could see through all of them any way.”
“Now I have had just about enough of this nonsense. Living in other centuries! Watching Salome dance! You’ve got an imagination, you have. Have you been sniffing that catnip again? Admit it. You’re stoned on the stuff.”
“There’s no point in discussing this with you,” he snarls disgustedly.
I bow low and ask him if there was anything else he needs.
“A little tuna juice would be nice,” he purrs. “And another thing! You left the water in the whirlpool after you and Virginia swirled around in it. You did that deliberately because you know I do my graceful leap into the tub. I was soaking wet, and you two laughed at me. Imagine. Laughing at me. And you didn’t even rescue me until I submerged the thirrrrrrrd time.”
I stood eye to eye with him. “It’s our tub, you little wretch. I brought you into this house temporarily, and you just kept wearing me down with all those cute little antics. Rubbing affectionately around my legs or leaping into my lap to purr and be petted. While we’re on the subject, you lied to me.”
“Moi? Lie?” Demurely.
“You told me you weren’t a cat.”
“I never.”
“Did.”
“Didn’t.”
“Did,” I howled.
“Raooowwww.” He roars. “What I said was that I am not a typical cat.”
“That’s a stretch.” I retort, backing somewhat. “You may not be a typical cat. I don’t know. I always had dogs.”
“Dogs! Mongrels. Servile little, fawning beasts so eager to please, so infantile in their thinking. I wouldn’t be so proud of that kind of affiliation. ”
“You intentionally tease them. Strutting casually by to provoke them into chasing you.”
“That black dog is the ugliest mutt I’ve ever seen. And… and he’s a coward to boot.”
“You torment him. Spunky hasn’t a mean bone in his body and you provoke him into chasing you and then swat him with your paw.”
“The dog’s an idiot! He’s knows what I’m going to do and yet he still chases me. What kind of dumb animal is that? Of course I swat him. He deserves it for being so stupid.”
“Spunky is a loyal little dog.”
“Loyal, is he? He’s stunted, muscular, has an ugly face and bad breath. His tail has been cropped too short and his ears were chopped with a tomahawk. I have never seen a cur so ugly or so devoid of a redeeming quality. Loyal? He’s loyal because he wouldn’t make it in the real world. Just look at his feet. Twice as big as they should be for a dog his size.”
“Feet? Boots is talking feet? Your feet resemble moose tracks. Stubby and fat…”
“I do not have fat feet. My feet are perfectly adapted to my body weight.”
“Weight? You’re talking weight? You’ve got nine pounds of hair and three pounds of body. Spunky could snap you like a twig.”
“He could if he had the courage. But he’s a coward. How about that time he charged after those deer in the field? He covered ground like a rocket until one of them turned and took a step toward him. Did you see the little coward run?”
“He’s killed three skunks. Killed them before they even got a chance to spray.”
“Yes, and his breath stunk up the entire house. Skunk killer… if that’s his only claim to fame he needs a new occupation.”
“And that stump he calls a tail. Jack the Ripper could have done a better job.”
“It’s not his fault they docked his tail,” I argued.
“Indeed, he can’t even tuck it under him when he passes under your electric fencing. I can hear the howls all the way up here.”
“He gets carried away with himself. Self focus, I guess.”
“Tell me, master, how can a dog electrocute himself six times in five months? Doesn’t he have any sense at all? Just look at my tail, long and furry and in perfect harmony with the rest of me. I know how to keep it out of trouble.”
“Yes I know all about that ego of yours. But Spunky is a loyal little cuss.”
“Loyal? Yes! Smart? No!”
“I love him anyway.” He yawned. “Are you listening? I love him anyway.” I said.
“Maudlin,” he said. Then something caught his attention through the window and he stared into that impenetrable space beyond the glass. I often wondered whether he really saw or sensed something or if he was just avoiding the issue. He could not answer because he knew I was right. So he just ignored me the way he does when he has no answer.
“Are you listening to me, cat?” I say loudly enough to shake him from his distraction.
“I just do not care to discuss it. But I understand now why Virginia doesn’t like you.”
“My wife? What’s she got to do with this?”
“Nothing.” He pauses. “Forget I said it.”
“What do you mean, ‘forget it’”? She’s my wife, and you’re telling me she doesn’t like me?” My voice signals my agitation with this new disclosure. He revels with satisfaction.
“Just when did she tell you that?” I continue.
“Let’s not discuss it. I don’t want to be part of the problem.” He sighs cattily. “I never intervene in marital problems.” Then he yawns and stretches out on the hamper near the window, taking the sun.
