Flashback Friday

I hate cats.  Rather, I used to hate cats.  For years I have tolerated them as insurance for domestic tranquility.  They always seemed aloof and selfish.  I was raised a dog-lover just like some families decide to shop either the Quad-Cities or Peoria.  It's a family thing.  Many situations would drive Marj to histrionics, among them cats.  She used to have a shtick that was uniquely hers in that she would, when getting the vapors, mention all of the names of the family staccato-style in an attempt to ward off whatever it was that had her climbing the walls at that moment.  It would end up a single word, filled with dread: "Herbmikemarkphil!".  Given the degree of trepidation it could change to "Mikemarkphilherb!", or even even certain names would be repeated, "mikemarkmikeherb philmikemarkherb!".

When you have 4 boys/men in the family I suppose most of the sheen and glamour and civility of things is pretty well diffused.  About the only sheen and glamour and civility left was whatever she could muster and try to instill in us.  As proof, I present the common house cat.  Marj hated cats more than anyone and passed that particular condition to us.  To this day, neither Mark, Phil, or I have ever owned a cat.  Unfortunately, I have had them in my residences since marriage. 



When we moved into the big Victorian on the corner of Chambers and Grove, we knew the previous owners had had several of them, having found a drawer full of tags in the workbench in the basement.  When we fired up the furnace for the first time that first Fall, the dander, or whatever it is they have blew through the duct work and settled in my lungs.  I was near death and on an inhaler for weeks.  Still, we never seemed to run out of the damn furry things.  The current Mrs. Blythe had them, likes them for some reason and then went on to teach the kids it was OK to have them, too.  Let's call that sins of the mothers.  

Photographic evidence of sins of the Mother.

The names come to mind.  Cinnamon, Chance, Rascal, Sorsha.   There was also Figaro.  Others I likely and mercifully have forgotten. All OK beasts, I suppose, int heir own cat-like way.  But they can't come close to the affection, love and, yes, neediness of a dog.   They sleep or lie on window sills all day for the most part.  You can't take them on walks, make a heartwarming movie about them,  or get them to do tricks.  You can't stop them from depositing hairballs, wrecking the furniture or  sleeping daily on the chair that will leave fur that ends up on your pants. They won't rush into a burning house to save you, sniff out drugs or guide a blind person. I have discovered that cat lovers like that about them.  That arrogance is a sort of superiority they appreciate.  That they do nothing is kind of a cat owner's pride.  More's the pity.

I still haven't unlocked the mystery as to why people love their cats.   There was even a recent study from the University of Tokyo that concluded that although cats can recognize their owner's voices, they usually aren't interested enough to respond.   After studying 20 cats in their homes over a period of 8 months, researchers discovered that 50-70% of the felines chose to ignore their master's voices.  30% would make movements with their ears, and 10% would actually get up and find their owners.  Even humans get Stockholm Syndrome.  But cats, hey, they don't really like you.  I didn't need a study to learn that.

So here I am at Shawshank.  Getting up at 5:30-6:00, in the dark, walking downstairs to start the day and occasionally tripped on the stairs, a hungry cat herding me to its food bowl.   I can't "even things up" and get a dog because they have a 30 lb. rule here, and in my estimation, a dog that can fit in a flower pot is no dog.  (I must make an exception here for the wonderful Miss Maddie.)

This one was Chance.  It was OK, I guess, by cat standards.

So one of the great jokes in life is ironic coincidence.  When it became evident that Galesburg's Cottage hospital didn't have the resources to help Marj with her rare diabetic-related illness toward the end of her life, she was transferred to the hospital complex in Iowa City.  And while they couldn't save her life, they eased her pain considerably.  However, on the wall at the foot of her bed, where she was facing, was a framed picture of a cat in a tuxedo.      It sat there, sitting imperiously, with an imperceptible grin, through interminable days of anxiety and sadness.  Like it was getting the last laugh.

Nope, not a cat person.  I feign tolerance for the one in my house and will diplomatically act like I like yours.  But I, like that tuxedo-clad dandy in Marj's room,  imperceptibly grin in wait of the first newspaper clipping that gives credit to a cat for saving a family from fire.   Just never gonna happen.