Things Get Worse, Part II

I kept a wary eye out for the elusive "Princess" for a day or two. I never saw her, except as a gray shadow out of the corner of my eye.

I had enough to worry about as it was. Attila stalked the hallway, spitting at Scam and terrorizing Con. You would think that I would view Attila as an ally--a comrade-in-arms in the war against Scam and Con. You would think Attila and I would become fast friends and spend our evenings sipping milk together and congratulating one another. After all, Scam and Con were the undisputed powers-that-be before Attila showed up. You would think I would rejoice.

You would be wrong.

Attila had as much use for me as she had for Con. That is to say, very little. Con had a basket in a sunny spot in the living room. Attila confiscated it. I expected Con to complain, but I guess he was grateful just to be alive. He surrendered his sunny spot without comment, accepting a dark box in the garage where he was hidden by a mountain of paraphernalia. The only time he came out of hiding was when I came home from work. Then, he set aside his fear of Attila and ran through the war zone of the house to hide in my room. After all, I was his pet, and he couldn't leave me unguarded.

He guarded me rather well from a corner behind a chair in the bedroom. Courage has its limits, particularly in self-centered cats.

I wondered if Princess was a rumor--a joke cooked up by Tiny to keep me on edge. At the same time, I knew Princess must exist. There was evidence--piles and piles of shaggy gray fur on the floor that did not match the three cats I knew.

Oh, well. Princess was obviously shy, and the thought of her did not scare me. She couldn't be any worse than Attila. Attila was the epitome of the word "bully." She was the cat equivalent of that kid in junior high who takes your lunch money for "protection."

Besides, there's nothing frightening about a shy cat who is named "Princess." I was sure wherever she was, she was probably licking her dainty paw and humming Mozart. I pictured Princess as a timid bundle of sweetness who was trying to maintain some dignity among bad company.

Bless her little kitty heart.

Even as I envisioned this delightful little ball of gray fluff, unseen eyes watched me from the shadows--unflinching. A sinister purr welled up in the gray cloud behind the couch, and a sweet, tiny paw unsheathed its claws.

Princess was watching me.

To be continued.

Things Get Worse, Part 1

Optimists scare me. My mom is an optimist—a woman focused on the silver lining.

My theory is that every silver lining has a big, black cloud right in the middle.

Whenever things were as bad as they could get, Mom always came through with a cheerful song and a reminder that “Things could always be worse.” Being raised by such a lunatic is another reason I am this way, but that is a topic for another time.

Yes, things can get worse, and they usually do.

All the same, I should have remembered Mom’s incessant reminder when I was complaining about Scam and Con. Things could always be worse. So what if there are two evil cats in the house, bent on wrecking my peace of mind and vomiting in my shoes? Things could always be worse.

I was momentarily distracted by the silver lining of Con warming to my presence and didn’t even realize that the black cloud had doubled in size.

I came home from work late one night, creeping in like a burglar. Tiny was already in bed, so I took off my shoes at the door. I was just about to make a mental note to hide my shoes before Scam or Con filled them with unpleasant substances. That’s when I saw it—a beast so large and frightening, my heart skipped a beat.

One often reads of hearts skipping beats, but those accounts usually involve roses, chance encounters on rainy nights, or teenage vampires.

This was none of the above.

It was a monstrous cat with dark fur, and it moved slowly and steadily across the floor toward me. For a moment, I thought I was in the wrong house. No such luck. I was home.

“What are you?” I backed towards the door, “What have you done with Scam and Con?”

It crept closer. Scam and Con were nowhere in sight. From the size of the beast, I could only assume it had eaten them.

Right before the creature could devour me, too, Tiny appeared in her bathrobe and slippers.

“I see you met Attila,” she said, “Isn’t she a great big love-ball! She weighs seventeen pounds. Iddie biddie kiddie kat!”

The iddie biddie kiddie kat narrowed its eyes at me.

I found Scam and Con hiding in the garage.

As it turned out, Attila was the beloved feline child of Tiny’s boyfriend. She was old, very fuzzy, stubborn, and uneducated. I used to think Scam and Con were difficult to reason with, but at least they tried (successfully) to outwit me. Attila had no time or patience with games of wits. If she didn’t like your attitude, she sat on you.

Attila scared me to death.