“I love when you do that. Virginia and I are doing fine. Just fine.” I hesitate. “Well, all married people have problems, here and there.” My voice trails a bit. “O.K., so we’ve been arguing, does that signal a major problem?”
“I’m sorry I said anything. I promised I wouldn’t. I just thought….” He yawns again.
“Just what?”
“I just thought you should know there is a problem. After all I have a vested interest since I live here. I don’t want to get into all that custody business, split visitation and all that.”
“Custody? Who’s talking divorce here? Virginia and I are fine.” I hesitate, catching him at his little game. “You know, you little bug, you almost had me. Maybe I should cut back on your tuna snacks. You diverted the whole topic with that divorce business and those inferences about Virginia’s attraction to other men.”
This is the cat I rescued. This is the cat I brought home, worried and concerned that the little bugger would be all right. He was so tiny, so undernourished. I never intended keeping him, but every day, I seemed to grow fonder of him. Like someone setting a hook and by the time I felt the barb, he was ingratiated into my castle. My wife was feeding him special tid bits and brushing him nightly while he smugly purred and mewed. I knew I was in trouble when he intimidated my Doberman and my Pit Bull, swatting them with clawless paws. He strutted around the kitchen as if he owned the place, every inch a tyrant.
Once established, he turned his dominion to the food supply, refusing to eat cat food and opting instead for pieces of ham, chunks of shrimp, and shredded chicken and meowing loudly if we did not keep a steady supply on his plate. There was no place outside his purview. I found him sitting in my favorite chair, littering it with his white hair, lounging in the whirlpool and clogging the drain with that very same hair, or sleeping in the laundry baskets, climbing in and out of paper shopping bags and plastic trash bags. On one occasion I kicked a brown, paper bag thinking to push it out of my way, only to hear an angry raooowwww and see him come skulking out.
He had a lot of strange habits, even for a cat. He loved shrimp but it had to be placed in a certain spot on the kitchen counter or the little pest just sat and complained. He took to chasing himself all over the second and third floor, racing up and down the stairs, speeding between my legs, clawing his scratching post, then leaping in the whirlpool, only to leap out again and race full speed down the carpeted stairs. Of late, he has taken to sitting on my vibrating chair and meorrring until I turn it on. And not just any speed. It has to be low speed. He loves tuna juice from a fresh opened can but won’t eat the tuna itself. He detests fish except for shrimp and lobster—just to demonstrate what an oddball he really is— but he loves honey glazed ham and bits of chicken or turkey.
And thus, did a riTrishry of wits begin. When he came to the table for shrimp, chicken or ham, I shredded it into tiny pieces and distributed it in a long trail leading into the pantry. When the little nuisance was well within its confines, I shut the door and we continued our meal listening to his disgruntled complaints as he realized his situation. On the other hand, I could not leave a plate of food on the table, lest, I find him calmly munching those portions he found favorable. The riTrishry thus persisted and escalated. I grew weary of cleaning our whirlpool, ingloriously littered with black and white hairs. When I found him resting in the whirlpool near the drain, I slowly poured a cup of water down the rear slope, watching, in delight, as it cascaded toward him. It never failed to clear him from the tub, and it never failed to earn me another growling complaint.
In retaliation, of course, he knocked pill bottles off my bathroom vanity, spread his hair over freshly vacuumed carpets and perched on every important document I set down. He sequestered every newly opened box. At Christmas time, he was especially vicious, attacking our crèche with an unholy vengeance. I don’t know how many times baby Jesus disappeared in one of his attacks but I threatened him by saying that one day he would account for his sacrilegious behavior. It did no good. Apparently, my God was not the same as his, and he therefore continued his disrespectful behavior.
When we expanded our decorations to include a Christmas village of buildings, animals, people and assorted decorations, he kidnapped any number of items, refusing to reveal the whereabouts of any of them. And I could tell the evil lurking in his heart just by looking at those innocent, innocuous eyes. He’d leap up on the platform where the village buildings and people were carefully set, thread his way through a dozen close calls and suddenly jump to the floor, scattering stop signs, carriages, horses and people. Then, the little bug went for days without touching a single figure only to begin again just when we thought we were safe.
Nor was any Christmas tree safe from his demolition. Before we decorated it, we straightened and made it fast, only to find it lying on its side in the morning. And there were often mornings when we arose to find him securely tangled in the tree lights, meowing and rooooowwwwwing for us to set him free. And when we had done so, rather than a kind word or a thank you, he skulked off in a huff, leaving us bewildered but amused.
