Just like people

Jeff of Alphecca fame has written an amazing post about his pets. After reading that, I’m inspired to write about some cats I used to know.

We’re not cat people, although we did own a cat once, for about a month. She was a declawed stray that we picked up at the shelter. The whole family sat around the table discussing names, but we couldn’t reach a consensus so I finally just opened the newspaper and put my finger down at random. Our new pet was named Porsche.

I wound up taking Porsche back to the shelter, and happily she spent all of four hours there before another family adopted her. I know this because I talked to her new owners on the phone while they decided to adopt her. She was a good cat, it just wasn’t a good match with our family.

I like other people’s cats. My best friend Paul grew up on a farm, and always had cats and dogs (emphasis on the plural) of each. I’m going to tell you about two of his cats who were among the most unique souls I’ve ever met in this life.

His name was Slick. He was a big damn cat, and solid as a rock. His fur was that odd orange color that some cats wear. Slick barely had any ears, he'd been found as a kitten suffering severe frostbite, and the fleshy part turned black and mostly fell off. Slick also had an enormous head. Considering everything, this was one weird looking cat. But Slick was more than just a pretty face, he was that proverbial iron fist in a velvet glove. Slick would go out and wouldn’t come back for days. When he did show up at the door, he’d be covered with blood, sometimes his own. Scratches, gouges and chunks of flesh missing from his ornery hide were the usual. Once he came home with a broken front leg.

And that’s where the gentle side of Slick shone through. Paul’s little girl wasn’t walking yet, but could sure get around crawling. One day as Slick was nursing his battered body, just lazing around the house, that little girl crawled up to him, coo’d and petted him, and then grabbed hold of that broken leg. Slick stood up and gingerly retrieved his limb, then calmly limped behind the couch so he was out of reach. No hissing, no screeching or scratching. I can’t imagine what it felt like, but Slick knew that the baby didn’t mean to hurt him.

Slick had one other endearing trait, something I’ve never seen in another cat. Slick loved to be scratched, it made him purr like an outboard motor. And when Slick purred, he drooled. Remember, this was a big cat, so when I say he drooled, I mean he droooooled. Disgusting. Like I said, endearing.

The other cat I remember never grew up. I mean, it was a freakin’ midget cat! I don’t even recall it’s name, but this little sonuvabitch was the most gleefully evil little beast to ever stalk the earth. When you were at Paul’s house, you always checked the curtains before you sat on the couch, because this mini-satan would sit on top of the valence and wait for his next victim. Some poor fool who forgot to check – or didn’t know, which was even better – would sit on the couch, and within seconds a spitting, clawing fuzzball would drop down on top of said victim. The rest of us would laugh our asses off while watching the cat scramble back up the curtains to wait for his next chance. God, that cat could be mean.

Two memorable cats, and one I barely got to know. One of these days, I’ll tell you about my dogs...

Posted by Ted at August 29, 2003 07:47 AM | TrackBack