I was in the kitchen one day when I heard a frantic meow for help. Con scurried up to me and started butting me with his head, mewing like a kitten. He led me, Lassie-style, to my room. Apparently, there was a burglar, a monster, or a big black cloud in my room.

It was empty. Con had foiled me again.

I grabbed the spray gun to give Con a taste of his own medicine. A split second before his execution by water, Attila stepped out from behind a chair. She walked slowly toward us.

Con hid behind me. If I hadn’t had the spray gun, we might have both been squashed and devoured.

Con expressed his gratitude by throwing up in my shoe. Then, he stationed himself in my room and refused to leave—ever.

To make matters worse, the house began to seem haunted. I caught glimpses of something pale gray in the corner of my eye sometimes. Or I felt unseen eyes watching me at all times. Did Attila have influence in the ghost world? I had a feeling the spray bottle would be ineffective against a ghost—even a feline one.

After several days of this, I came to an uneasy truce with Attila, who was apparently a permanent part of the household. I agreed not to go near her, and she agreed not to eat me. It was a good arrangement.

“I’m so happy to see how well Attila is adjusting,” Tiny said, “I’m glad she isn’t stressed out and sulking out of sight like Princess.”

Princess?

In the back of my mind, I heard my mom say, “Things could always get worse!” I had a feeling they were about to.

To be continued.

The Adoption

Most kids wonder, at some point in their lives, if they were adopted. Most children have no reason to wonder this, other than a futile hope that their real parents are royalty with excessive treasures and little sense of parental responsibility. Other children think they are adopted because an older sibling tells them they are. My older brother, Toad, attempted to convince me that I was adopted, and he was successful. He might not have convinced me, but my grandmother joined in and insisted that Toad was telling the truth.

For those of you who wonder how I turned out this way, now you know.

Toad and grandmother notwithstanding, I grew to adulthood--or to something very like it.

And now, I have officially been adopted for real.

Occasionally, one reads a story about someone who is suffering from sickness, poverty, and borderline insanity until being adopted by wealthy people (or the aforementioned royalty) and having all their problems magically solved. Sadly, such was not the case for me.

I was adopted against my will by a brainless ball of fur named Con. Nobody asked my permission first. I did not sign any papers.

Neither did he, come to think of it.

All the same, the adoption is final.

It was my bad luck to be sick in bed for a few days. Those of you who know me know that this is not unusual. I have the immune system of an amoeba.

As I lay in bed, suffering from sickness, poverty, and borderline insanity, Con--my room-mate’s cat--entered the room. I thought he was there to gloat over my misfortune, so I put a pillow over my head.

Con immediately climbed onto the pillow. I thought he was just trying to murder me again, so I paid him no attention. Con, along with his partner-in-crime, Scam, has tried to murder me so many times that it has lost its novelty. Fortunately for me, they have failed so far. I commend their persistence, although their methods are obviously lacking in skill.

It took a little while before I realized that Con was not trying to murder me this time. He was doctoring me! I will admit this is the first, and hopefully the last, doctor to stand on my face, but as far as I know, Con never attended medical school and cannot be expected to know the finer points of the healing arts.

I managed to get him off my face, so he stood on my chest and yowled like somebody had just stolen all his scratchy toys. Eventually, my room-mate--Tiny--came to the door.

Tiny speaks fluent Kitty (see earlier blog) and knew exactly what all that yowling meant. “Yes, I see she’s sick. What do you expect me to do about it?”

Tiny has been hardened by years of living with Scam and Con.

Con gave up on calling for help and stationed himself at my feet. His bedside manner was bizarre, to say the least.

For three days, he stayed by my feet waiting for me to fall asleep. Every time I fell asleep, he raced up to my head and tapped my nose with his. Then, having successfully saved me from the evils of sleep, he dashed back down to my feet. As much as I appreciated his efforts, I must admit I would have preferred to sleep. He must have known what he was doing, though, because every time I have ever been in the hospital, the entire staff has worked hard to protect me from sleep. They come in every time I doze off and jab me with a needle. I’m glad Con didn’t have a needle. Thank Heaven for small blessings.

Tiny said he was just checking my temperature. What would he have done if it were too high? Gave me an aspirin? Wrote a prescription? Called for help again?

