One Plus One Equals Too Many
However, some advice may now be necessary since I have discovered myself to be the unwilling surrogate mother of a one-and-a-half kilo-cat. My long and mournful tale (I detest puns) begins with the Christmas holidays. It’s important that nay human interest story should occur at least near Christmas and this particular cat obviously has read the script. Anyway, said cat appeared on our doorstep looking healthy but cold and hungry on or about Christmas Day and while I’m sympathetic by nature, I deny any attempt at the label – ‘fool’. So, cautiously I put some left-over kibble in a chipped, china saucer and deposited it unceremoniously on the bottom porch step. The cat choked it down with such fury that I had to wonder if I wasn’t the first to witness spontaneous consumption! Another dish of kibble. This time fresh. One step up. Next came the tinned cat food, bowl of milk and you guessed it, a quilt-lined box. (A snow squall was predicted.) The following day, as I cracked open the door to check on “the poor little thing” she uncurled from her cozy, cardboard tenement and marched directly into our house. Her’s and mine. This, I assure everyone, is a temporary arrangement. We already have one cat. She is not amused. In fact she has chosen to challenge our new adoption policy by leaving her mark of protest, as it were, all over the basement floor. Another serious consideration is my own and I suspect my daughter’s allergies. One cat is plenty. So here’s where I have decided to solicit advice: Now that my consciousness has been raised by Vicki Miller and the Animal Liberation Front, how can I feign innocence when I call the Animal Control people for pick-up? In other words, how can I pretend that this year old cat will find the family of its dreams once I give it to an impersonal, over-worked, underpaid institution? More succinctly, how does one learn to live with killing a perfectly healthy, affectionate domestic animal? Am I reaching you yet? It seems absurd yet accurate that I have somehow managed to rescue this cat to certain death since I refuse, on moral grounds to abandon her. In desperation, I made an appeal to my creative thinking class. “We’re suffering a CATastrophe,” I wailed. “How’s you other cat taking the intruder?” they wondered. “She’s lost-looking, dejected.” “CATatonic,” they diagnosed. “You must nip this in the bud before it reaches CATaclysmic proportions.” Then came the questions: “Did you notify the papers? Put posters on poles? Leave a ‘found’ message with Animal Control?” “Of course!” I tried to hide my contempt for their colourless practicality. What else? I phoned all the sensitive people we know. I begged. I pleaded. Then I announced, “This cat’s days are numbered. Let it be on your head.” It was my experience in the Loblaw store that finally forced me to concede the depth of my obsession. Two elderly women were privately exchanging delicate information when I burst upon them. “Did somebody say they ‘lost a cat’? Stunned silence. Still, in hot pursuit of a potential owner I added, “She’s very pretty, mainly white… I began to list CATegorically every known positive attribute that might even remotely be applicable to felines. I can’t say with certainty when I finally realized that they weren’t crying tears of joy – thrilled to overflowing with my good fortune and theirs. I also can’t say exactly when I suddenly remembered that ‘lost’ can also mean ‘dead’. But when the thought finally emerged that I was the boor trampling over their recent bereavement… Well, it was a humbling experience. I can only say how grateful I am that this column comes without the author’s photo. This is my final catcall. One week following publication of this magazine, this cat will have moved. I hope not eternally. Surely there must be one respectable cat burglar amongst my readership?
If not, does anyone happen to know Vicki Miller’s mailing
address? Her cat awaits. |