Day of the Cat

I am not a cat person. That admission is the equivalent of walking into a sports bar in L.A. on a Saturday in the fall and announcing you’re not a USC fan. Half the people there will revile you, and the other half will embrace you. But it gets worse. Admitting you’re not a cat lover is a big mark against you with those female feline fanatics that constitute three-quarters of unattached women. It’s an interesting speculation which is cause and which is effect, the attachment to cats or the lack of a male companion. But I digress.

The epitome of cat craziness has to be women over 65, at least ninety percent of whom exhibit some version of this malady. Reports of law enforcement or other governmental agents finding the dwelling of this or that elderly woman overrun by near-feral felines are hardly news any more.

I bring all this up to report on the adventure we had to find a suitable replacement for my mother-in-law’s cat that recently died. My eight-year old daughter had grown quite fond of Oliver, who in his youth was the typical playful kitten but who now could barely drag around his arthritic twenty-year old body. He was also suffering from kidney problems and other ailments, so that, despite still consuming impressive amounts of food and water, he looked like the Dr. Death of cats with his white fur and emaciated body. Most of the time he slept. Were there ObamaCatCare, he would have been end-of-life-planned to another world long ago. Forget kidney care. Oliver would not even have got so much as a cat scan. Still, Lexi, my daughter, looked after him and played with him with dogged devotion. I see that as a good sign for how she will treat her parents when they are in a similarly catatonic state.

Oliver had beaten predictions of his death so long that it almost surprised us when he finally left for the big celestial cattery. I say almost, because for a couple of weeks prior to that day, I had been saying to my wife that the cat was acting strangely. He was especially clingy, and I thought that he was instinctively readying himself for his grand finale.

My eight-year old had a good cry over Oliver’s death. But then, showing that psychological resilience children possess and adults fail to fathom, Lexi soon turned her attention to the task of replacing him. To that end, she and her mother perused the internet for cat ads. Craig’s List turned out to be as good a source for dozens of potential feline friends as for human relationships. But the unscreened nature of the cats available on Craig’s List matches their human counterparts, so that selecting a possible pet is as unpredictable an adventure as using Craig’s List for dating. There seems to be a need for a higher class of pet match-making service, a miew-harmony.com, perhaps.

On finding a candidate with a cat adoption agency in the San Fernando Valley, my wife filled out an on-line application worthy of the FBI. The only thing missing was a space for fingerprints. It asked about previous ownership of cats, and what had happened to them. My wife wisely rejected my proposed answer that they had ended up heroically helping to advance science at various labs. She was asked whether the new cat would be an inside or an outside cat. In light of our difference of opinion, she split the difference and wrote that the cat would do some of each. Big mistake.

Then there was the other background information disclosure, from employment to driver’s license. As to the former, my wife nixed my suggestion to put that we were the owners of a Thai restaurant. The form asked whether we would agree to have people from the cat agency periodically come to our house to check on the cat. My inclination was to tell them jokingly they were welcome any time they could get past our German Shepherd/Doberman mix. My wife just told them, “No.” The form also requested a complete list of people and animals at the house. It demanded that any children under six be sent to live somewhere else.

Actually, I made up that last one. But after dealing with the other quirky requests, by the time the form was completed such a demand would have surprised no one.

After some discussions on the telephone, it was agreed that we would pick up the cat at a large pet food store in the San Fernando Valley. I anticipated a brief get-acquainted session that would end with a grateful pet adoption agent (and a grateful cat) accompanying us in plenty of time to return home for a productive afternoon.

Was I ever wrong! I have bought cars, complete with financing, in less time than it took to get out of the door with that cat. Forget the cars; my children were born more quickly. There are Hollywood marriages that have lasted less time.

After yet another review of the application, there was a lengthy dissertation on cat care and the physical and psychological needs of the cat. Subtly addressing the disturbing tendency of many animal lovers to consider animals worthier than humans, my wife noted that nothing like that was ever demanded of me or my wife to take our children out of the hospital. The woman was aghast that we had checked that we did not want anyone to come to our house. “Why would you not want us to come check on the cat,” she asked, dumbfounded. “Because we think you’re nuts, and don’t want you anywhere near our children,” were the words that wanted to tumble out of our mouths. Instead, “You have our address. You can drive by,” was our response.

Then came a list of warnings about improper food. “Don’t feed the cat a lot of fish. She can get mercury poisoning.” My thoughts were that I should tell her that crazed cat fanciers who go to people’s houses and cause trouble often get .38 caliber lead poisoning.

In similar vein, we were warned not to feed her luncheon meat. Too many preservatives that could be harmful. I was tempted to ask why such cold cuts were fine for humans. If we get killed eating luncheon meat, we won’t be able to adopt cats in order not to feed them cold cuts. No chocolate, which once and for all ended our long-held plans to indulge the cat with a steady diet of chocolate-covered cat’s tongues (cookies).

By this time I assumed that such basic cat cuisine as birds, mice, rats, lizards, and other “meals-on- the-hoof” were beyond the pale, and I was beginning to wonder what to feed the animal. How had cats ever evolved and survived for millions of years without this combination FDA, OSHA, and EPA? The commissar of cats then helpfully suggested that some cats like to eat peas and cantaloupe, and that we should feed that to our new charge.

Now it was my turn to be dumbfounded. Had this woman seen too many showings of Madagascar and various Disney animation movies that feature the new politically-correct vegetarian carnivore? Had she never looked at a cat’s teeth? Was she unreservedly bonkers? My wife shot me urgent glances not to stir the pot, or we might not get out of there before closing.

I took a closer look at this woman. She didn’t physically appear to be deranged. Botoxed, likely. Other “work,” probably. But no wild, Cosmo Kramer eyes. So this must simply be the muted manifestation of some neurosis that raged internally in the deep recesses of her superego.

We finally loosed our own ultimate weapon, the three-year old. I had been entertaining him, trying to smooth the closing of the “adoption” that my wife was handling. It was now time to unleash him. Such an escalation was risky. After all, his antics of running around the store, yelling, and touching all the cats to the misgivings of the disapproving cat handlers, could cause the whole deal to collapse. But, as the saying goes, desperate (and passing) times call for desperate measures.

Whatever the reason, we finally got out of there. With the cat. And numerous instructions.

Since then, we have received a call asking again to come visit the house. “No,” was the emphatic answer. Further, there has been a follow-up email with a reminder of a promise (never made) permanently to seal the pet door to keep the cat from going into the backyard. This is another fascinating psychological phenomenon. Cats are roaming animals. Yet this woman has an attitude I have noticed with many cat fanciers. They maintain a tighter policy of detention and incarceration of their charges than does the U.S. at Guantanamo.

As an interesting side note, the cat has ignored the pet door. The only one who uses it is the three-year-old when he sneaks out of his room at nap-time and crawls outside to play with his trucks.

With the passage of time, I have come to a measured response. The whole experience reminds one of a small and private version of the nanny state. Endless forms and inquiries. Long wait times. Being treated like incompetents who lack the common sense to live their lives without the help of such busybodies.

But, then, these folks mean well, which in this particular context is mildly annoying but not harmful. It is a basic human need to be loved and to extend love. We are social creatures. Most people extend that love to family, friends, and, through personal altruism, less fortunate strangers. A few, perhaps those who lack the aforementioned outlets, offer it to animals. They anthropomorphize those animals from pets into animal companions. And, sure, they’re a bit daft in the eyes of most. But they do, in a fundamental way, perform a valuable service, that is, connecting a little black and white kitten with an eight-year-old girl who, now that her little brother has turned into a pest, also wants something to love.