Cat Tales - March, 2009

Marlin Perkins I'm not. I don't enjoy animals and, as you may have heard me say before, the only pets I have are peeves. I find the adoration of Mickey Mouse repugnant; the only mouse I like is the tiny one connected to my mini-laptop. Nonetheless, when one of my dear friends (MDF) travels, I am the back-up cat caretaker who pinch hits for the primary caretaker who fills in when MDF is gone. I think of it as Kitty Meals on Wheels for MDF's cherished feline friends. Though it is not something I relish doing – after all, who enjoys cleaning the kitty litter? – it's one of those things we do for our friends, knowing that they would do something of equal value for us.

I'm not sure her cats think of it in quite that way.

MDF has two cats, or at least that's what she tells me. I've only seen one cat, and not often at that. I consider the second cat the "concept cat." Initially I was afraid that the cats would escape when I opened the front door. How would I explain to the authorities that two cats got out but I could only describe one? And are there authorities to whom to report a missing cat, or would I have to fabricate a description on a flier to be placed on telephone poles around the neighborhood? "Missing cat. Four legs, two ears, two eyes, you figure out the rest."

Apparently, cats have a keen sense about people and can tell if you like them. MDF's cats' senses kick in when I park the car outside her house. When I first started going, Cat #1 got a glimpse of me and took off like a cat out of hell, somehow dematerializing herself through the balusters and down the stairs to hightail it to the basement. After my subsequent visits, she wised up, figuring out that I was like the pizza delivery guy: My showing up meant dinner was being served. She gradually grew less fearful but no less full of disdain. I'd come in and she might take a quick look. Once she even approached me, rolling over on her back. My cat fan friends explained that was a good sign, one of rapprochement: She wanted me to pet her and establish a rapport. But I'm not interested in heavy petting, I explained to them. "For God's sake, just pet her. She's probably lonely," someone exhorted. So, the next time, I approached her as a sign of good faith, but she pulled away, just teasing me with what I had taken as a friendly overture. So much for rapprochement.

Even though I barely or rarely see the cats, I know that they know I am there. They like to leave me little messages in the form of deposits on the carpet that should have been made in the litter box. To be sure that I don't miss these messages, they ever so considerately deposit them right in front of the door. I can almost hear them saying, "When's our real mommy coming home?"

I have my little routine. I come in and loudly announce, "Aunt Tina's here. Are there any cats here today?" I figure that ought to be enough of a warning to get them out of sight, so I don't frighten them and they don't startle me.

Then I go into the kitchen, where MDF has left the cans of cat food on the counter. I put out two cans for each cat and a final can, sort of an appetizer, I assume, that they share (or at least I hope so; it's not like I have actually observed them eating). I dutifully serve the delectable offerings – seafood medley, turkey with giblet gravy (always on Thanksgiving), chicken medley, salmon medley and the other varieties. My sensory abilities apparently are lacking; they all look and smell the same to me. My theory is that the factory packs exactly the same stuff in each can, changing only the label. Can't fool me, but the cats clearly don't agree. Once they barely touched their food. I wasn't sure whether they were on a hunger strike to protest MDF's absence or if they had finally rejected the canned stuff. At least I'm not required to serve specially cooked meals or eat there myself and let them feed off the table scraps. Now that I am retired, I can do my kitty Meals on Wheels duty during the afternoon. I guess having their main meal at 3ish seems early, but they can think of it as tea and crumpets, only in this case the crumpets are salmon medley.

After the food and beverages have been served, I get to tackle the litter box (though I’d rather litter a tackle box). I feel like I am panning for gold as I sift through the sandy substance, looking for waste products. Cats, I am told, are very clean creatures, so they want their toilet facilities swept clear of waste products. As much as I hope I find little or nothing in the box, when I don't, I worry. Are they OK? Their little bodies (I imagine) are small, and they should process waste daily. Should I be concerned about cat constipation? After all, that could prove to be catastrophic. I was glad to learn after a few days of finding nothing that an auxiliary litter box is in the basement, beyond my jurisdiction. Thank God they are taking care of business somewhere else.

The feeding done, the kitty litter unlittered, the water bowls refreshed, the mail and newspapers retrieved and sorted neatly on the dining room table and my work is done. No heavy petting required – thank God.

I had goldfish once when I was about 6 or 7. I forgot to feed them, so they died. And someone trusts me to care for her pets? She must be catatonic!