“To lower your stress level, get a cat.”
What do fortune cookies know? My son, Joshua, was out of a job. He needed
something to keep him from the brink.
“We’re going to Pet Heart to get a
cat,” I texted from the office. We had just lost a prize, Dragon, our orange
tabby.
We wanted to find another orange but
we had to choose from their collection. I had always wanted a black cat. They
had a black kitten. And a former love, a gray cat named Blueberry, was brought
to mind by the same name on the cage of another gray kitten. An omen.
“You can adopt two,” tempted the
lesser demon on duty. So we did.
Two hundred and fifty dollars and a
background check equal to a human adoption later, we brought Panther and
Blueberry home. Two sweet, furry wrist wrappers to keep Josh from slitting his
jobless wrists. They matured in a spare bedroom complete with cat ‘skyscraper’
to climb and roost on, and all the feline amenities. Then they were ready to
join the family and have complete run of the house.
The universe and past experience are
a mirage that traps you into entertaining beliefs that can metamorphize
unexpectedly.
My husband bellowed from the living
room.
“There’s a mess on the couch!!”
The two sapphire blue microfiber
couches, a love seat and a full sofa with chaise at one end were piled
seductively with plump velveteen pillows in jewel-tones of magenta, gold, and
plum. Better than any litter box you can manufacture.
Faced with the unthinkable, I spun
on my heel to get to the pet-stain cleaner. Blueberry sat primly under the
piano bench. Her loud hallmark purr provided theme music.
No, it didn’t end there.
After several episodes like the
first I hurried her to the vet for expensive, useless counsel and comfort.
“The result of her blood and urine
specimens indicate that this is a behavioral problem,” he intoned in a
sing-song voice meant to sooth the demented. No, ya think? I swiped away over
four hundred dollars for his insights and went home with a pheromone spray to
calm her. May as well have used rum. But that would be for me.
How did I know that Blueberry was
the perp? Panther, perhaps more hominid than fe-lion would paw at the new
masterpiece with confused wonderment. Would the cat-burglar of sorts remain to
point out her dastardly doings? Panther commiserated. He felt for me. Besides,
I caught Bluebird pawing at my pale green windbreaker in preparation before
using it as a comfort station. I had left it on the chaise.
No surprise that Pet Heart had
shelves dedicated to many brands of urine deodorizers: sprays, wipes, soaks.
But my best defense turned out to be black plastic leaf bags.
With sharp scissors cut the sides of
the bags so that the bottom seam remains, to create a long stretch of plastic.
Overlap these long sheets and place them along the seat of the couch with a
towel to soak up the inevitable. Cover the chaise end as well. Breathe. Then
toss the worst of the couches, get outdoor couch and chair covers and keep them
at a slant with cardboard. And wonder of wonders, Blueberry got wise and grew
out of it! Took one year in bedlam to make it so.
We’ve had many cats, and dogs. Never
faced this situation.
Blueberry fetches an old sock,
leaping neatly over the arm of the couch to retrieve it when thrown for her.
She trots back with it in her mouth for more play. Her purr is so deep that it
resonates from the upstairs chair she reclines upon to be heard in the living
room below. She is devoted to Josh and vocalizes to him certain he will catch
on soon. She has become rather large and resembles a gray harbor seal with a
double thick soft coat. Long white whiskers decorate her short little face with
full furry cheeks and golden eyes that always look round and surprised.
She is family. End of story.
(687 words)
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