When it comes to pets, most people - at least, here in the U.S. - are in one of two camps: dog people or cat people. Yes, there are people who love and own other animals: horses, birds, fish, lizards and snakes...But narrow it down to cats and dogs, animal lovers tend to take sides.
"I've always been a dog person," or "I'd much rather have cats than dogs; they're so much easier!"
I've always thought of myself as a dog person. Sure, we had both types of pets while I was a kid. But dogs were so much more appealing, especially the larger breeds. Irish setters? Love 'em, all that longish red fur and exuberance. German Shepherds? Smart dogs, good protection. But cats? Too independent.
What kind of pets do I have? Two cats, no dogs.
We had a dog when my kids were young, a beautiful, ditzy Cocker Spaniel named Osha. No, not pronounced like the acronym for the Occupational Safety and Health Administration, but like the kids' clothing company: Osha, B'Gosha!
Osha could play deaf when it suited her; accidently let her escape out the front door, and she'd wander around the yard, sniffing good smells, while I'd call her. "Osha! C'mere, Osha! Want a treat?" Nothing! But let a car door open, she was there right now!
When Osha was almost 6, my oldest son gave me a cat. He informed he he'd named her Soak (pronounced So-ack), which, he told me, was Kaos backwards. "But feel free to change her name," he said as he handed over the little black ball of fluff. I was leaning toward naming her Ybor, since Jason had picked her up in the Ybor City section of Tampa. Soak/Ybor cried pitifully.
It was maybe two weeks before Christmas, and our Christmas tree was up. That first night, I showed Ybor - Ebbes - where her water, food, and litter box were. Once I knew she was comfortable with these, I brought Osha into my room (didn't want any fights) and went to bed.
Five minutes later, there was a loud Crash! from the living room. Hurrying out, I discovered our 6-foot tree on its side, a very startled kitten clinging to the top limbs. I swear, she had a look that said, "I don't know how that happened! I was just climbing this big thing and wham!"
So I picked up Ebbs, righted the tree, straightened out a few ornaments, and headed back to bed. Five minutes later, the same scenario. By the third time it happened, I'd had enough. Cat out of tree, tree up, then cat, food, water and litter box into the bathroom with the door shut.
The tree remained upright the rest of the night. The new roll of toilet paper hanging from the wall, though, was somewhat worse for wear.
By 2006, a 16-year-old Osha died; a year later, E. B. (her name mutated from Ybor to Ebbes to E. B. White) died, too, of what was, I'm sure, a broken heart.
Several weeks before she died, my friend Kevin informed me that he knew someone whose cat had kittens. "One of them hasn't been claimed yet," he told me. "I told Billie that I'd bring the little guy to you when he's old enough."
"No way!" I didn't want any more animals. We'd already lost Osha and E. B.'s end was near. I didn't need any more animals.
"But he's your Karma!" Kev informed me.
"No!"
Kev gave me this look like I was some kind-of dense. "You're getting a cat," he said with an "and that's that!" tone of voice.
Several weeks later, after E. B. had already been cremated, I was on the phone with my son-in-law when I heard honking in my driveway. "Hold on," I told s.i.l. "This won't take long."
I opened the door and headed outside as Kevin was popping the trunk of his cab. "Hey, I got your cat here!" he called.
"Yeah, well, even you wouldn't put a cat in the trunk."
He gave me a look as he pulled out a litter box, cat litter, and a 4-pack of canned cat food. "Billie's got Karma. I just made sure I picked up the accutrements that go with a cat so you couldn't hand him back."
I glanced at Billie, who was riding shot-gun in the cab. She rolled down the window and held up another little black fluff-ball. Without thinking, I took Karma from her. He had the absolutely softess fur I'd ever felt. I rubbed my nose into his beautiful fur.
"Hey, Karma, how ya doing, little guy?"
Kev had already put the cat stuff on the front porch and was smiling as he passed me on his way to the cab. "See ya later."
I brought Karma inside and put him on the floor. He immediately started sniffing the rug, still ripe with E. B. smells. "Yes, Karma, this is a cat house," I said without thinking. Immediately, laughter came from the portable phone. I'd forgotten I was on the phone, and he'd heard the "cat house" remark!
I seriously considered changing Karma's name. My youngest suggested "Rupert-the-spastic-monkey-boy" after watching the rambunctious kitten tear through the house. Personally, I was leaning more toward naming the little guy "Kevin is so toast." Neither seemed like a suitable name, though. I mean, how can a person bring a tiny kitten to the vet's, only to have the vet tech inform the vet, "Ms. S. is here with Kevin Is So Toast." Nah...
We ended up with a second cat a month later to keep Kev - I mean, Karma - company. I named her Drexie Calabash, since my oldest son had 2 Drexies up in Tennessee. (It was either that or Kevin's idea of naming her Sutra; if I wasn't having my cat announced as Kevin Is So Toast, I definitely didn't want to show up with Karma and Sutra. Another idea was San Diego, since I was frequently asking, "Where in the house are Karm and..." My sons just rolled their eyes.)
We've had Karma and Drexie now for five years. They get along great, most of the time. They sleep with me...or I sleep with them, I'm not sure which. Their toys are strewn all over my (their) bed. I know if I were to pick up a couple of kitty beds, they'd probably look at the beds and wonder how I'd sleep in those tiny things.
As Kevin likes to point out, "There are three people living in that house, and two cats. Who runs the place?" to which I always respond, "The cats."
No comments:
Post a Comment