For a time we incarcerated him in the pantry at night, hoping to preserve our Christmas cheer, but he did as much damage in daylight as he did at night, and in disgust we resigned ourselves to resurrecting the village after each onslaught.
To retaliate for his incursions into our Christmas village, I waited for him to settle comfortably in his East window box enjoying the sun’s warmth, then crept up and blew gently into his ear. The ear quivered, at first, then shook as violently as if he had ear mites. Then the mighty reowwwww as he realized what I was doing. Not to be outdone, the scheming little wretch stalked me when I was asleep and dove upon me from the highest bastion he could find.
Despite the riTrishry we had our peaceful moments. It depended on his mood. Some evenings, as we watched television, he vaulted onto my lap, waiting to be brushed or petted, and always, softly purring as if offering me a peace token. It was at these times I most wondered why we argued at all. He could, indeed, be lovable, charming, almost enchanting. He rubbed his face along my hand, purring contentedly as I stroked his back. Then he rolled over so I could softly scratch his underbelly and I learned to love the little rogue as if he were a dog. Just when I began to relent and love him all the more, he’d bite my hand as I stroked his stomach. Wretch! Peace did not last very long. He was and is an unreasonable feline with no respect for authority. His list of complaints is endless and would outdo even the most protracted Christmas list.
“What do you want now? Well, don’t just stand there snarling. Tell me what you want.”
“My water is not dripping fast enough” or “There is no food in my dish.” Or “You’re brushing me too hard. Genghis Kahn was gentle by your standards.”
“Complain, complain. Sometimes I wish I’d left you on the road.”
“Your life was incomplete until I came. And don’t give me that rescue business. I knew I was being directed to a good home by the cat angels.”
“Fibber! You had no idea at all. I just happened along because it was your lucky day. Cat angels! Sure! What a softy I was. I should have thrown you on the side of the road and driven off.”
At that he feigned deep hurt. His prominent, furry head hung down, and his eyes narrowed into saddened slits. “If you’d rather I go, just open the door and I’ll find my way somehow.”
“Guilt? From you? The take no prisoners cat? ” I asked.
“No. You’ve given me a good home but I always knew the day would come when I’d be cast out. I’ve overstayed my welcome and you’ve always wanted to get rid of me. Perhaps it’s time for me to go.”
“And where would that be? You’d not last ten minutes in the real world.”
He sighed deeply. “I might have, if you hadn’t declawed me.”
“You were tearing up the furniture. We were on a first name basis with the upholsterer because of your antics”
“You never cared,” he lamented.
“No? What about the night I saw that black and white cat outside and, thinking it was you, gave chase all over the back yard and half the hillside?”
“Yes, you blamed me for that when it turned out to be a skunk. As if I knew something like that would happen.”
His scheming, his terse answers infuriated me. Imagine being bested by a cat. I determined revenge so sweet that I reveled at how it would vex the little beast. Always blaming me for things. Never satisfied. Exacting tribute if I did not change his litter box soon enough. I learned to hate the sound of his toilette habits, digging in the gravel as if he were on his way to China and littering the floor with sand particles.
I admit. I did it deliberately. I went to the local animal shelter and adopted another cat. She was smallish, almost completely black, with dainty paws and yellow eyes, and most of all, she was friendly and unassuming. Hers was a natural curiosity and a friendly way. In brief there was not a grouchy bone in her diminutive body. She was allowed to roam free within the shelter but often took to hiding for days. And she was not entirely well. Her digestive system was weak. She had no name. At least, no human name and so I called her Sassy. She was timid and secretive.
Thus Sassy came home to reside with us, and I delighted in my revenge over Boots. How he snarled, spat and carried on when we introduced her into our home. It was as though he had never seen another cat. And I must admit I enjoyed every moment of his dismay. What sweet revenge to see the little wretch skulking around the house, muttering to himself. He took to hiding. Not appearing for days. And then, his food was untouched, and he seldom appeared in the whirlpool to drink. When we put up our Christmas village, it remained unmolested. On those brief occasions when I did see him, he seemed ragged and uncombed. His eyes were listless and dull. When my wife held him, he was wasting away. He had always tended to overweight, but the vet who tested him said he was down a full two pounds. That was a large decrease in my usually overstuffed feline.
The vet tested him for feline leukemia and a host of other cat diseases but all the tests showed that Boots was in good health other than for his appearance. Finally, with a snicker on his face, the vet told us that Boots was suffering from stress and depression, probably brought on by the introduction of another cat. Poor animal. His territory had been invaded by this smallish interloper who hid most of the day and who pounced on him playfully when he wasn’t looking. He still outweighed her by a considerable amount and, yet, he resented her attempts at playfulness. At any rate he continued to decline. I was worried about the little guy. I admonished myself a hundred times for having exacted revenge with so many unforeseen consequences.
