Disclaimer: No pets die on this column (however they generally odor like they did).
As I write, I’m attempting to calm down in my recliner on a chilly winter’s day subsequent to a roaring hearth, but my toes are freezing as a result of a big, semi-elderly cat named “Missy” — AKA “The Loaf” — is lounging on the hearth fireplace straight in entrance of the firebox and hogging the entire warmth. “How did I reach this state?” you may marvel. So do I.
When my center daughter was 6 years old, she seemed up at me together with her large, manipulative inexperienced eyes and stated, “All I ever wanted was a baby Siamese.”
Unfortunately, I’ve by no means been a “cat person.” Most cats shed like middle-aged hippies, so in the event you spend any period of time with them, you wind up trying like a physique double for Chewbacca. Then there’s that particular feline/surly teenager persona. If solely they might roll their eyes and name you “bruh!”
Due to my lack of a spine, nevertheless, I discovered myself on a quest to find a Siamese kitten. Luckily, the search didn’t take lengthy, and I didn’t need to go to Siam. I discovered Missy via a neighborhood rescue operation that was undoubtedly laughing at me as I drove away.
Life with Missy is all about HER. Unlike many cats, Missy truly enjoys a restricted quantity of petting. I feel she considers it a kind of therapeutic massage remedy. When I pet Missy, I really feel like I’m performing a service and needs to be tipped afterward.
During daytime hours, her sign that she needs to make an appointment to be petted is that she flops onto her aspect, simply out of attain. She calls for that I come to her, and it’s typically on the most inconvenient time possible — like after I’m sitting on the bathroom. If I refuse her reluctant advances, she saunters away (giving me the high-tailed, one-eyed salute) and appears for the right rug to barf on.
A couple of days in the past, I truly discovered myself leaning over her to function my laptop computer to keep away from disturbing her whereas she napped in my pc chair. Something is clearly amiss. I didn’t desire a cat within the first place, and now I can’t go to the toilet or purchase underwear on eBay with out feline interference!
But the true check of my pet tolerance got here one night once we have been startled by the sound of glass shattering within the grasp lavatory, adopted by the doorway into the lounge of a bleeding (on the carpet, after all) and limping Missy. Scooping her up, I noticed that she had a critical laceration on her forearm.
About an hour after I had rushed her to the native emergency vet clinic/money vaporizer, Missy got here out of surgical procedure with assurances from the vet that she can be wonderful — and a suggestion that I rigorously retailer all breakable gadgets in my home (or promote them to assist pay for the vet invoice).
Missy is now 13 years old, which, in human years, is roughly 4,745 litter-box scoops. Since buying “Missy,” we’ve additionally adopted two small doglets that Missy primarily ignores like cheesy items of home decor.
The comfort to life with Missy is that my three daughters love her dearly and she or he makes them completely satisfied. And I type of like her, too. I assume I see her as a problem, and in any case these years, I’m nonetheless decided to make her perceive who’s in cost.
Now excuse me whereas I lean over Missy to go looking eBay for a second pc chair.
Jase Graves’ column is distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate. Contact Graves at [email protected].
