Robert P. Herbst
09-24-2007, 09:26 PM
OWNING A CAT
Written September 23, 2007 Fiction 1006 Words
Copyright © 2007 Robert P. Herbst. All rights reserved.
By
Robert P. Herbst
This question has evaded answer since the first cat pranced into the home of the first cat fancier, “Do I own the cat, or does the cat own me?” Today I refer specifically to the little cat I recently adopted,— or did the cat adopt me? There is also the knowledge, “Kittens grow up to be Cats”, one must be prepared for this advent. As kitty grows, so do the fangs and claws along side the ability and learned ability to use them efficiently.
I had been to my son’s home, way out in the wilds of the Great Mount Perry Swamp. The swamp goes on for miles, but my son seems perfectly content living way out there where the stars can be seen at night. One must drive nearly three miles over sand roads which become more narrow and overgrown with each mile.
A cat lives on the roof of his trailer, under a second roof he built with the idea of expanding the living area of his trailer. This cat had kittens, six of them. I’d been out to his place and he told me, out of the six kittens, only two were still alive. Mama cat had dried up because of the prolonged drought here and the ongoing attentions of a previous litter. She could no longer feed her new babies.
It bothered me knowing the little cats were about to die and there was little or nothing I could do about it. I made up my mind to get a nice little box and race to my son’s home to rescue the two little kittens. Unfortunately, I was only able to catch one of them. The other one ran under the trailer and refused to come out. Naturally, I did bring the survivor home with me, and the next day, my son told me the last kitten had died.
Such is life, but I had managed to save one of them. I started out with a dish of milk and had to force the little cat to sample the white stuff in the dish. The milk soon vanished and I tried kitty on some of the canned food I have for my two outside cats. Actually, I think the outside cats have increased in number to include half the stray cats in Mount Perry. When I go out before dawn to feed them, I must be careful where I step to avoid injuring any of them.
Anyhow, Little Cat, gobbled up the canned food until it was as round as a golf ball. I’d named the cat “Little Cat”, because the cat was indeed, little and a cat. My outside cats are Big Cat and Hairball. Hairball is the mean one I had to put outside because it attacked me and left me with scars I can still see today, two years later.
Still not having learned my lesson, I have now brought Little Cat into my home. Little Cat is gradually growing out of the starved down condition and has begun acting like a kitten. Little Cat is a nice little guy, but as Little Cat gets larger, the claws and teeth grow stronger and longer as well.
One other truth the cat owner must face is, cats have fleas. I’d expected this and had made arrangements to not only combat the army of fleas invading my humble home from the back of my new house guest, but to handle the multitude of small scratched and bites Little Cat liberally bestowed on me. After all, Cats = Fleas, there’s no other way around this.
I had the insect control people spray our home liberally with poisonous chemicals and I watched with a certain amount of satisfaction as the fleas staggered about on my carpet, strangling on the stuff I’d had sprayed on the floors of my flat. Revenge is sweet.
Next it was kitty’s turn. The mass murderer from the insect control company, told me I must treat the source, for any effective flea control. A trip to the pet section of our local Mount Perry Super Market was in order. The trip yielded the required chemical complete with a neat little applicator.
Once again I sat there amazed at the number of fleas staggering off the cat’s back and falling to the floor. I’ll probably have to dump my vacuum cleaner several times just to do the bedroom because of all the dead fleas.
Little Cat’s health and vigor immediately began to improve. The time had come to insist Little Cat retract his/her claws and not bite so hard. Kitty seemed to understand this, but no matter what, there was, ”The Wild Hour” prior to and following each meal. During these periods, kitty left little doubt, the time had come to be fed. Little Cat would race about frantically biting and scratching at everything, whether there was movement or not.
I was paying a high price in blood for the benefit of my little buddy’s education and health. I’m absolutely convinced, the cat knows exactly what is going on and what is wanted. During the quiet times the claws are retracted and kitty does not bite hard. The closer it gets to dinner time, the wilder kitty gets and the more scratches and bites I get. Kitty is not being mean, the cat is trying to tell me something.
The little monster will lay there in my lap, looking up at me with those innocent blue kitten eyes and purring like a motor boat as it sinks the teeth and claws further into my skin. Then, in a flash, the wild cat races off to where I have the kitties dinner plate. How else can I interpret this?
In the in-between, Little Cat sits placidly in my lap purring, munching on my hand and sharing, what few fleas are left, with me. How could I possibly find fault with this?