In desperation we consulted a cat psychologist. It made me feel stupid consulting an animal psychologist but I was desperate. Boots was down three pounds. His coat was faded and dull and his eyes lifeless. When we saw him at all, he avoided us. His depression was rampant. The psychologist could conjure up no incantation, no spell that would cure him. We fretted in silence as he continued his decline.
We consulted animal communicators. The message was always the same: “Boots feels you don’t love him any more. He resents Sassy.” We engaged a spiritual healer who said he could heal the weakened cat spirit that resided in Boots. All we got for our money was a spirit that refused to come forth for healing. We read every book on the subject of cat depression. The vet suggested we separate them but the thought of placing that diminutive Sassy with fully grown, near feral barn cats set my spine to shivering. She’d not survive a night in that hostile environment of coyotes, snakes and territorial barn cats. Finally, in desperation, we placed Sassy in the basement, hoping she would mature and grow large enough to be placed outdoors. We had our doubts though. All our barn cats were seasoned veterans of surviTrish.
With Sassy in the basement, Boots improved noticeably. He began appearing again, though he would not speak to me. I caught him eating in the late hours. We hunted him down and brushed him each night to show our love and affection for him. Slowly, perceptibly, he responded to the care and treatment. He regained his lost weight. His eyes sparkled again. His coat shone and he began, more importantly, to complain again.
Finally, he spoke. “Where is the other cat?”
“I didn’t think you knew she was a cat.”
“I knew. What did you do with her, eat her for lunch?”
“No, she’s been banished to the basement to mature. When she’s old enough, she’ll have to fend for herself in the outside world. Some of us just cannot tolerate stress.” I giggled, though there was nothing funny about a $300 vet bill.
“Outside? She’ll never last,” he sneered.
“Says who?”
“So say I. I know about these things.”
“You know everything.”
“I’m glad you finally realized that. Now bring her back so I can show her who’s boss.”
“She already knows that.”
“This is between us cats.”
“Us cats? A month ago you didn’t want to sniff a hair of her and now it’s us cats.”
He sighed. “You just do not understand. It wasn’t the new cat that was the problem but whether you were capable of loving two cats equally.”
“And you decided I could?”
“Something like that. You’re really not such a bad fellow. Soft hearted. ”
“Uh oh, I hate when you start being nice. It always means a problem.”
“Not at all. I was just acknowledging that it was very nice of you to rescue her. She told me all about it.”
“And when was that, when you were hiding, refusing to eat and worrying the hell out of us?”
He sat before me, his club feet anchored neatly side by side. “It’s always nice to be cared for and loved. Anyway, that’s what Virginia said. She even said she was starting to like you again but you’d never replace the others in her heart.”
“Like me again? Are you at that divorce stuff again?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“I only tell you what I think you can bear.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I told you I never intervene in marital problems. It’s not right to
take sides.”
“Take sides? Who’s at odds?”
“I can’t help it if you can’t control your own wife.”
“Can.”
“Can’t.”
“Can,” I shouted.
“Can’t,” he purred. “Well if you can control her so well where was she this morning? With you? Or doing her computer thing to escape sex?”
I hesitated. He had me again. “Well, you little bugger, you’ve done it again. Diverted the topic. I guess things are normal again.”
“Not exactly.”
“Not exactly,” I mimicked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“My water isn’t dripping fast enough. Oh, and I’d like a change of cat food. Something, eh, well, something more chickeny. Also it would be nice if you raised the window shades higher so I can get more sun. A window box in the West wing would be nice too. I’d also like a second litter box, one for my personal use and with more cat litter in it. And separate food dishes for Sassy and me. And by the way, she likes ham, turkey, salmon and tuna bits. Not the large chunks but the slivers. Well, now that I’m well again, things are going to be different. No more sloughing off in the care department. I’ll make a list of changes to be made. Oh, and one more thing...”
“What’s that?”
“I love you daddy,” he purred.
All I could do was shake my head and marvel. Outwitted by a cat.
A feline. Still, I mused what would I do without the little bugger. Better yet, what would he do without me? I love when he curls around my leg or springs up into my lap, wanting to be petted. And, he’s right. A show of affection from a cat is much more meaningful than from a dog. Anyhow, it’s not such an onerous list of demands I can’t humor the little rat.