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.