Cat-Sitting The Meanest Cat In Creation

As you might have garnered

from my earlier blog

 about pigs and cats and fish,

 I never had the experience of

 growing up with a cat.

 

If I went to a friend’s house

 to play and they owned one,

I viewed it with a healthy balance

 of fear and ambivalence...

pretty much code for ignoring it

 It wasn’t part of my world and

the fact that they

took care of their business,

 in the same place that I took care of mine, frankly freaked me out.

Even though I never owned one,

 to this second,

I can clearly recall the smell of them.

 

 

 

I give you this

 bit of information,

 as a precursor to the

stupidity of a friend

 that decided I was the

best choice to nab,

 when she and her boyfriend

 went to Greece for three weeks,

 to visit his family.

 

She owned two cats:

 

 

 Elvis and Ebony.

Elvis was a mush-head.

You could pet him...

You could hug him...

You could dress him up

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

in stupid costumes,

 

 

if the urge so moved you.

He was the most mellow pussycat

I had ever laid eyes on.

Probably so mellowed out

 from the years of living

in a cloud of Marijuana smoke.

Has there ever been any research
 on the effects of
 second-hand pot smoke,
on the pets that live
 in that perpetual cloud? Hey….

Ebony.

 

What can I say about Ebony?

This is tough.

Ebony was the anti-Elvis.

He was also the anti-Christ.

 
 

If you entered the apartment

 and looked over at Ebony,

 you could pretty much

expect a cat splayed across your face,

 as he could go 0 to 60,

in three split seconds.

 He made this evil hissing sound,

on an almost constant basis.

He looked like the fattest

 freaking reptile,

except he climbed into a box

 in the bathroom to poop.

I grew up somewhat fearless.

 

I was a street kid.

 

I was a tomboy.

 

I do have a few deathly fears,

 which those close enough

to me are fully aware of, and,

 

prohibited 

 

from ever discussing in my presence.

If you break the rule and

 discuss them in my face,

 well then you get a

 call from me at 3:45a.m.,

 when I’m freaked out

that something is in my bed.

 

 

 

 

I don’t F-around with this….

It’s my hang-up and

 that’s how I deal.

So on my short-list of fears,

 Ebony...the evil, devil cat, 

 

made the grade.

My forehead was all wrinkled up,

 

 

as my friend was laying
out her vision of me
 visiting the boys every other day,
 for 21 days.  
I had a hard time imagining
how I was going to swing this.
Hell, I could take Elvis with me
 on the roller coaster at Great Adventure

 

and not have a problem with him.

But Ebony,

 

 was a horse of a different color.

To be precise, a jet black horse.

 

 

 

                         

I reviewed the list of items

 involved with cat care.

 As this was back in the ‘80’s,

 there was no modern-day

 fix to dealing with a kitty litter box.

They left it there,

 but it was up to me to remove it.

 Although I desperately

tried to dream up

some genius mechanical alternative

 to being this close to

 

 

 

someone else’s business,

I realized there was

 

 no way around it.

Why I agreed to this,

 I’ll never know.

Stupidity seemed to be

 

 my guiding force,

 

for many a year.

 

 

 

We next went into the kitchen,

 where she had basically built

 a pyramid out of cat food cans,

 forcing me to take from the top

 and work my way down.

 I guess she had laid out a

 balance of meat, fish and God-only-knows

 

 what the other food group was

 

 to make sure the boys

 

weren’t bored with their vittles,

 

while she was off

 

ruin-schlepping in Mykonos.

Lying on the table,

 

next to the Great Pyramid of Egypt

 

 

 

is a hand-held can opener.

 

 

 

Holy Shit!

 

NOW  I know

 

 how my carpal tunnel actually happened.

The worst part of this gig

 was actually not dealing 

with the poop –

 

 

it was the parking.

 

 

This was a street where

‘alternate side of the street parking’

 

 existed,

 

 

like living with a

 chronic infected tooth,

 in need of a good root canal,

 but being forced to see

 

 

 a different dentist,

depending on the day of the week.

