Cat Got Your Tongue
I was three years old the first time I told a lie. For some reason I took it upon myself to smear shoe polish all over my brother’s wall. When my mother confronted me, I readily explained that my “imaginary friend” had done it.
Mom quickly deconstructed my case due to the fact that, prior to this incident, I had never mentioned an imaginary friend. Even if I had mentioned him, the “imaginary” aspect of his personality made him an unlikely suspect. Also, it was probably obvious that I was the culprit because I was holding a shoe polish can and had black smears all over my hands, legs and face.
The “imaginary friend” defense immediately came to mind because for several months my brother had maintained a relationship with a friend he called “Nobody.” Alan got away with imaginary explanations all the time. Our parents would find him having lengthy conversations with the vacant air and ask, “Who are you talking to, Alan?” “Nobody,” he would explain. They would simply accept his answer and move on, so naturally I assumed they would acknowledge my imaginary friend as well. But of course (being the least favorite child) I was punished.
By the time I told my second lie I had given up on the supernatural. It all started because my brother and I had been campaigning for a pet for as long as both of us could remember. Before I was even out of diapers Alan had requested an anteater, but was immediately shot down because Dad said it would “poop all over the house.”
For a while we tried to capture our own pets. During the summer months we collected elm beetles off the willow tree. Sadly, 1,267 of these pets (all of whom we aptly named “Elmy”) died within five minutes of entering their pet quarters in Alan’s pencil box.
After he started school Mom and Dad were able to placate Alan with a couple of fish, but they knew such tactics would not work for me. “She is going to want something furry,” my Dad sighed. That Christmas they stupidly let me pet-sit for our class guinea pig, and soon after that I badgered them into getting me one of my own. While Chipper was a wonderful pet, her novelty quickly wore off. I petted her as much as I could, but fur was like crack. I needed another fix. And that was when I met Boody.
Cats were strictly forbidden in the Smith household because their poop could not be confined to a cage and they almost never died. However, to this day I maintain that Boody found me instead of my seeking her out, so (much like the shoe polish incident of 1979) I was not entirely at fault.
It all happened one fall day when I was busily re-arranging the furniture in my room (a bi-weekly ritual). Just as I was scooting a five-drawer chest across the floor, I heard a distinct mewing outside in our back yard. I peered out my second story window and saw two cats calling to me. About 30 feet away on the east side of the lawn sat a third, smaller cat, who was clearly their child.
Sensing their anguish I quickly ran down the stairs, charged outside, and approached the cats. The pair of adults ran away quickly but the smaller cat stayed a little longer. The message they were sending was clear: these cat parents had hit rough times due to the economic recession that took place during the Reagan administration, and they could not feed their teenage kitten on measly federal cheese rations. They were leaving their child at my doorstep, and wanted me to take care of her for as long as I and my family had means.
I politely suggested to my parents that we adopt the starving cat and they responded with a resounding “No!” and “Don’t you give that cat any milk!” And I didn’t give her milk. At least, not at first. I tried giving her pizza, leftover broccoli, and part of a Rocky Road candy bar, but she would have none of it. For several days she refused to even visit our yard. In response, I composed elaborate musical dramas that consisted of me waving a dead tree branch, dancing, and singing passionate arias in which I vowed she would be my only cat and I would love her forever if she would just come back. Finally, I did the only thing I could do to make her stay. I left a saucer of milk in the flower bed.
About 15 feet of snow accumulated during the great blizzard of 1982 and we found that, mysteriously, there was a cat howling at our door. “What is that?” my Dad asked, his anger growing. “Did you give that cat milk!” I shrugged and put on my best “clueless” expression. “No, of course not,” I told him. That was probably the biggest lie I ever told my parents, and I did not confess it until after I graduated from college. But, lie or no lie, the storm was treacherous that winter, and Dad agreed to let the cat in on the condition that she would go back outside the very next day. By no means was she going to live with us.
In the blink or an eye it was summer and Alan and I were out in the front yard, happily frolicking with our new cat (whom we named “Boody” because it was the only name she responded to when called). My Dad approached us and said, “OK, the weather is warm now, it’s time for the cat to go back into the wild.” I gazed up at him, flashed the beguiling doe eyes that are like kryptonite to the father of any six-year-old, and said, “She’s having a good life, Dad. Let the cat have a good life.”
The cat lived with us for 20 years. My mother (who is not an animal person) tolerated Boody as best she could but grew frustrated after the 15th year when the cat repeatedly bounced back from illness. “The damn thing keeps regenerating!” she would scream. But Dad loved Boody more and more as the years passed on, and long after Alan and I had moved out of the house the two of them would sit together in his home office discussing various business ventures. In fact, Dad made Boody the V.P. of Marketing for the first company he ever founded, which I guess made her death especially difficult for him. That and the fact that she died on his birthday.
Yet, despite the sadness we felt after her loss, I think most of the family would agree that Boody brought us more joy than pain. I still get a warm feeling when I think about her curled up under the Christmas tree, or the way she snuggled up to me after I got my wisdom teeth removed. She didn’t leave my side for three days.
In closing, I would like to dedicate this blog entry in part to the memory of my beloved ex-cat, Boody. She was a true companion and I miss her. I also dedicate this story to my friend Laura’s cat, Patches, who will soon be celebrating his or her 20th birthday. Rock on, Patches. And don’t let incontinence or the occasional hair ball ruin your birthday cake. In fact, that’s sound advice for all of you.
