Cat People

 

The world is made up of opposing factions.  There are Communists and Capitalists, Democrats and Republicans, and dog people and cat people.

I used to be a dog person.  I thought the purpose of cats was for dog aerobics.  In other words, a dog would chase a cat till his pulse was at 80% Maximum Heart Rate for ten minutes, and then he’d have a cool down period when he would just look up in the tree and growl.  As a result, a dog would have a longer, healthier life.

Growing up, I always had a dog.  We did everything together.  We’d play ball, go exploring and, of course, hate cats.  We never really shared the experience of rolling on roadkill or eating garbage, but I figured that’s what helped us maintain our own unique personalities.

It was the lovely Mrs. Borengasser, before she was the lovely Mrs. Borengasser, who introduced me to cats.

When we first met, she had a cat named Di Di, a stuck-up, pantalooned creature who had no time for me.  That suited me fine.

“Di Di’s great, isn’t she?” said the lovely Mrs. Borengasser-to-be one day in a tone of voice that didn’t invite discussion.

I mumbled an answer.

“What did you say?” she asked.

“For a cat,” I repeated.  She’s great – for a cat.”

“You don’t like cats, do you?” she asked, as if our relationship might depend on the answer.

“They’re okay,” I said.  “They’re just not dogs.”  I foolishly decided to elaborate.  “Try looking at it this way.  Dogs are good-natured, fun-loving, easy-to-please animal buddies.  Cats, on the other hand, are the spawn of Satan.

“Dogs drool,” she countered.

“Cat can’t even learn their own names,” I replied.  “Every cat in the entire world thinks his or her name is Kitty.

“Well, I like cats,” she said.

“A compelling argument,” I admitted.

Our first cat was a kitten named Snoopy.  My initial encounter with Snoopy was an ugly one.  I was awakened at 3:00 in the morning.  Snoopy was sitting on my chest, bopping me in the nose with several unsheathed claws, as if I were breathing through some kitty toy.  After I explained to Snoopy, in a somewhat universal language, that this was against the rules, we got along better.

Next came Willie, son of Snoopy, an unattractive, one-eyed cat you couldn’t touch without shuddering.

Willie, who understood the concept of Up-the-Tree, but didn’t have a clue about Down-the-Tree.  One Fourth of July, I even had to shinny up a tree to rescue him.  I had always hoped that shinnying, like pimples, was something I would no longer have to contend with.

Willie, who once grabbed a strip of beef from my plate and went dashing out the window with it.  I dove through the same window, and we wrestled in the garden for the purloined protein.  After I reclaimed the beef, I washed it and then ate it.  Just to make a point.

Willie, who would be sitting at the top of the driveway when we would come home at night, with his good eye flashing a welcome like a miniature lighthouse.

But it was Willie who eventually won me over to cats.  I’m not even sure how.

Maybe it was because he was a survivor, who, against all odds, lasted years and years.

Or, perhaps it was just because he was so unsightly and eccentric. 

But I suspect it was because he was incredibly loyal, wily and friendly, and would go on long walks with us in the woods.

You know, sort of like a dog.