A year ago in April I realized my life-long ambition to be a
retired eccentric. I have prepared extensively for these days when the only
commitments to be met are self-imposed, sometimes only after lengthy
negotiation with myself and/or procrastination. I spend many hours reading,
writing and surfing the internet. I am Master of my Domain-Name, “Minister of
Rants”, from whence I blog. (That’s it?)
And I do stand-up in front of the cats. Who are these cats,
you ask? They, along with my long-suffering wife of 44 years, Rosalee, are the women in my life.
Sylvia is a mostly black kitty with white tuxedo front and paws. Her white
whiskers and eyebrows create a strikingly beautiful contrast with her black
velvet face. Always well-mannered, Sylvia has a highly developed system of
communication that runs from “Meow” to “No”. Sylvia is 14 and looks half her
age. Our kitties don't DO "cat-years"!
Sylvia concedes little to age. She recently caught and killed a mouse, the
second in her life. We’re pretty sure Carmen, who is more the “fraidy-cat” is
the enthusiastic spectator during Sylvia’s great adventures.
Kettering, as we did with Sylvia. Carmen had been dropped off unceremoniously from the window of a car, they told us, as is the case with so many dogs and cats, at the age of 5 weeks.
She doesn’t really meow, either. I wasn’t sure how to characterize the usual
vocalizations of Carmen until one day during the U.S. “monkey pox” outbreak of
a year or two ago I saw a special program demonstrating how the virus is passed
on to humans by infected prairie dogs. The cute and apparently lovable rodents
had become popular as household pets. The prairie dogs were “barking” -
-"Hoonh, Hoonh!"
That's it! Carmen barks like a prairie dog, usually when she’s hungry or when
she is begging Daddy for a belly rub. Carmen is 11, but acts like a spoiled
baby kitten. Daddy wouldn’t have it any other way.
SYLVIA
Several years ago, Rosalee and I entered Sylvia and Carmen
in a cat show. Show cats, as a rule, are accompanied by adopted humans who wait
on them like little royals. The thoroughbreds display uniform disdain for the
entire spectacle, in particular, all the mere humans who turn out to view them.
This particular group of savvy feline fanciers tacked on a separate exhibit of
mostly unknown or mixed breed house cats, who, unlike their uppity thoroughbred
counterparts, seemed mostly contented.
The house cat competition suffered from some
unfortunate publicity that year. The winner was disqualified. It was revealed he
wasn’t a house cat. He turned out to be a squirrel with a makeover. Our girls
were not amused. 
CARMEN
Communication with cats is either daunting or emotionally rewarding
based on whether one anthropomorphizes them or logically maintains an arm’s (or
paw’s) length with non-humans. We know that interactions between domesticated
felines and humans are mostly instinctual, at least on the part of the cats.
When we speak the cats sometimes seem to listen, though. It’s not difficult to
project an emotional response onto a cat that is purring or soliciting a cuddle
or letting one know it’s meal time.
Nevertheless, I realize that most of what I hopefully infer as dialogue with Sylvia and Carmen is probably analogous to creating empty dialogue balloons over my head as I shuffle around the shack talking to the cats. (Sylvia, he’s making his noises again.)
“Hello, Girls!”
“Daddy’s home.”
“Sylvia, Carmen, Come see Daddy.”
“Kitty, Kitty, Kitty!”
Sylvia: “?”
Well, it IS
all about them, isn’t it? No matter how emotionally needy some adopted humans
may be, we must respect the wishes of the cats, inscrutable though they may seem
at times. And no matter the season of the year or cause for disruption to usual
family routine, the cats will sleep 20 hours each day, thank you very much.
ART & ROSALEE
