A Story of Cats and the Humans They Own

I first saw the animal through the French doors that opened off to the porch on the back of the house. The darn thing had cleared the back yard fence in a single bound, A cat, the ugly kind with crossed green eyes, rail thin body and a nervous twitch to its tail had shown up in our back yard, and had approached the house with the coordination and stealth that only cats are capable of. It was about the time our daughters little pointed head had replaced the two front teeth she had lost and when my head still had a little hair left on it.

My little girl had shown up at about the same time that day with her bangs hanging just above her bright round shiny eyes, her little round and endearing face covered with smiles, and the new dress her dumb mama had bought for her not yet wrinkled and dirty; She had cornered the animal, and some how managed to cradled it in her arms before I could sic the family rottweiler on it.

A single look suggested that this animal's mama might have done the backstroke across the river Styx during a hurricane to get here. The ears had been boxed too many times, The nervous twitch to its tail and one of the crossed green eyes that were now focused on me with a laser like intensity suggested its nerve centers had become completely unwired on more than one dark night. Sure as heck, its butt had to have been smacked around on a regular basis. My daughter wanted permission to keep the precious little ugly thing, and that had been the bad news.

My first response was typical, but some how my daughter's dumb mama had gotten into the doings on that day and it became one of those no- contest kinds of things that no man can win. The dam thing could stay if it got a flea collar that I hoped might strangle it, get a much needed bath that I hoped it might drown in, and someone to take it to the vet for the necessary shots and the surgery that would deny this creature the ability to replicate.

From there, it was all down hill. The darn thing would get under my feet and I would cuss it. On other cute occasions it would climb up on the dinner table in an attempt to take food out of my mouth. In time I came to learn that one meow meant the dam thing was hungry; two meows meant it was starving and three meows meant it wanted to go out side. If it meowed four times, that meant my wife would come jetting out of her sewing room on her broom and whack me for ignoring "Little Millie. There were those other time when I would take a swipe at it with the mop when ever I could. Fortunately I never got caught. The only good thing I can say about the cat is the thing never demanded the remote control for the TV, and following the surgery, it never came home with a new boyfriend every week. It took me a couple of years to learn how to get comfortable with the animal and a little more time to allow it to sleep on my side of the bed. And then at about the time my daughter began high school and her interest focused on boys, the animal became all mine.

In the months that followed, the darn thing remained territorial; the times when it would look around for something to snarl or cuss at and act really weird continued. It took time for the animal to become less paranoid and more able to spend its time lying around in the soft, warm, and very comfortable bed my wife made for it; that was when I changed the darn things name from Millie to Dork. But for some reason, I found myself rubbing its rock hard little head, scratching its bony butt and feeding it sardines when ever it came around. I tried to never let my wife catch me. That would have been a sign of weakness.

And then, about six months ago, my wife showed up with a store bought kitten and I can tell you that I wasn't happy about this one either. But that didn't matter. This one looked like it might have been delivered by physicians on the staff of the Royal Academy of Medicine who had brought the Arch bishop of Canterbury with them. This kitten has long hair with a long fluffy tail, a little pear shaped body and two little indolent eye balls that looked at Dork and me like maybe we were a part of her personal staff.. Because it is pretty and came with the name Pebbles, the darn thing had unalienable rights that it had carved in granite, Pebbles wanted everything it had coming to it,

It did not take me long to figure out which end of the hairy little fur ball to kick. Unfortunately, the kitten had my wife as a protector and the darn thing knew it. Impervious to threats when my wife was around, it would wander around the house checking out the better places to relax, what was on the dinner menu for the day, and take control over what was on the television; and all the time my cat Dork would keep track of it with her one good eye, and I would look around for the broom. Those were the times when little Pebbles curled up in a very comfortable position on my wife's lap, and look at me and Dork like maybe we were real boors and a heck of an inconvenience. I could swear that when my wife looked the other way Pebbles would flip me and Dork off. The kitten knew very well how to egg Dork and me on.

The good times for me were when Pebbles would make an attempt to be friends with Dork. That was when my cat would smack the hell out of my wives cat. The first time my wife's little Pebbles reached out to be friends with my Dork, Pebbles got herself dropped kicked out to the parking lot. I swear that cute little Pebbles sailed out the door and cleared the flower pots my wife keeps on the front porch by at least two feet landing in the street. The second time it was by at least three feet and Pebbles cute little butt landed across the street in the neighbor's front yard. Boy was my wife's kitten dumb. I liked that a lot. The home boys were wining and I was considering replacing the name Dork with the non-de-guer "Fang".

My wife did complain. Boy did she ever. At bed time, she would climb on to her side of the bed and I would climb on to my side. Pebbles would be there too, lying on her back on my wife's side getting her little round and full belly rubbed and her butt scratched and I would come unglued. Dork would jump up on my side of the bed. While I scratched Dorks scrawny butt and rubbed her bony head, she would keep an eyeball on Pebbles. My wife would complain that Dork should be more of a lady, like Pebbles; and I would lie there in the dark and pull the blanket up and listen and put a pillow over my head and snicker like hell.

