Pussy was a gourmet cat Who'd have a morsel of this And a tidbit of that. From ragons of lamb And chicken every way, To bacon and ham And Beef Bordelaise. With tastes like that You become a gourmet cat
During the years that my wife and I toiled at our restaurant, her indoor/outdoor cats fended for themselves from nine in the morning until after midnight. To compensate, she left a smorgasbord of cat food out for all five of the ungrateful little bastards. Our kitchen floor was a minefield of cat food bowls.
A cat had only to whimper, and the next sound would be the can opener grinding out a new feline culinary offering. Suzie only wanted shrimp. Shrimp? Sylvester only ate crunchy dry food which none of the others would touch. Rhett Butler preferred canned food but would eat another brand of crunches. Merry liked an occasional raw egg, which made cooking breakfast difficult with her under foot.
They all were offended if tiny sacks of "treats" were not regularly offered. I have no idea what controlled substance was in those treats, but it kept Kay's cuties strung-out and begging for more. That cat food came from minuscule 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 little adorables approach a freshly opened expensive can of cat food, take one whiff, turn around and start trying to cover the food up like it had just relieved itself. But the urge to drop kick the persnickety little darling soon passes.
Television at that time was awash with cat food ads assuring all cat lovers that pussycats would break down brick walls to get to their brand. One of the most offensive of these ads showed a housewife, dressed in a cat suit, up on her roof with a bowl of food trying to entice tabby to dinner. I looked everywhere for a cat suit for Kay, my wife, for Mother's Day to no avail.
I chose Mother's Day, because Kay and I have no children, and the cats fill the void for her. My two lovely daughters satisfied my urge for progeny. So every time I file a cat complaint, Kay reminds me that cats don't require orthodontia or college educations. I've consoled myself with that thought over the course of our marriage.
Then comes the question of what do these fuzzy little despots do with what they eat and drink. I hoped since they were indoor/outdoor cats that they would have the decency to do their business outside, preferably in the neighbors' yards. But these little dears would tear down the backdoor to come in and befoul the house. It still is amazing how creative the charmers are at hiding their droppings in our house. Dropping a load in a cat box takes no talent at all. Hiding one where the odor becomes so intense that I selflessly call in a nuclear strike to save mankind, takes some doing.
Let's not forget the hair - cat hair everywhere. It starts as air pollution after their interminable licking and scratching, then settles as a fine dust over everything we own. Other times huge balls of fur roll around like tumbleweeds. These hairballs were ripped out during the nightly catfights that fell my lot to referee.
You've probably guessed that I am not some simpering, soggy cat lover who does third person baby talk to these creatures. I can build a pretty strong case for feline extinction. I also hold the hope that the person who first invited one of these animals into his abode is spending eternity neck deep in them.
From all of Kay's cats, there was, however, one sterling example of what any self-respecting cat should be. His name was Pussy. Pussy was a gelding, a condition that could produce psychological trauma in other toms whose load had been lightened. Not Pussy. He was totally self reliant and fearless.
A neighbor had a tomcat named Peter, and the two cats were bitter enemies. One night a howling cat fight broke out in our backyard that awoke both Kay and myself. She went to the window, returned to bed, and announced, "It's just Peter fighting Pussy." Kay went to sleep while I lay in bed for two hours bursting out laughing at the semantics of the occasion.
On another occasion I saw a large German Shepard mistakenly enter Pussy's front yard domain. From ambush, Pussy landed on the dog's back launching a diminutive version of a circus dog-and-pony act. Nearing the street, Pussy jumped behind the dog swiping him across his rear, and literally, as they say, "Tore him a new one."
Pussy had two other completely endearing qualities. First, he ate anything that didn't eat him first. His favorites were the leftover treats Kay brought home from our restaurant. The more haute the better the cuisine for Pussy. Second, I never saw where he did his business. I'm talking about near feline perfection here.
Pussy waited ever so stoically in the driveway each evening for our return home. He leapt into the car with the door in mid-swing, and dispensed just enough loving to insure the continuation of the ritual. He then proceeded to the business at hand - exploring Kay's ever present brown bag containing his evening treat personally delivered from our restaurant.
He definitely was a different kind of cat. I could appreciate his love for good food, and he had no bad habits. He was not hyper like most cats when they relate to humans and to their own kind. Constantly in control and always completely confident of Kay and me, his serenity and composure were ever intact.
His most endearing trait; however, was his passion for being outside where the action was. A cat that only comes around for short periods of time is something that a non-cat lover can really appreciate. Pussy and I had years of enjoyable dtente.
When Pussy died a victim of feline leukemia, we asked the vet to save his remains. Somehow it just didn't seem right for an old friend to end in a plastic sack in a garbage can.
Kay asked me to bury him in our backyard so he would be close. I think also she felt two hours of digging in the limestone infested Texas Hill Country would keep me from continuing to wish for the early demise of her other four cats.
Befittingly, we buried Pussy in a Chateau Trottevieille St. Emilion wooden wine crate. As I lowered him into the ground, I noticed the Chateau's quality designation branded into the wooden box end - "1er Premier Grand Cru Classe."
Yeah, that was old Pussy.
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