Wed., Oct. 27, 1999
"Miss Scott,
who lived in London, spent 12 years traveling from one hospital to another
in Britain and elsewhere in Europe, pretending to be ill so that she could
become a patient. She was admitted to hundreds of hospitals and underwent
42 operations, nearly all of them unnecessary."
- The New York Times'
obituary for Wendy Scott, dead at the age of 50 ....
I can't be sure, of course, but I'm guessing that Miss Scott didn't own
a cat. Cats don't allow one much time for such frivolous quests for
excitement as Miss Scott seems to have engaged in. And cats generally
provide even the most dedicated masochists with all the unnecessary operations
they desire without ever having to leave home.
I know. I own a cat. Or at least I co-habitate with one, and
that's exactly the same thing according to the wife who co-habitates with
me. Since she's hidden my glasses as well as my law books, I have
to take her word for it.
It was exactly one year ago today that this cat first came into my life.
It's a story I've told before, but I think it bears repeating on this special
occasion (especially since it keeps changing for the better with each retelling,
exactly as human psychology demands).
I'd gone out early in the morning to put fresh water in the birdbath when
I was startled to see what looked like a woolly mammoth hunkered down in
my east basement window well. Having utterly forgotten whatever woolly
mammoth management skills my distant ancestors may have possessed, I opted
for screaming, running back into my house, and locking the door.
I spent the rest of the day slipping stealthily down into my basement at
regular intervals, peering through the glass at the beast in my well, and
humbly offering its penetrating green eyes my best goofy expressions in
hopes that one of those expressions, at least, would make clear that I
was simply too toxic to eat.
Imagine my surprise when my wife came home from work and accused me of
wasting an entire day making faces at a cat!
When night fell and the alleged cat was still in our well, we called the
neighbors over and they confirmed that, yes indeed, that appeared to be
a kitty. When the people who used to be our neighbors (as well as
their parents, a plumber, and three experienced masochists) had also come
over, surveyed the situation, and arrived at a similar species identification,
we got a towel and conned one of them into actually and physically lifting
the beast out for us. After they lived to tell the tale, we had them
deposit said beast in our garage and set out finding the zoo or circus
it had escaped from. When repeated efforts to reunite it with its
previous feeders failed, we became the proud parents of a bouncing baby
boy, who just happened to have taken the form of an adult feline.
We named him Jester, just because a week before I had decided on the spur
of the moment that if I ever had a cat (haha), that's what I would call
it.
Most people are sure I should have settled for "Chester."
I have done little on the spur of the moment since....
The Beast Himself
(holding my newspaper hostage until he gets his morning yogurt)
"I think we ought to sit down and make a list of the many ways Jester has
changed our lives since coming to live with us," my wife said last night
as we were struggling to come up with a special way of commemorating today.
"I'm afraid my hand doesn't have that much writing left in it," I gently
broke the news to her, much as a compassionate Einstein himself might have
had she suggested he tally up all the grains of sand in all the food served
by all the Denny's in the world.
I mean, I get up before noon, just to feed Jess.
I give him water, clean his litterbox box, wash his feet, powder his butt,
and get him his yogurt and his diabetes medicine before I even have
my breakfast.
Mornings are spent undergoing performance reviews as part of my new career
as a scratch post.
Afternoons are spent spinning wild tales about those mythical days back
when it was possible to eat in front of the TV without sparking a Close
Encounter of the Teeth Kind.
I have spent countless hours going to pet stores and vet offices that I
never even knew existed before, often buying products and services no one
has ever once bought me.
I have not spent a full day away from home in the last 12 months.
We do not get up in the middle of the night for a snack or to use the bathroom
for fear of disturbing His Highness.
If I'm not careful, I answer the phone now with a "Meow."
We have traded our French Regency decorating aspirations for the Early
Shedding look.
We are thinking of renting the apartment across the street from us just
for those catnip-addled stuffed animals which seem to demand 24 hour care.
The list goes on and on. I'd continue it but it seems a onetime woolly
mammoth has his fatt tail dRaped acrosss mY eYes....
"Go on - it's your Big Day.
Pick out something nice!"
"I didn't say pick out EVERYTHING nice, goofy!
No soup for you til November!"
Back To A Slightly Thinner
Past
Home To Shut The Refrigerator
Door
After The Cow's Already
Been Liberated
Forward To A Weight Watchers
Future
(©1999
by OBST: One Big Squeeze Toy)
|