Written September 23, 2007 Fiction 1006 Words
Copyright © 2007 Robert P. Herbst. All rights reserved.
By
Robert P. Herbst
This question has evaded answer since the first cat pranced into the home of the first cat fancier, “Do I own the cat, or does the cat own me?” Today I refer specifically to the little cat I recently adopted,— or did the cat adopt me? There is also the knowledge, “Kittens grow up to be Cats”, one must be prepared for this advent. As kitty grows, so do the fangs and claws along side the ability and learned ability to use them efficiently.
I had been to my son’s home, way out in the wilds of the Great Mount Perry Swamp. The swamp goes on for miles, but my son seems perfectly content living way out there where the stars can be seen at night. One must drive nearly three miles over sand roads which become more narrow and overgrown with each mile.
A cat lives on the roof of his trailer, under a second roof he built with the idea of expanding the living area of his trailer. This cat had kittens, six of them. I’d been out to his place and he told me, out of the six kittens, only two were still alive. Mama cat had dried up because of the prolonged drought here and the ongoing attentions of a previous litter. She could no longer feed her new babies.
It bothered me knowing the little cats were about to die and there was little or nothing I could do about it. I made up my mind to get a nice little box and race to my son’s home to rescue the two little kittens. Unfortunately, I was only able to catch one of them. The other one ran under the trailer and refused to come out. Naturally, I did bring the survivor home with me, and the next day, my son told me the last kitten had died.
Such is life, but I had managed to save one of them. I started out with a dish of milk and had to force the little cat to sample the white stuff in the dish. The milk soon vanished and I tried kitty on some of the canned food I have for my two outside cats. Actually, I think the outside cats have increased in number to include half the stray cats in Mount Perry. When I go out before dawn to feed them, I must be careful where I step to avoid injuring any of them.
Anyhow, Little Cat, gobbled up the canned food until it was as round as a golf ball. I’d named the cat “Little Cat”, because the cat was indeed, little and a cat. My outside cats are Big Cat and Hairball. Hairball is the mean one I had to put outside because it attacked me and left me with scars I can still see today, two years later.
Still not having learned my lesson, I have now brought Little Cat into my home. Little Cat is gradually growing out of the starved down condition and has begun acting like a kitten. Little Cat is a nice little guy, but as Little Cat gets larger, the claws and teeth grow stronger and longer as well.
One other truth the cat owner must face is, cats have fleas. I’d expected this and had made arrangements to not only combat the army of fleas invading my humble home from the back of my new house guest, but to handle the multitude of small scratched and bites Little Cat liberally bestowed on me. After all, Cats = Fleas, there’s no other way around this.
I had the insect control people spray our home liberally with poisonous chemicals and I watched with a certain amount of satisfaction as the fleas staggered about on my carpet, strangling on the stuff I’d had sprayed on the floors of my flat. Revenge is sweet.
Next it was kitty’s turn. The mass murderer from the insect control company, told me I must treat the source, for any effective flea control. A trip to the pet section of our local Mount Perry Super Market was in order. The trip yielded the required chemical complete with a neat little applicator.
Once again I sat there amazed at the number of fleas staggering off the cat’s back and falling to the floor. I’ll probably have to dump my vacuum cleaner several times just to do the bedroom because of all the dead fleas.
Little Cat’s health and vigor immediately began to improve. The time had come to insist Little Cat retract his/her claws and not bite so hard. Kitty seemed to understand this, but no matter what, there was, ”The Wild Hour” prior to and following each meal. During these periods, kitty left little doubt, the time had come to be fed. Little Cat would race about frantically biting and scratching at everything, whether there was movement or not.
I was paying a high price in blood for the benefit of my little buddy’s education and health. I’m absolutely convinced, the cat knows exactly what is going on and what is wanted. During the quiet times the claws are retracted and kitty does not bite hard. The closer it gets to dinner time, the wilder kitty gets and the more scratches and bites I get. Kitty is not being mean, the cat is trying to tell me something.
The little monster will lay there in my lap, looking up at me with those innocent blue kitten eyes and purring like a motor boat as it sinks the teeth and claws further into my skin. Then, in a flash, the wild cat races off to where I have the kitties dinner plate. How else can I interpret this?
In the in-between, Little Cat sits placidly in my lap purring, munching on my hand and sharing, what few fleas are left, with me. How could I possibly find fault with this?