Good Boy, Stripe
Thursday, October 9th, 2008
The kitten does not keep the same hours as we do. At three in the morning, he attacks any feet that move under the covers or that happen to touch down on the cold carpet just outside the master bath.
Stripe, the gray-backed cat with white fur reaching from his neck to far under his belly, has impeccable timing and a cunning attack style. His assaults are so well executed, it’s as though he sharpens his claws for hours waiting for one of the humans he shares a bed to make a middle-of-the-night restroom visit, then strikes.
Groggy and unsuspecting, his owners don’t have a chance to stare a stumble to the bathroom before he pounces on their toes or tears white lines into the thick flesh that covers their heals. What follows the immediate kicks to dislodge him from the body is a quick flow of profanity-laden laments cast out to the darkness and a sleeping partner lit by red alarm clock digits.
Stripe’s sleep schedule is merely his most painful habit, not his most annoying one. He also eats six times a day and walks intentionally underfoot when he hasn’t been fed, which, with so many feedings, is basically the full day’s length. He has a Barbie and the 12 Dancing Princesses food bowl that’s keep in the master bedroom and when it’s empty or low on food, he follows his owners from room to room, crisscrossing between their steps and giving a meow that, at his age, amounts to little more than a pathetic whimper.
If I were hoping to adopt a cat in hopes of creating a strong stock of felines, he wouldn’t have been my first choice. My wife actually met his siblings at the animal hospital he was adopted from and all three seemed to be of greater size and of more secure emotional states. But given his smallness and frailty – and the hopeless look in his clear green eyes – he was the cutest. In a house with three children and a wife as sappy as I can be, the “cuteness factor” outweighs all other criteria.
And, he is cute – with boundless energy. From nowhere, he darts across the living room floor in hot pursuit of the air. Last night – or should I say, early this morning – he had to be taken down from window screen he had climbed, plucking the tiny squares with all four paws and creating a music that sounded as though it came from a deranged harpsichord.
I am amazed at how quickly after adopting pets from animal shelters that they seem to forget their abandonment and the destitute lives they were so lucky to leave behind. He is three times the size he was six weeks ago and nearly 10 times as demanding.
Despite his numerous flaws, he’s a good boy that isn’t as conceited as most cats. In fact, in referring to him as “good boy,” it’s easy to draw parallels between his demeanor and a dog’s. Stripe comes when he’s called, sometimes, and seems loyal to the man of the house, the way dogs can be. He is not my best friend, but he’s as close as a cat will ever come to that consideration.