I’ve heard of patients who were given shock treatment to jolt them back to health. I benefited from that service while Con was my doctor. It happened a couple of times when I actually managed to fall asleep for a little while. I would begin to wake and would open my eyes to see a set of sharp fangs inches from my face! Shock treatment may be outdated, but it is lots of fun--not for the patient, but for the doctor.

I recovered after a few days and returned to the world of the living. Con apparently felt that since he had saved my life, he might as well keep and raise me.

I haven’t been able to shake him since. He waits by the door for me to come home, hisses and yowls at any cat who comes too close to me, and protects my eyesight by sitting on the keyboard of my laptop if I spend too much time typing.

I guess Toad and grandmother were right after all. They were just a little early.

Controlling Kitty

There must be some way to control a cat’s behavior. They are lesser life forms than humans, so it is perfectly reasonable that they should be subservient to us. I have tried water, orange peels, pepper, and all the things that are supposed to coerce cats into submission.

So far, it has been a pitiful failure. They even seem amused at my feeble attempts to break their iron will. Cats have nothing to do during the day besides lie around and think of ways to make me look foolish, and they utilize this downtime well. I know they appear lazy, but that is only because it is exhausting to their fuzzy, peanut brains to come up with so many different means of humiliating me.

Either that or they really are unbelievably lazy.

I prefer to think they are lying around hatching evil schemes, because I would hate to think they are really just soaking up the sun all day—without an evil thought in their furry heads—and STILL manage to outwit me day after day.

Scam and Con—my roommate’s conniving felines—have mastered the art of acting like lazy, fat blobs of fur while their itsy bitsy brains churn out plot after evil plot against me.

I had nearly given up hope when I stumbled across an article on the World Wide Web which covered the topic of altering kitty behavior. As I have pointed out in earlier blogs, Al Gore is the founder and master of the World Wide Web, so how can it possibly be wrong? It can’t!

I know there have been times, such as the time I attempted to rid my home of furry beasts by polishing the floors with Orange-On, when it appeared that Al Gore had failed to have all the answers, but that was just a fluke. More than likely, Al Gore told his secretary that Orange-On was a great way to attract kitties, and she misunderstood and typed it wrong.

This secretary, whoever she is, is particularly prone to mistakes, but I can understand that. It would be hard for anyone to type every word on the World Wide Web, as dictated by its master and founder Al Gore, and not miss a word now and then.

Foolish secretaries notwithstanding, I was ecstatic to discover an article on controlling kitties with music. It turns out that music controls kitty behavior! If you play rock music, they will supposedly ignore you in a very pointed and rude way. That makes sense. Rock-loving teenagers usually behave accordingly, so why shouldn’t it work on cats? I tried it. Sure enough, they ignored me in a very pointed and rude way, but I couldn’t tell if that was because of the music or because they were just being their usual rude selves. It didn’t keep them off the coffee table, though, so I abandoned that particular genre.

I cranked gospel music at them for a few days, and they yowled and cried like sinners at the altar. They didn’t seem particularly repentant, however, since they continued to bite my fingers and toes whenever an opportunity presented itself. I despair of the eternal destiny of any creature that can cry out for mercy and then go right back to its sinful ways before the song even ends.

Being familiar with their already-nasty attitudes, I was afraid to try rap music on their carnal little minds, so I moved on to other artists.

After several days, I despaired of ever finding the magic, musical key to unlock their hidden nice kitties. I had downloaded a Peter, Paul, & Mary c.d. for a friend and was giving it the run-through on the c.d. player in the kitchen.

As “Where Have All the Flowers Gone” drifted through the house, I became keenly aware of a disturbance in the atmosphere. An unsettling calm oozed through the house. I turned around slowly and could hardly believe my eyes!

Scam and Con sat frozen to the floor with dilated pupils and expressions so still, they were either stoned or completely mesmerized. Not even their tails twitched. I watched them for the duration of the song, and then quickly hit the repeat button.

No movement.

I started walking around, straightening up the living room, moving things around.

No movement.

Time for the acid test (no pun intended)! I walked right in front of them to my bedroom door and opened it. Normally, Con would spring into the air and skid into my room before I had a chance to blink—let alone close the door.

No movement.

I shut myself in my room to bask in cat-free serenity, listening to the muffled harmony of PP&M through the walls.

I feel good about finally winning a battle against my fuzzy opponents!

Score: Me-1

Team Feline-2,378,412