I’ve been a dog lover all my life,
but I have to say, cats are fascinating. You gotta give props to a creature
that can purr affectionately in your ear one minute, and then scratch your eyes
out the next. Others scoff and pay no respect to our feline friends, but not
me.
My friend Craig, for example, can’t
stand the “lil bastards,” as he calls them. This is a man, by the way, who was in
the musical “Cats” on Broadway. I’m not even going to tell you what he did to
the tails of his fellow “cat-mates.” According to Craig, cats mess with his
“chi.” Ummm… okay.
I just dig cats’ personalities. My
friend Marcy is currently staying with me, and she has a bruiser of a cat named
Gizmo. God bless her, but Gizmo can be such a bitch! She slaps me when I love
her too hard, and then hastily retreats to the safety of her kitty condo, which
is basically a panko chicken box. Gotta love her spunk.
But what about the boulder and the
28 pound cat? I’m getting there…
It all started when I agreed to
babysit my friends’ daughter for the weekend. Mom and Dad were off to see
Marillion in Montreal. You know Marillion? They had a hit with the song
“Kayleigh” back in the 80s. Ring any bells? Yeah, I didn’t think so. They
actually put on a really good show, and my friends were geared up to see all
three performances. That’s dedication (or insanity—you decide.)
So here I was, in the burbs with a
9 year old little girl named Shayna and her four cats. I was walked through the
various activities for which I’d have to do pickups/drop-offs. Let me say to
anyone out there who may be a parent; picking up your kid from school these
days is serious business. You have to arrive at the appropriate time to line up
in your car and wait for your child to emerge from the appropriate door. If not,
you have to park your car and stand outside, while kids run willy-nilly in
every direction and you helplessly scan the crowd hoping to spot your kid in a
sea of backpacks. It’s stressful! What happened to the days when it was safe to
walk home from school by yourself, with only a crossing guard to guide you?
But to be honest, I wasn’t that
worried about taking care of Shayna. This is a girl who properly uses the word
“foreshadow” in a sentence, already knows who Dizzy Gillespie is and when I
told her what my latest play is about she said, “I didn’t ask you what the
moral was. I asked you what the story is about.” Is this kid for real?
For the record, I’m still not sure I know what my play is about, but I do
know Dizzy’s song “Salt Peanuts” thanks to her.
No, it wasn’t Shayna who was giving
me pause. It was those four kitty cats. There was so much to keep straight! First,
the lovable Frankie… lovable, that is, until his allergies cause him to snot
all over clothing, blankets, my winter
hat—whatever is in the path of his exploding nasal passages. Then there’s the
shy but soulful Clementine, aka “Tiny,” who has six toes and clicks down the
hall like she’s wearing high heels. But her breath? Holy moly! It can knock you
out flat. Next is Kasha, who likes to prowl around outside and needs to be let
back in at random times (and I do mean random) through a window that leads onto
the roof. At last, there’s the aforementioned Pappy. He is a beefy, orange cat who
has apparently decided his “wide load” can no longer fit into his litter box,
and thus pees in a tinfoil pan that is big enough to hold a 50 pound turkey.
Pappy, like Kasha, also ventures outdoors, but don’t expect to see the two of
them frolicking around the yard. They despise each other, and I was forewarned about
potential carnage if they got too close to one another. A real life
catfight? No thank you.
As it turned out, the weekend went
pretty smoothly. It’s always nice to indulge in fish sticks and Domino’s pizza
and tell yourself, “I’m just eating it because that’s what the kid
likes.” Yeah right. Same is true for belting out Bruno Mars’, “Locked Out of
Heaven.” Is it my fault if we both knew all the words and felt like singing
them at the top of our lungs? “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” however, was the
anthem for the weekend and if I do say so myself, we sounded quite lovely
together. While in the burbs, I discovered an amazing reality show called “Bar
Rescue,” hosted by Jon Taffer. Now that guy is a badass. The Piratz Tavern episode will live on in infamy for years to come. As for my responsibilities, I
got all my pickups/drop-offs right, and Pappy and Kasha managed to keep their
claws to themselves.
On my last night, I passed out
fairly quickly, but soon felt myself tossing and turning. I was hot—like a-subway-platform-on-a-100-degree-day
hot. Did I somehow get dropped into the depths of Hell? Thwack! What just
landed on my bed? I opened my eyes. Oh, hello Pappy. Apparently Pappy decided
3:30 a.m. was the perfect time to snuggle, as he laid his head on my chest and
rested all 28 pounds of his body against my side. Normally I welcome a good
kitty cuddle, but when I am already on fire, Pappy leaning on me was like
wearing a fur coat with weights in the pockets.
I checked
the thermostat and it said 80 degrees. What? In New York City, your landlord
controls the heat and there are two options—“on” or “off.” I don’t know how to
work this digital thermometer crap! Leave it to the brilliant 9 year old to realize
we could just turn on the A/C and cool things down. Doh! I guess kids
apparently say and do the darndest things.
The next day Mom and Dad returned
from their Marillion Pilgrimage, and it was time to return to my “real life.”
No more little girl and no Frankie, Kasha, Pappy or Tiny. Sigh. At least Gizmo was
waiting for me at my humble abode in Astoria, Queens. I walked into the
apartment, excited to see her beautiful face. What did she do, you ask? Nada.
She just sat in her kitty condo with her head turned away from me. She didn’t
even have the decency to look me in the eye. Some “Welcome home!”
Check out the face she gave me
today:
For all you non-cat lovers, that’s
kitty speak for “F*** off.”
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