Pussy was a gourmet cat
Who would have a bite of this?
And a pinch of that.
Of lamb rags
And chicken in every way
Bacon and ham
And beef Bordelaise.
With tastes like this
You become a gourmet cat
During the years that my wife and I worked at our restaurant, her indoor / outdoor cats would fend for themselves from nine in the morning until after midnight. To make up for it, he left a smorgasbord of cat food for the five thankless little bastards. Our kitchen floor was a minefield of cat food bowls.
A cat had only to moan, and the next sound would be the can opener crushing a new feline culinary offering. Suzie just wanted shrimp. Shrimp? Sylvester only ate crispy dry food that none of the others touched. Rhett Butler preferred canned food, but would eat another brand of crunch. Merry liked a raw egg every now and then, which made it difficult to cook breakfast with her feet.
All were offended if small sacks of “treats” were not offered regularly. I have no idea what controlled substance was in those treats, but it kept Kay’s beauties on edge and asking for more. That cat food coming from tiny cans with $ 0.50 price tags meant nothing to these furry little reprobates. Something reaches the darkest part of me when I see one of the adorable ones walk up to a newly opened expensive can of cat food, take a puff, turn around, and start trying to cover the food as if it had just taken relief. But the urge to kick the fussy little darling soon passes.
Television at the time was awash with cat food commercials reassuring all cat lovers that kittens would tear down brick walls to get to their mark. One of the most offensive advertisements featured a housewife, dressed in a cat suit, on her roof with a plate of food trying to lure a tabby to dinner. I looked everywhere for a catsuit for Kay, my wife, for Mother’s Day, but to no avail.
I chose Mother’s Day because Kay and I don’t have children and cats fill the void. My two adorable daughters satisfied my desire to have children. So every time I file a complaint about cats, Kay reminds me that cats don’t need braces or college education. I have consoled myself with that thought throughout the course of our marriage.
Then comes the question of what these fuzzy little despots do with what they eat and drink. I was hoping that since they were indoor / outdoor cats, they would have the decency to do their business outdoors, preferably in the neighbors’ yards. But these little darlings would break down the back door to get in and mess up the house. It is still surprising how creative charmers are in hiding their droppings in our house. Dropping a load into a cat box does not require any talents. Hiding one where the smell becomes so intense that I selflessly call for a nuclear attack to save humanity takes some effort.
Let’s not forget the hair: cat hair everywhere. It starts out as air pollution after its endless licking and scratching, then settles like fine dust on everything we own. Other times, huge balls of fur roll like tumbleweeds. These hairballs were plucked during the night fights that the referee turned to me.
You’ve probably guessed I’m not a muggy, soggy cat lover who talks in the third person to these critters. I can build a pretty strong case for feline extinction. I am also hopeful that the person who first invited one of these animals to their abode is spending eternity up to their neck in them.
Of all Kay’s cats, there was, however, an excellent example of what any self-respecting cat should be. Her name was Pussy. Pussy was a neutered, a condition that could produce psychological trauma in other males whose burden had been lightened. No cunt. He was totally connected to himself and he was brave.
A neighbor had a cat named Peter, and the two cats were bitter enemies. One night a howler cat fight broke out in our backyard that woke up both Kay and me. He walked over to the window, went back to the bed, and announced, “It’s just Peter fighting Pussy.” Kay went to sleep while I lay in bed for two hours and laughed at the semantics of the occasion.
On another occasion I saw a large German Shepherd mistakenly enter Pussy’s front yard. From an ambush, Pussy landed on the dog’s back throwing a diminutive version of a circus pony and dog act. Approaching the street, Pussy jumped after the dog, smacked him on the butt, and literally, as they say, “broke him a new one.”
Pussy had two other completely endearing qualities. First, he ate anything that didn’t eat him first. Her favorites were the leftover treats that Kay brought home from our restaurant. The taller, the better Pussy’s cooking. Second, I never saw where he did his business. I’m talking about near feline perfection.
Pussy waited very stoically in the driveway every night for our return home. She got into the car with the door half swinging and gave her enough love to ensure the continuation of the ritual. He then proceeded to the business in question: exploring Kay’s ever-present brown bag containing her nightly gift personally delivered from our restaurant.
It was definitely a different type of cat. I could appreciate her love of good food and she had no bad habits. He was not hyperactive like most cats when interacting with humans and his own kind. Constantly in control and always completely trusting in Kay and me, her composure and composure were always intact.
Its most endearing feature; however, it was his passion to be out of where the action was. A cat that only appears for short periods of time is something a non-cat lover can really appreciate. Pussy and I had years of pleasant relaxation.
When Pussy died of feline leukemia, we asked the vet to save her remains. Somehow it just didn’t seem right for an old friend to end up in a plastic bag in a garbage can.
Kay asked me to bury it in our backyard so it would be close. I think he also felt that two hours of digging in the limestone-infested Texas Hill Country would keep me from wishing for the untimely death of his other four cats.
As appropriate, we buried Pussy in a wooden wine box from Chateau Trottevieille St. Emilion. When I lowered it to the ground, I noticed the Chateau’s quality designation on the end of the wooden box: “1st Premier Grand Cru Classe.”
Yeah, that was old Pussy.