The Cat Is Out Of The Bag...
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| Not mine - found on 'net |
Years ago, when I was getting ready to go to seminary, Lori and I lived with my mom in a big old farmhouse. Every fall we got, as you would expect, tiny visitors looking for a warm place to spend the winter. I hate trapping mice, and when you get a couple, well, let's face it, you end up with a LOT of mice... So, next spring we decide it's time to get a cat.
Now understand, I'm not a cat guy. I'm a dog person. I don't get cats, cats don't like me.* But we figured we'd get an outside cat. It would be an employee, right? Keep the house free of pests. His name was Splash. He was a semi-domesticated cat. Perfect, right? Okay inside (learned the litterbox in a day) but love, love, loved being outside.
Three weeks.
Cat versus car.
So, we had a friend who had a nice, white, adult cat they wanted to give to a good home (um...did you read the above?). Sadly, I don't remember her name. She was comfortable inside and outside, did a good job mousing (found some tails at the bottom of the stairs - no heads or...bleah...half chewed mouses). We had her for a few months but she got really sick. We took her to the vet.
Feline leukemia. Really?
That fall we got a beautiful black cat. And a dog. Bob Dog. The cat was Rufus. Bob was dumb - like doorknob dumb. I'll tell stories about Bob Dog some other time. Rufus was...well, cat sly. You know what I mean? Like walking just beyond the reach of the dog's chain. Waiting for the dog to go to sleep and then pouncing on him and running away - really fast. Rufus was, as I said, a beautiful black cat, a great mouser, actually caught a bird once, if I remember correctly. He almost won me over to becoming cat people. Almost...
We came home one day in the spring to see Bob Dog throwing something up in the air, watching it land, running to it, grabbing it, then throwing it up in the air again. Um... it was Rufus... We're not really sure what happened. My suspicion is that Rufus mis-calculated the length of the dog chain one day, but I'm really not sure. It's also possible that it was car vs. cat with Rufus, too, because he was really...flat...
Three cats in less than twelve months.
We decided to get TWO cats this time. I mean, one should make it, right? It was getting embarrassing and, well, I was beginning to wonder if we were cursed or something. You know?
So we went to a friend of Lori's (where we had gotten Splash, I think - or Rufus - or maybe both, I can't remember) who had some barn cats. We got two kittens. This time, instead of putting them in a box or a tote, however, they decided to put the kittens in two pillow cases.
Um...do you know how much kittens like to be in pillow cases?
Yeah, about as much as you or I would like to be in pillow cases.
So, we come to get the kittens and they hand us two squirming pillow cases. "Don't worry, they can't get out," they say. "Unless you open them up."
"Okay," I say, wearing shorts and a way too thin t-shirt.
"And don't open them up on the way home. They won't like it"
Yeah, no kidding.
So, Lori drives and I try to contain the precious cargo for the 20 minute-that-feels-like-a-lifetime drive home.
We get home and then comes the moment of truth.
Let the cat out of the bag.
I opened the bag and at the bottom was a little furry bundle of kitty cuteness. I thought, "This won't be so bad. I'll reach in and pull him/her/whatever out and cuddle for a minute and be the Rescuer!"
So, you've heard the hymn "We are climbing Jacob's ladder", right?
Yeah, my arm was the ladder.
Up comes that little furry demon at nine hundred miles an hour - fingers to, no lie, the top of my head in a nano-second. There it perched, shaking and screeching like a barn owl or something, until Lori pried it off.
That went well.
Blood pooling at my feet, I still have to figure out how to get cute little bundle of razor sharp evil out of the second bag.
Now, a rational human being would, I don't know, turn the bag out gently into a blanket filled box or lay the bag on the ground and let the tiny purring kitty find her way out into a safe and welcoming world.
Yeah, I didn't do that.
Reached in*** and grabbed the little bundle of joy thinking I knew how to do it differently.
Um...apparently the siren calls from her brother from the top of my skull were instructions on how to dig in deeper into my arm, how to get a better grip on my shoulder and how to launch herself halfway across the front lawn and find a hiding place under the front porch...
So a half an hour later (and a can of tuna or something) and we had two kittens in the house mewing and meowing...
Oh, yeah, by this time we were not sure they'd make through the week**** so we weren't sure we even wanted to invest in naming them. So, no kidding, they became Four (the girl) and Five (the boy). Eventually, since Five lasted like five or six years and Four something like twelve or more years, we ended up calling them Foursey and Fiver - but, officially, the vet knew them as Hansel and Gretel...'cause, you know, you can't really explain to the vet why you've numbered your cats... Well, not without a call to the authorities...
So, I have reasons to not be "cat people" okay? And scars to prove it. Maybe not physical ones... For some people it's clowns, some people it's monsters... For me it's little tiny kittens...
Shudder...
*Well, actually, it's a universal truth that cats will be attracted to the person in the room who least likes cats, then will rub up against them, purring and attempting to appear adorable - it is, however, a ploy - for once the anti-cat person deigns to pet, scritch or otherwise show any sign of affection to said cat, the cat will then turn away, aloof, having won the engagement. You are now the cat's servant.** Give it up. You lose
**Cat logic. You can't beat it. Well, not without a stick, anyway.
***I'm really smarter than this - but when the adrenaline kicks in...well, stupid is the rule of the day then, I guess...
**** NO, I was not going to do anything to them. Fate, however, seemed to dislike our cats, have you noticed?
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