Yes, Virginia, There Is A Cat!

We have a cat.  She does all the 'cat' things.  She is aloof, temperamental, demanding, secretive, and completely nuts.  She also has held a grudge for going on 16 years now.  She is a mostly-dark calico and many people do not believe she exists.  You see, she was broken at an early age and has never really recovered...this is her story.  For you dog people, let me throw you a bone, (get it dog, bone, I crack myself up!) Fudge, the wunderhund, sits beside me while I write every day...it's just a matter of time before I write about him again.

Sylvia and I got our first house, then got a cat.  Sylvia's friend, Tammy, is a vet tech and she, "has a box of kittens that someone dropped off at the hospital where she worked."  My response was probably something like, "Good, she'll take care of them.  Where we going to dinner?"  And then the eyes started...complete with pouty mouth...  "Okaaaay, we go see the kittens.  But I'm not really a cat guy!" 

If you are thinking, "Oh no!  This guy is a cat hater.  I must stop reading immediately and tell my cousin to take down the blog I printed for her refrigerator!"  You couldn't be farther from the truth.  That was my brother's friend.  His license plate frame said, "Looking for your cat...check under my tires."  That is not me.  I was just always a dog guy...and I have had "experiences" with cats.

In high school my friend Rachel had a cat named La Leak (It was probably spelled some exotic way like La Liq...I never asked)  This was a cat I could deal with.  She came to me every time I visited and wanted to be pet.  She was also 147 years old and would drool on anyone who pet her...but that's not the story.  One day I was petting the leaky one, and she was purring, and then...for no reason...she turned her head and started chewing on my arm!  Begone psycho!

My sister had a cat who would walk just out of arm's reach and if you tried to pet it, it would draw blood.  It was a mane-coon, which is a special kind of "cat" that is part feral, part raccoon, and part three headed dog that guards the gates of the underworld.  It was not my, or my bleeding appendages', favorite cat.  My sister loved that cat (and all things furry) but I never understood it.

I had a friend, Sandy, who couldn't say no to a cat.  When I went to her house, which she shared with about 6 cats, I would always walk out feeling like the cat fairy had sprinkled me with magical allergy dust.  Nose running, eyes itching, the whole nine yards!  I would take an allergy pill before I went over there...just in self defense.  It was also where Sylvia and I had our first date.

Then, closer totghe time when Sylvia's friend had these free kittens, we were looking for our first house.  With the real estate agent (who will be a blog all on his own one day) we went to a house in Newark.  We got to the door and there was a note that said, "Do not let the cat out..."  As we walked in, we were ambushed by a creature with no compassion for human life.  Before we were three steps in the cat had batted my arm with its claw three times and I was bleeding!  I later looked at the note about not letting the cat out...It actually said, "Do not let the cat out... of the gates of hell.  Someone already blew that one!  Or, maybe cats just don't like me.

We got to Tammy's house and she showed us this collection of little balls of fur. 
"Aren't they cute."
"Yes, but they grow into cats you know."
"Cat's take care of themselves."
"Yes, and then they 'can take care of themselves' kind of like a prize fighter can."
"But look, that one is sitting off all by herself...she is a loner.  She needs a home.  Tammy says she'll do all the shots.  But if you really don't want one..."
"Never mind...you had me at loner."  I'm a sucker for the shy kids.

So now we had a cat...and this shy, retiring, cute little bundle of fluff...turned into psycho kitty.  She was so rambunctious we named her Friska (I know, we are just too cute for words) and she was a lot of fun.  She also made me feel like I had radioactive sand in my eyes and talked like Fran Drescher whenever I was home...but she was cute.  Sylvia washed her, explored allergy reducing creams, and we tried to keep her as far from me as possible. 

Now the cat sleeps on my pillow (how do they know!?) and we have since learned that kitty dander is much more potent than cat dander so we have a sniffle free house again.  But that is not what I wanted to write about.

We have friends who have been in and out of the house, for years, who do not believe we have a cat.  We have had people take care of our pets while we were away and the only way they knew that we weren't lying about owning a cat is that the food disappeared a little each day.  Our cat has carved out a little niche in our room and only comes out when Sylvia or I go in.  Then she is playful, fun, demanding, ornery, and psycho.

Why the self-imposed living space limits?  Tammy broke her.  Well, that's my explanation and Mythbusters hasn't come over to prove me wrong yet, so there you go.  When Tammy came over to give Friska her shots she rang the doorbell, walked over to Friska, grabbed her and stabbed her with the needle before even telling anyone hello.  The cat, who apparently feels the same way about needles that I do, took off!  We didn't see her for three days. 

And this is how the legend started.  So if you come by one foggy night (because the kids left the hot shower on too darn long) and you see the silhouette of a cat walking along the windowsill.  Do not be alarmed.  It is really a cat.  A cat named Friska.  Who is lying in wait until Tammy returns.