Seven years ago.
Cats are OK, as long as one doesn’t humanize them. I believe
a cat would make a fine pet if it spent 10 minutes a day doing
“frisky tricks,” then left immediately to work a double
shift at Bob’s Package Liquor to earn enough to reimburse me
for its room and board.
My wife is pro-cat. All good relationships
require compromise, so we bring in a “practice cat.” If
it doesn’t work out, we’ll “discuss it.”
Within a day, Mr. Chuckles recognizes the test situation and feigns
interest in humans-not-me. A few days later, still not sure
he’s winning, he fakes a digestive problem and schedules
surgery. I vote against surgery, pointing out that for the cost of
the operation, we could buy 31 other cats and give ’em all
away to pet-deprived cherubic orphans. After the surgery, it’s decided by
not-me that Mr. Chuckles must follow the exact same diet as the
British royal family for the rest of his natural life. With a
surgery and dietary investment exceeding the cost of a new pickup
truck, Mr. Chuckles knows he’s here for the duration. Now
it’s only a matter of staking out territory. I strike first, reasoning that because Mr.
Chuckles considers a litter box optional, he should be an
“outside” cat. Mr. Chuckles appears from nowhere, does
his cute snuggle-purr trick in a lap-not-mine, then turns and
— he smirks me! Seven years later, Mr. Chuckles has yet to touch paw to
ground. Mr. Chuckles responds to my weak first strike
by trying to kill me. He stacks slobber-poisoned cat toys on the
steps leading downstairs. When stair-mining causes only a sprained
ankle, he retreats to his hiding place to plot a better way. Just to let him know that the game is far
from over, I counter with irrefutable logic. Because Mr. Chuckles
is 100 percent indoors, it’s declaw time. Mr. Chuckles
overhears the suggestion and shreds the left arm of my favorite
chair to leather confetti. Then he repeats the lap trick and . . . the smirk! Seven years
later, with claws equal in size to an alpha male Kodiak
bear’s, Mr. Chuckles selects all our furniture by maiming
pieces not befitting his taste.
Six years ago, a standoff. He’s not the only night stalker in this game: I
sneak-watch him. Our house is of reasonable size, but it’s
not one with nooks and crannies. Nonetheless, I suspect Mr.
Chuckles of not only having a “nook” but also of having
a “cranny” — I just can’t find ’em. On second thought, why search? Mr. Chuckles,
now dropping all pretense of tolerating human beings, stays hidden
almost full-time, coming out only to check my savings-account book to see whether I have enough to buy the new
pickup. When I’m close, he schedules more unnecessary surgery as
a means of eating away the savings. The standoff: I can delay the pickup purchase
if Mr. Chuckles stays “nooked away.”
Five years ago, Mr. Chuckles makes a mistake. Feeling no need to even acknowledge the lap-not-mine,
Mr. Chuckles spends all nonsurgery time in his cranny, reading the
royal-family wine list. After consultation with someone-not-me,
it’s decided that the reason Mr. Chuckles stays hidden is
because he needs a companion, another cat. For once Mr. Chuckles and I agree; I vote no,
and Mr. Chuckles shoots from his cranny and tries the most intense
lap-snuggle-purr trick ever pretended. Too late. Enter . . . Ed the
Sidekick Cat.
A few sniffs, the smirk, and Mr. Chuckles huffs away from the interloper — to
purchase a bag of street catnip from a feral cat drug dealer who sneaks
into our garage on Tuesdays. Late that night I watch Mr. Chuckles trail
catnip from Sidekick’s box to the garbage disposal. And
there’s that smirk again as he dumps catnip down the drain and
hides, paw on the switch, waiting! I rescue Ed just as his paw touches the top
of the drain and — he purrs me! Not only purrs but also climbs my pajama sleeve,
parks on my shoulder, and — nuzzles
me!
Today. Ed and I
live mostly in the basement; we like the people here. We’ve
enough money now for a new pickup, but Ed likes the old truck
— he’s ripped out a hole in the front seat where
he
settles in next to me — so we’ll keep the
old
truck.
We could have a new favorite chair if we
wanted, but Ed likes the old shredded-arm chair, so we’ll
just leave it be and take long naps in it. And in the evening, even
though I prefer classical music, we listen to the country music Ed
so enjoys — because all good relationships require
compromise.
This article appears in Oct 6-12, 2005.