They were forced to

live their lives around this

 archaic parking system,

 

 all in the name of

The New York City

 Department of Sanitation

coming through with the

 

street sweeping machines…

 

 

                         

It’s the Bronx, for Christ's sake..

 

 

it’s supposed to be dirty.

There were hundreds of

 examples of being

 in the middle of something,

when one of them

went screeching out of the apartment,

flying down the stairs

to get to the car in time, before the

NYC Parking Authority

 plastered the car with tickets.

 

I’ve also encountered

death rides from Manhattan,

 back to their apartment,

as the parking situation was,

 “you snooze, you lose.”

Her boyfriend, driving

90 mph

 

 

 up the

 

 

Major Deegan Highway

at 4:00am to secure a parking spot,

was not a good thing.

As I’m regretting

 the acceptance of this

 

favor for a friend,

 

I’m weighing my options of:

1. Driving around in circles, to park my car,

 to go and scoop cat poop...or,

2. Moving in for three weeks and

 

 risking being clawed to death

 

 in my sleep by a

 cat with anger management issues.

So, I sucked up my poor decision making, coupled with a raging inability to say NO!, and did my kitty duty.

I’d go into the apartment and

 try to be gentle, yet jovial,

 

 

like I was really happy to be there.

 

 

I’d pet Elvis &

 

mush his ears together like Yoda…

 

mostly because he let me.

And I’d make a

 sincere attempt to get

within hissing distance

 of the evil, devil cat.

As I’d  look in his direction and

hold up a crucifix, 

 

I felt cat saliva flying

 

through the air, across the room.

 

I’d try talking to him,

 

 from a safe distance:

“Hello, Ebony…

How are you, boy?

How are you doing?

  Did you like your meal yesterday?

 Have a nice poop?

 

 

The power of Christ compels you.”

I mean, what the hell else

 am I supposed to say?

 I’m making one-way,

stupid ass talk

with the meanest cat in creation.

 

From ten feet away,

he’s swinging his paws and

 

 claws at me..

Well, no more

sweet talk for you, Mister!

 I’m done.

I’ll feed your ass and

 clean up after you,

 but you can talk to yourself. 

Elvis is taking all of this in and

 like a bratty sibling,

climbs in my lap and

 nuzzles up against me.

I swear I saw him

 

 stick his tongue out at Ebony.

 

 

Now, don’t get me wrong.

 

I truly felt bad that

 

Angry-Cat had no physical affection or

 

real company for three weeks. 

 

I rigged cat toys,

to verrrrryyy long pieces of yarn,

 so I could participate in

Ebony’s playtime,

without risking

plastic surgery reconstruction to my face. 

 

 

I’d throw the toy,

over to where I could make him

 out on the other side of the room….

he’d look at it for awhile and

 then make a small move toward it.

 

 I’d tug on the yarn a bit,

just to engage him.

 

Well, after 30 seconds

 

 of playfulness,

 

he clawed the cloth ball to ribbons.

 

I dragged the

 

very dead toy

 

 by the attached yarn

 

back to me and

 

 

 

 examined it,

 

in shock & awe.

 

Yikes.

 

 

That could have been my face.

 

That’s enough frivolity

 

for one day, or better yet…

 

three weeks.

On day one,

 

I opened two cans of

 

some fishy kind of food

 and placed them on the floor.

 

Elvis comes barreling in and

 

devours his dinner,

 before I even rinsed off the can opener.

 

 He rubs up against my leg,

 just to let me know how

much he loves me, and then leaves.

 As I’m rinsing out the empty cans,

 

I suddenly feel as though

 

I’m no longer alone in the kitchen.

I swallowed hard and 

quickly assessed

 the teensy window

next to the stove and

sadly determined

 that I was just born too

big of a girl to fit through it,

 

 

to get to the fire escape,

 

 if need be.

I slowly turn toward the

 

 kitchen entrance and

 

there he is.

 

 

 

 

I felt like Wyatt Earp,

about to go head to head with Curly Bill.