It was around that time I learned how to put words in Dorks mouth telling my wife that Dork said Pebbles mama was ugly or her feet didn't match. At the same time, my wife learned how to put words in Pebbles mouth saying that Pebbles said Dork made noise with her soup, didn't have any class and would probably be crass enough to send the house wine back. But, it didn't stop there. Pretty soon little sweet Dork began negotiations with my wife by suggesting that for a can of albacore tuna, she would get me to mow the lawn in a more proper way and maybe stand a little closer to the razor when I shaved in the morning. The next thing requiring negotiations was who got to press the buttons on the TV's remote control. That was a biggy, but Dork and Pebbles handled that one by settling on the idea that if I immediately, irrevocably, and unequivocally gave up all rights to the dam thing, my wife just might scratch my back more frequently and rub my little bald head on those occasions when I got overly distraught.

Another cause for negotiations took place when my wife announced that if I didn't do something about changing the oil in her car, she would get Karate' lesson for Pebbles so that her cat would be able to beat the crap out of my cat. Well I can report that this caused a great deal of concern. When Dork heard about this one and considered the possibilities she looked at me like I was uglier than her mama. Sure as heck, it began to look like maybe Dork and I were going to get our respective clocks punched. The home boy and his cat were no longer winning. Well in no time my wife's car got a fresh infusion of the kind of oil that is hand pumped out of the black forest of Eastern Europe by little people in white suits and red bow ties. The car never ran smoother. My wife was happy, little Dork got a whole lot more relaxed and I was relieved; but the next crisis was not long in developing. My wife was going to take away the comfortable little bed she had made for Dork if I didn't do something about the paint on the house and Dork is on my butt again. The house gets painted.

The next move was mine and while it wasn't a fantastic chess move that world class chess players are capable of, it did require a certain genus. It turns out that although Dork had absolutely no evidence of pain, discomfort, or other symptoms, I am firmly convinced that my cat was gonna need a kidney transplant in the near future and the only suitable match around was a kidney belonging to that darn Pebbles, Well in no time Pebble's dummied up and Dork and I got to sleep with out being bothered.

It didn't take long for Dork and Pebbles to realize that if they continued to allow others to put words in their mouth, they could each wind up in serious kaka. Kidney transplants and Karate are pretty serious stuff. The two cats scurried off to another part of the house where they immediately negotiated a truce; but they had left my wife and I with the subtlety brutal lesson about the need to converse with each other in a more honest, trusting, and acceptable manner. We were now required to speak for our self and I can tell you this can be a frightening adventure for people with tight buns. The good news is Dork and Pebbles had shown us how. Threats are now unacceptable. No one would take Karate' lessons and no one would require a kidney transplant. Honest trust and unqualified acceptance became imperative. These are, after all, the only things that work.

The last time I saw Dork and Pebbles, they were curled up together in Dorks comfortable bed after having shared another can of albacore tuna that each had become so fond of. Pebbles had stretched out on her back, the two paws were relaxed and the head was using Dorks bony butt as a pillow. Pebbles had been introducing Dork to the pleasantries of educational TV. Dork in turn was simply lying there. Pebbles of course, had possession of the remote control that went with the TV.

The last time I mowed the lawn, my wife showed up with two tall glasses of ice tea that contained extra lemon and genuine Tupelo honey. Each glass of tea had been stirred and not shaken; and when we sat on the recently purchased lawn swing that is built for two that has the broad awning, I had gotten "frisky" and my wife had presented the mysterious smile, and a delightfully small wink that I hadn't seen in twenty years. She quietly suggested that I would do well to finish my tea with the extra lemon and genuine Tupelo honey in it because I would need all the energy I could come up with. Now when I sit down to breakfast I no longer find the usual two hard boiled eggs that have the shape and texture of moon rocks. In their place is my favorite, two very soft scrambled eggs with finely sliced bits of an exquisite imported cheddar cheese folded in. They will be covered with sliced mushrooms that have been delicately sautéed in a rarified butter. If I have been an especially good lad, I might find a bagel fresh from the delicatessen down the street that has been properly toasted, buttered, and placed alongside a freshly percolated cup of coffee that contains extra chicory and is suitable for the gods. The fresh coffee will be laced with a majestic Amaretto fresh off of a boat from Rome.

Now when my wife has one of those "felt needs" to join with her mama on shopping trips, I manage to find a few bucks extra to squeeze into her little vice like grip. Her recently purchased car that replaced the embattled tin can she had pedaled around in for so long runs smoothly, and a new sewing machine that has a computer on it is in her new sewing room with the new wall paper.

When my wife and I snuggle up on the sofa in front of the TV with the pop corn from the new hot air pop corn machine my wife bought us Dork and Pebbles take their respective place on our laps and smile at each other. There are no longer winners and losers, just winners and even Dork can tell you; it doesn't get any better than that.

Fini....

P.S. Dork can tell you....fini means the end. My little buddy has been watching the educational channel on a regular basis.