I live in a home ruled by a cat, a little sultan of swat who is never shy about telling his minions when they've displeased him.
I realize there are some people who actually, dare I say it, dislike cats. And some of them are, aside from this one glaring character flaw, likeable people. As to the others, well there really is no hope for you.
However, this column is not about people, but about the cats that deign to allow people to share their space.
We were once a family of five (not counting the kids, and sometimes I don't want to) - three cats of varying degrees of intelligence (and that's not an oxymoron for said hopeless people), husband and I. We had Nelson, the beautiful black and white tuxedo cat. His namesake was Nelson Mandela - our Nelson was sprung from the Surrey SPCA the same day the people of South Africa finally freed their hero. Our Nelson had many claims to fame. He loved cantaloupe; begging for a piece of melon was never beneath his dignity. He was insulted only by cat food, although he never, ever failed to come to the sound of the can opener. Nelson also rivalled Houdini in being a master of escape. He managed to get out of every halter ever devised for cats. He would simply become as limp as a dishrag, and the moment our backs were turned he would wriggle out of the restraint and off he'd go over the fence to explore. He once went missing for 10 days during one of the worst snowstorms the Lower Mainland had ever seen. Smart cat, he ended up at the home of kind people who feed him "milk and cookies." As my Mom said, little wonder he didn't want to come home.
Our second cat was a huge (tall not fat) white-with-brown-spots critter that was spooked by the most amazing things: the rustle of newspaper, a butterfly overhead or a hand reaching to pet him. We found out when X-rays became necessary during his last fatal illness he'd had a broken sternum. The vet deduced he'd been kicked when young and the injury had healed. I can only hope there's a special part of hell for someone who would do that to any living creature.
The remaining cat, our present lord and master, is named Red Cat. Very imaginative, I know, but it beats the LaMarr the lady who rescued him from imminent death at a shelter saddled him with. Red Cat hates whistling. He'll actually come if you whistle to tell you to shut up. He dislikes his people parents to take too long after dinner when he, Red Cat, is ready to watch TV. Our appointed place is on the couch with the cat lying on his pillows between the two of us. Heaven help us if that scenario changes. The meows are pitiful. Although he's about 15 and still runs like a youngster, his age is catching up; he needs thyroid pills and half a blood pressure pill each day. And yet I say, long may he reign.
