For anyone who reads my column on a regular basis, it is no secret that
I am an avid animal lover. I don’t hunt them. I don’t eat them. I
won’t attend the circus when it rolls into town and I research zoos
before I visit. I stage elaborate emergency rescue missions of bugs in
the bathtub, on the windowsill, and inside my car. I even refuse to own
a flyswatter. “That could be your great-great-grandmother
reincarnated,” I rebuked my college roommate once before he squished
one of nature’s humble, tiny, saucer-eyed creatures sitting on a wall.
“Then I’m doing her a favor by sending her to a better life,” he
retorted and brought down his murderous thumb.
Considering my ample affinity for all
creatures great and small, it should come as no surprise to regular
readers of this column that I recently adopted a stray cat. Actually,
let me rephrase that. It should come as no surprise that recently, a
shrewd and world-wise 8-pound ball of fur, whiskers, and claws placed
his begrudging seal of approval upon my request for a freeloading roomie.
In any modern court of law, it could be successfully argued that my
beloved Stubbs chose to adopt me.
There are myriad stray cats roaming
around my apartment complex, like most American apartment complexes. In
a sincere effort to reach out to the feline species, I have tried upon
numerous occasions to establish an amicable rapport with them. However,
they have always turned tail and galloped off in the other direction,
too wild or too scared, or perhaps smart enough to know that they
don’t need a big, clunky human body chasing them around a furnished,
dusted, organized room with a big green feather on the end of a stick to
fulfill the most heavenly fantasies of their nine lives. Once, groggy
from a nap, I stumbled out to my building’s trash dumpster and
sleepily tossed a bag of garbage into its hollow cavern, only to pee my
pajamas when Morris the cat’s twin brother came up and out of the
dumpster, yowling and screaming like his ears were on fire. No cats for
me. No sir.
Then, one sunny August day, my less than
20/20 vision caught sight of a white and gray blob underneath a tree
outside my apartment. Figuring it was a plastic grocery bag, and
possessing a love for natural beauty almost as great as my love for all
four-legged creatures, I walked over to the bag to pick it up and throw
it in my car trunk with the rest of my recyclables. But grocery bags
don’t meow, and they don’t roll around on their backs begging for a
tummy scratch. What a cruel kitty, I thought, sure he would bolt when my
feet got close enough and my heart leaped happily at the thought of a
serendipitous feline friend. Of course, he ran. But he didn’t run
away—he ran straight toward me as visions of Kitty Cujo fluttered
through my anxious brain. But the only thing he attacked was my knee
with his down-turned, purring jaw.
At first, I fed him from my refrigerator,
but leftovers from a vegetarian’s plate are less than thrilling for a
natural hunter. Telling myself I’d just feed him until his washboard
sides plumped up a little and he found his way back home, I begrudgingly
slipped a few cans of 9 Lives into my grocery cart. In a few days, this
cat looked healthier than I did. I grew suspicious until I noticed that
nearly every doorstep to every building in my apartment complex looked
like a smorgasbord. I thought, “This cat isn’t just looking for a
home, he’s interviewing!” A few nights later, I brought him inside
for a few hours, certain that he would loathe the confines of a
one-bedroom apartment. He curled up on my pillow and purred himself to
sleep. The next night, he stayed inside the whole night and didn’t
even pee in my bed. The next day, I stopped at Concord Pet on the way
home and purchased the deluxe kitty starter package—a spacious litter
pan, matching scoop and bowl, litter and deodorizer, and half a dozen
assorted stuffed rodents. Stubbs was moving in.
It’s a good thing he did, too. The very
next day, I found a notice taped to my apartment door informing me that
some vile human had been aiding and abetting a stray cat, even going so
far as to…gulp…let it into one of the buildings. “Outside pets are
not allowed,” the memo from the rental office warned. “We have
contacted local animal control, but as of yet, they have been unable to
capture the cat. We are working on this issue diligently and appreciate
your patience and cooperation.” This cat was nearly as wanted as bin
Laden, and I half-expected to see his guilty Cheshire grin stretched
across the TV screen on the next edition of Unsolved Mysteries.
But Stubbs was smarter than the animal
control officers and, sadly, I have no doubt that he is smarter than I
am. He adopted me just in time to get some desperately needed (and very
expensive) medical attention for a nasty upper respiratory infection.
When he decided he didn’t like the placement of my 19 houseplants, he
quickly discovered that by licking them incessantly and then puking on
my carpet, he could easily coerce me into moving them out of his sight.
He thinks I’ve mistakenly diagnosed him with multiple personality
disorder like Cybil—he’s Stubbs, “Tubbs,” “Tubbie,” “Tubbie-Toons,”
and “Pookie Bear.” Worst of all, he received more attention than I
did at my annual Halloween/birthday bash. I dressed like a macho biker.
He wouldn’t even wear his clown hat with the adjustable elastic band.
But he also licks my face, trails after me even when I’m grumpy, and
cuddles up to me on cold winter nights. If only he had a little less
fur, drove a Mercedes, and observed proper table manners, I’d be set.
Eric apologizes if this essay
doesn’t make much sense. Both Stubbs and Eric wish you the happiest of
holidays. Please send fan mail to Stubbs via Eric at e.a.morrison@verizon.net.
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