Mom quickly deconstructed my case due to the fact that, prior to this incident, I had never mentioned an imaginary friend. Even if I had mentioned him, the “imaginary” aspect of his personality made him an unlikely suspect. Also, it was probably obvious that I was the culprit because I was holding a shoe polish can and had black smears all over my hands, legs and face.
The “imaginary friend” defense immediately came to mind because for several months my brother had maintained a relationship with a friend he called “Nobody.” Alan got away with imaginary explanations all the time. Our parents would find him having lengthy conversations with the vacant air and ask, “Who are you talking to, Alan?” “Nobody,” he would explain. They would simply accept his answer and move on, so naturally I assumed they would acknowledge my imaginary friend as well. But of course (being the least favorite child) I was punished.
By the time I told my second lie I had given up on the supernatural. It all started because my brother and I had been campaigning for a pet for as long as both of us could remember. Before I was even out of diapers Alan had requested an anteater, but was immediately shot down because Dad said it would “poop all over the house.”
For a while we tried to capture our own pets. During the summer months we collected elm beetles off the willow tree. Sadly, 1,267 of these pets (all of whom we aptly named “Elmy”) died within five minutes of entering their pet quarters in Alan’s pencil box.
After he started school Mom and Dad were able to placate Alan with a couple of fish, but they knew such tactics would not work for me. “She is going to want something furry,” my Dad sighed. That Christmas they stupidly let me pet-sit for our class guinea pig, and soon after that I badgered them into getting me one of my own. While Chipper was a wonderful pet, her novelty quickly wore off. I petted her as much as I could, but fur was like crack. I needed another fix. And that was when I met Boody.
Cats were strictly forbidden in the Smith household because their poop could not be confined to a cage and they almost never died. However, to this day I maintain that Boody found me instead of my seeking her out, so (much like the shoe polish incident of 1979) I was not entirely at fault.
It all happened one fall day when I was busily re-arranging the furniture in my room (a bi-weekly ritual). Just as I was scooting a five-drawer chest across the floor, I heard a distinct mewing outside in our back yard. I peered out my second story window and saw two cats calling to me. About 30 feet away on the east side of the lawn sat a third, smaller cat, who was clearly their child.
Sensing their anguish I quickly ran down the stairs, charged outside, and approached the cats. The pair of adults ran away quickly but the smaller cat stayed a little longer. The message they were sending was clear: these cat parents had hit rough times due to the economic recession that took place during the Reagan administration, and they could not feed their teenage kitten on measly federal cheese rations. They were leaving their child at my doorstep, and wanted me to take care of her for as long as I and my family had means.
I politely suggested to my parents that we adopt the starving cat and they responded with a resounding “No!” and “Don’t you give that cat any milk!” And I didn’t give her milk. At least, not at first. I tried giving her pizza, leftover broccoli, and part of a Rocky Road candy bar, but she would have none of it. For several days she refused to even visit our yard. In response, I composed elaborate musical dramas that consisted of me waving a dead tree branch, dancing, and singing passionate arias in which I vowed she would be my only cat and I would love her forever if she would just come back. Finally, I did the only thing I could do to make her stay. I left a saucer of milk in the flower bed.
About 15 feet of snow accumulated during the great blizzard of 1982 and we found that, mysteriously, there was a cat howling at our door. “What is that?” my Dad asked, his anger growing. “Did you give that cat milk!” I shrugged and put on my best “clueless” expression. “No, of course not,” I told him. That was probably the biggest lie I ever told my parents, and I did not confess it until after I graduated from college. But, lie or no lie, the storm was treacherous that winter, and Dad agreed to let the cat in on the condition that she would go back outside the very next day. By no means was she going to live with us.
In the blink or an eye it was summer and Alan and I were out in the front yard, happily frolicking with our new cat (whom we named “Boody” because it was the only name she responded to when called). My Dad approached us and said, “OK, the weather is warm now, it’s time for the cat to go back into the wild.” I gazed up at him, flashed the beguiling doe eyes that are like kryptonite to the father of any six-year-old, and said, “She’s having a good life, Dad. Let the cat have a good life.”
The cat lived with us for 20 years. My mother (who is not an animal person) tolerated Boody as best she could but grew frustrated after the 15th year when the cat repeatedly bounced back from illness. “The damn thing keeps regenerating!” she would scream. But Dad loved Boody more and more as the years passed on, and long after Alan and I had moved out of the house the two of them would sit together in his home office discussing various business ventures. In fact, Dad made Boody the V.P. of Marketing for the first company he ever founded, which I guess made her death especially difficult for him. That and the fact that she died on his birthday.
Yet, despite the sadness we felt after her loss, I think most of the family would agree that Boody brought us more joy than pain. I still get a warm feeling when I think about her curled up under the Christmas tree, or the way she snuggled up to me after I got my wisdom teeth removed. She didn’t leave my side for three days.
In closing, I would like to dedicate this blog entry in part to the memory of my beloved ex-cat, Boody. She was a true companion and I miss her. I also dedicate this story to my friend Laura’s cat, Patches, who will soon be celebrating his or her 20th birthday. Rock on, Patches. And don’t let incontinence or the occasional hair ball ruin your birthday cake. In fact, that’s sound advice for all of you.
posted by Alice | 6:45 PM
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