Monday, March 4, 2013

aka: the saga of Harry

aka: the cat who lived.

"Oh you have cats? I thought my eyes were itching a little," stated our host last night.
Mark nods while I stammer, "No. Not really. Well kind of. It's a yard cat."
"Sarah tried to kill it" Mark states to Eric.
Great. Now it's my turn to explain.

Mark moved here fourteen months ago. He left behind nearly all of his possessions. But more importantly, he left his cat. A pure black shorted haired cat who acts like a dog. Named Barney.
Mark loves that cat.  Kora and Hercules simply can't compete (though they don't lack for trying).

On a dark and stormy night two weeks ago, the abandoned cat pack outside (don't ask) grew in rank by one. No longer a kitten. Not quite a full grown cat.
A pure black short haired cat. A Barney kitten.

It presented itself on the front steps and proceeded to yawol at the top of its lungs. I felt sorry for it, but more distressed as Hercules and Kora tried to launch themselves through the floor to ceiling windows by the door. *Kora once jumped through a 9' wide by 53" window. It was incredibly expensive and I've been wary ever since.

Mark's heart melted immediately. He was out, chasing the Barney kitten with warm milk and turkey.
"Can we keep it?" he asked, "It's horrible outside. Don't make me leave it there."

I'm not going to revisit, but the next SEVERAL conversations about what I started lovingly referring to as "that damn cat" painted me firmly into the evil stepmother of animals category.

Seven days ago. Compromise. The garage door is raised about 6". The cat comes in and is swaddled in a king size blanket in the corner. It's given food and water. It stays the night.

Morning. I check on the cat. It yawols unrelentingly at me. Seriously, it won't shut up and it's got food and water and it's buried in the back of the garage. My head hurts and it's freezing in the garage. Fine I figure. But i'm closing the garage. No use everyone freezing. I hit the button.

At which point, the unthinkable happens. With literal catlike reflexes the cat bounds towards the lowering door. It was like watching some terrible tennis match, my head turned just in time to see two legs and a tail crushed under the door and wriggling.

I FREAKED OUT.

Frantically I'm hitting the button, which first squished it again and then raised the door. At which point it's off like a cat out of hell and I, in pj's and no socks in 30 degree rainy weather, I am after it. I'm positive I've broken it's back, it's positive I tried to kill it. It's 7am. For the record, the neighbors think I'm nuts.
I lose it in the bushes.
I reflect.

Mark is going to KILL me.
He loves it. Already it's more loved than myself, and on my first true interaction with it, I've maimed and possibly killed it, and definitely lost it.

"You did this on purpose! You knew I loved it! You're a sadist, a Hilter of kittens, a Kitler!" -he screamed at me while rushing past to search for his wounded kitten.

Fast forward to me, tears streaming, on the bridge. At which point, the cat prances out from under the bridge. I blink at it. It yawls loudly at me. It crawls in my lap and glares at me.
We have, at this early stage already defined our relationship.

I begin to squeeze it (gently dammit! looking for damaged organs)
It bites me. I glare at it.

This appears to be as good as it gets.

*For the record, the cat is fine. It lived through two solid days of me picking it up every five minutes to check for damage- which resulted in me getting bitten a few more times. Apparently, cats don't like being poked.  I've named it Harry, the cat who lived.