My heart was pounding and

 I was certain that Ebony

could smell my fear.

His eyes looked a little more

 squinty than they usually were,

as he sized me up.

 

 I slid his food dish across

 the linoleum with my foot,

trying to put as much

safe distance between us

 as I could manage,

in a two-foot long Bronx kitchen.

Surprisingly,

 

he also gobbled down my offering.

He then looked up at me,

 as if he was suddenly willing

to tolerate my presence and

proceeded to

 

 

GAG.

 

 

Or choke.

 

My first thought was,

 

“Oh, No.

 

You puke, I puke.”

I didn’t know if this was one

 

 of those hair-ball thingy situations

 

that I had heard about,

but since he had just finished eating,

 

I thought perhaps a little fishbone

 

 

 had remained from the can.

I’m trying to

mentally conjure up

 an image of how to do a

Heimlich Maneuver on a

 

 pissy, pussycat,

 

without crushing his

skeletal system or,

more importantly,

me coming out of this looking

 like I’d met up with Freddy Krueger.

 

 

I’m trying to talk him through it.

“Ok, Ebony…Susi’s here…it’s ok,

 just be a good boy and

 

 yak it up.”

What else could I say?

I didn’t want to seem

 insensitive or worse,

uninterested.

 

I strongly disliked and

 

 feared him,

 but I wasn’t a monster and

 the prevailing thought was,

“Oh, crap…if he dies,

 

on DAY ONE,

 

 

they’re gonna pin it on me!”

I had all kinds of solutions, running through my head.

I’d simply buy a replacement cat!

 

I Sure couldn’t pick one any worse,

 

but for some God-forsaken reason,

 

they loved this little bastard

and would surely notice

 

 if he suddenly seemed

 

like he’d undergone

 

 intensive therapy while they were gone.

 

 

 

Or I could get him stuffed and

 

put him on a little dolly and

 

pull him around.

 

 

Nah…that’s stupid...

 

They had carpeting

 

 in the living room &

 

the wheels wouldn’t

 

 have moved very well....

 

 

The last option ...


was my last option.

I’d simply put the cat in the freezer

 

and meet them with a bottle of Stoli &

a sympathy bouquet at JFK.

 

 

I did the only logical thing

 

I could come up with.

 

I ran through the apartment,

 

their bedroom closet,

 

 whipping open every drawer,

 

looking for props.

 

I did the same thing

 

in the kitchen and

 

when I reappeared:

I had John’s catcher’s mask

 

 

on my face,

 

over a ski mask

 

 

you'd wear to rob a bank,

 

 

 

 

with a pair of

 

 giant sunglasses

 

 

on top of that.

 

 

 

 

 

Around my neck,

 I wrapped every scarf

I could find, until I looked like

 I had a goiter the size of China.

 

 

    

I put on her long winter Down coat,

 

 

 

but I worried if I got swung at,

 

that it would be a bitch to

 

 vacuum up all of those

 

 expensive feathers.

On my hands,

 

 I had her oven mitts,

 

 

with a long pair of

 

rubber-tipped tongs

 

 in each hand.

 

 

 I had no f’ing idea of what

 

 I was supposed to do

 

 with this protective get-up and weaponry,

 

but damn it,

 

I was prepared. 

 

 

 If I was forced by God

 

 to squeeze this stupid cat,

 

 to make him puke,

 

well I sure as hell

 

 wasn’t using my bare,

 

 

 exposed hands.

 

 

                          

I think I scared the shit

 

out of evil, devil cat,

 

 as his gagging problem

 

instantly stopped

 

at the sight of me and

 

 he ran under the bed and

 

remained there.

 

Every time I opened

 

 that front door and

 

gave my jolly greeting of the day,

 

I heard claws hitting

 

 

 the hardwood floor

 

 of their bedroom,

 

sliding into his new hiding spot.

 

Problem solved.

 

Oh, gosh…

 

 

 

I think I’m The Cat Whisperer.

~SusiTheJ~