TALES FROM THE QUARTER

By Debbie Lindsey

If you listen really closely and speak with intelligence, you will be able to converse with your felines and, of course, your yappy little dog

Everyone knows that a dog hangs on your every word, and they are easy to understand. This certainly doesn’t mean they will adhere to your advice and requests. Just try and tell a dog not to eat from the cat’s litter box. Oh! they will give you the “yeah, yeah, yeah,” but just turn your back, and those kittie crunchies are long gone.

Say something about it and suddenly your cats will chime in with solidarity for your shit-eating dog. “Well you really should clean our box more often and Scout was just being helpful.”

And Scout will whisper, “Thanks guys, owe ya one.” My little dog is Scout—you may already have met her and the feline gang on this page before.

All of them are an unmitigated assault upon anything involving fabric. No chair is safe. To them, it is a conveniently large emery board post. “If you didn’t want us to trim our nails on it then why in the world did you buy it?” So I bought them scratching posts from Petco to which they flipped their tails up and sprayed them. Even Scout feels she must dig into the cushions before she can even think about curling up and taking her much deserved nap. And rugs are no longer decorative items in our house. The critters simply had to take turns creatively peeing upon said rugs as if they’re Jackson Pollock protégés. They fancy a layered technique.

My cats appear to have literary inclinations. They certainly must have read Ernest J. Gaines’ A Gathering of Old Me, the story of seventeen older Black men all taking responsibility for the shooting of a wicked racist to spare the identity of the actual shooter. So with dramatic flair my cats have decided that if one pees on the bed when we are asleep, be it Scout or one of them, they’ll confuse us with each taking random turns “acting out” and wetting us. First off, we are not wicked and would never have punished a critter for a urinary accident, but the cats aren’t buying it. Righteous solidarity or just an excuse to make us scream upon waking? Little monsters.

Not all fabric is brutalized—some are merely captured. Opie, my orange tabby with the grace of an oversized puppy, has never mastered the feline agility of most cats, but he is a hunter and gatherer. No hand towel is safe. I have asked him on several occasions, “Why dish/hand towels?”

To which he shrugs and says, “Because.” He is a man of mystery. No matter where I place a small towel, he finds it and carries it between his teeth, growling all about the house. No shredding, no wetting, he just likes to show that terry cloth menace who’s the boss.

We not only have our privileged spoiled indoor house cats and their side-kick Scout, we also have an array of community/feral cats to feed. Thank goodness there are neighbors who help us with this. All are picky, but our inside prima-donnas really work it. You’d think our pampered felines would appreciate the personalized, veterinarianapproved, expensive food but that’s not enough. Presentation is everything. We turn the plate around, so they can approach food from all angles without moving. This lazysusan/rotating method allows the cat to enjoy their dining experience while also working your last nerve.

And of course there’s always “the Closer.” Opie likes to say how prison time caused his food-insecurities. Opie was a tiny little kitten when rescued by our vet and most certainly never experienced any form of incarceration. He may have missed a few meals before rescue and quick adoption by us. He’s just a lard-ass who can’t abide by any food being unattended and uneaten. So if the other cats like to eat a bit here and there he can’t stand it—he simply must clean up every bite.

Scout is also a food whore. As for the community cats, aka the TNRs (trap, neuter, spay, and released/returned for volunteers to feed and water), they are so grateful for food, but the ones we feed must have gotten the memo from our spoiled ingrates. I overheard them talking about how “the man is keepin’ us down with this cheap ass dry kibble. We must demand wet food.” I know damn well my little Frankie (rescued as a kitten from a feral clowder of felines—she was the runt and apparently overlooked by Momma Cat or simply got lost) has been inciting the food protest.

Actually, Frankie the Princess loves the cheap stanky Friskies but simply must mess with the TNRs. You see she never got the clipped ear that the SPCA gives to “fixed” cats. And she is jealous because it’s considered kinda hip, kinda “street.” Tipped ears are the feline equivalent of tattoos. I also suspect she told Lefty, who we later upgraded from Frankie’s birth feline family of street cats to be our at-the-time shop cat and later to join our indoor herd about how to be arrogant. Back when Lefty was new to the indoors and to human affection (and lovin’ both), she would allow me to trim her nails with no fuss. Well this abruptly changed after Frankie schooled her on how to make life difficult for us. Oh yes, these cats talk.

Finicky and difficult at times, they also surprise you with tenderness and an ability to know when you need the comfort only a beloved cat or dog can give. They give back and make certain that you never feel lonely. Why just this morning, I awoke to Lefty fast asleep on my head and the rest of the herd curled among us. And bless them, no wet bedding. That was reserved for the newly refinished wood floors.