Chosen

We have a new cat, inasmuch as anyone has a cat.  More accurately, the cat has us.  I know that is a real yawner to you Experienced Cat People, but we were Cat Virgins, until recently. The first cat, Kat, was a scrap of a cat when he appeared on our back deck: starving, matted, all but three dangling teeth broken off under the gums, diagnosis courtesy of the Expensive Feline Dental Surgeon Specialist, called in to crack the case.

So toothless Kat, by all accounts part Maine Coon, now has a playmate: a smaller, younger now spayed and vaccinated sister.  We didn’t know cats came smaller, since Kat was a starter cat for us, dog people, and once he started eating, soft food of course, that bag of skin turned out to be quite substantial. 

At first, there was little to learn.  He was too sick to teach us.  But as he began to feel better, orientation began.  We learned where to pet him (back of the neck), where not to (belly - claws too available when irritated.)  We learned that he would come to our laps when he wanted and that we needed to have a towel available to quickly drape over our legs if we had on thin pants (claws again - kneading this time.) 

Obviously, Kat can’t hunt birds, which has been perfect, as we have multiple bird feeders.  Relaxation is over, however, as the feeders turned into smorgasbords for new cat, black and white, slinking out from under one of our outbuildings. In a few horrifying seconds, new cat can jump six feet from a standing position, snatch a bird from the feeder and have feathers flying.  We saw this, horrified, several times.  We decided to try to substitute Friskies for songbirds, and gradually it began to work.  I’ve never been quite so grateful for opposable thumbs.  Being able to open a can is my contribution to the continued future of the Audubon Society. 

Feeding her led to naming her.  She bounced around for awhile as Feral Fredericka.  But then inevitably, she became Oreo.  As she began to wait for us, we discovered she is a circler. When you open the back door and begin to go out with breakfast, you have to watch every step.  There is something eminently attractive about one’s ankles (not sure. . .). So as you walk, a small, quite bendable cat weaves in and out, making each step a badge of courage.  Without coffee, maneuvering from kitchen door to gazebo (Oreo’s subdivision) can be quite the beginning to one’s day, fraught with peril. 

Once you get there, Oreo continues to want to get petted, so stroke it is, down the back, then down the back, then the belly, and down the back.  Once she realizes the food dish is on the ground, well, affection be damned, and you are dismissed,  free to return to the house and resume your search for caffeinated beverage.

We also have two dogs, two Labradors, who have a giant, multi-sheltered kennel.  These two are repeatedly excited out of their skins to have you show up: Food!  Food! Food!  Walk! Walk! Walk! You! You! You! If one only had dogs, which was us until cats started showing up, one might consider oneself far more important than one really is.  I am beginning to think that the cats have been put on Earth as a spiritual lesson of sorts, to show us our real place in this universe.

Perhaps the evolutionary leap of opposable thumbs was purely to be able to open cat food cans.  Perhaps our upright bipedal posture is purely to give cats a moving figure eight within which to circle.  Perhaps clothing is meant for nothing more than to be the proud bearer of cat fur, even if you are on the way to work, to the gym, or to lunch with a friend; it doesn’t matter, go out there with pride.  You have been chosen, (you!) by the cat.