Christmas is past.
The Deep Freeze of 2008 lingers on.
We are old people trapped in a small house with a cat who does not understand pecking order — the line of authority by which those in charge rule, and those who wear fur coats year round abide.
I know, I know, when a columnist stoops to writing about a pet it’s a sign there is no other material of interest currently in his/her idea file. But it sure worked for John Grogan who wrote about his golden Lab, Marley. He even got a movie deal out of his best-selling book.
Marley, however, was a lovable dog. Naughty, but loving, with the potential of improved behavior.
Dogs have obedience training classes and skilled mental health professionals who whisper to them in expensive counseling sessions.
The producer of “Marley and Me,” has said in interviews that 30 dogs were used to film the title character at various ages in the movie that opened last week.
Notice they didn’t dare use a real cat (or cats) to play that yellow-striped charmer in the two “Garfield” movies.
Cats, haughty creatures of great independence, do not usually attend obedience training classes, nor have their own highly-paid “cat whisperer.”
What good would it do? They’d never go to class anyway, and prefer to choose their own counselors. You know, like the neighbor who feeds them treats and lets them in the house when they meow pitifully about their treatment at home.
Missy, a feminine feline derivative for Mischief, came into our lives in August as a scrawny, pathetic kitten who’d been abandoned outside the door of a woman who worked for our friend, Ken, the veterinarian.
“Ken has a free kitten down at his clinic and it needs a home,” my husband said. “She’s been there a couple of weeks and he says she’s healthy and good-natured. Everyone at the clinic loves her.”
Of course “free” was not really the operative word. After her appropriate shots, and a few months later the bill of spaying plus a cat carrier, special food, toys, collar, license etc. she is more like a $200 cat and counting.
Despite all he did for her, she chose … at least in the beginning … to love me. If I sat down, she was in my lap. At night she slept either on top of me or by my side. When I wrote, she sat at my feet. When I cooked, she sat at my feet with pleading eyes.
She grew and grew and grew some more, larger at seven months than my friend’s two-year-old cat who’s supposed to be a very large breed.
We know little of Missy’s parentage. She’s is a variety of colors with some stripes and some definite signs of calico spots. She was born during the hottest part of our summer and played outside during the day but came in during the evening hours for most of the summer and fall.
When warm weather came to a screeching halt in late October, Missy was not pleased. She complained bitterly by the patio door yet refused to go out once the cold air hit her face.
Then she learned a fine new trick. She began pulling up the vent covers in the floor for our heating system and sticking her head down into the abyss with the same fascination she gives to water swirling in a flushed toilet.
We resorted to the ultimate form of discipline: a water pistol.
The command “No” became a challenge. Could she outrun the thin stream of water headed her way? Child’s play. “Hit me if you can,” she dared.
My husband was never quick enough on the draw. My skill was slightly better.
We didn’t even attempt to put up a Christmas tree. Keeping her out of toilets and heating vents was enough of a challenge.
As punishment for water-pistol discipline, Missy refused any attempts to bring peace to our once tranquil home. She withheld affection. Scorning us from her perch on the sofa. Leaping joyously into the arms of the neighbor when he came to visit.
Then last night I awoke to the presence of a fat cat sitting on my stomach, staring intently into my eyes. She purred, offering feline forgiveness at 3 a.m.
“I am still the alpha female in this house,” I said.
My husband rolled over. “Why wake me up to announce that?” he asked.
“I was talking to the cat.”
“Well that’s a waste of time. Go back to sleep,” he said.
She left my stomach, nestled down by his feet and gave me “the look.”
This morning when I went into the living room she was already nestled in his lap. “Dear, you better make the coffee,” he said, “I don’t want to disturb Missy.”
Oh yeah, I’m the alpha female around here, all right … and tomorrow pigs will fly over the moon.
Linda Bryant Smith writes about life as a senior citizen and the issues that concern, annoy and often irritate the heck out of her now that she lives in a world where nothing is ever truly fixed but her income. You can e-mail her at ljbryantsmith@yahoo.com.
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