My roommate has a cat. Strike one. Like a good, old-fashioned game of baseball or the California judiciary, I have a three-strikes claws . . . uh, clause. Though her cat eats the tiniest of kibbles and drinks a thimble-full of water each day, it sheds enough fur over the course of a week that, if I took a tube of Crazy Glue, I could craft a whole new cat. Strike two.
Her fur is flitting about, forever floating in mid-air and lurking in places that were thought, by me, to be hermetically sealed: on the allegedly clean dishes inside the kitchen cabinets; under my bed in the far corner of the room, though I keep the door shut to keep Li’l Miss Fuzz Butt out; and the most perplexing place of all — inside the sealed Ziplock bag that holds my sliced mozzarella cheese for sandwiches, at the bottom of the refrigerator’s crisper drawer. WTF!
Whiff. Steeeeerrriiiike THREE! You’re out. Out of the house and out of my life, if only in my mind. The roommate considers Miss Kitty a princess; perhaps a projection of her mind. To me, the perpetual shedding machine is only one-half of a potentially comfy pair of house slippers, an oven mitt or a nice fluffy chamois for buffing out tailpipe waterspots on a ‘69 Harley Ironhead Sportster. See, I do have some fond thoughts of the little beast.
That the cat rarely gets brushed and never gets bathed is not the imprisoned creature’s fault. Yet, the apartment is over-populated with rabid dust bunnies the size of tumbleweeds, rolling down the stairwell like dandelion slinkies, which make me want to lynch something — or someone. I am resisting the urge to drop-kick my fuzzy nemesis into the next millennia, but I hear resistance is futile; ditto on expecting cat owners to give greater respect to humans — even those paying half the rent.
“But you’re a cat, too,” the roommate sulks, attempting to appeal to some inane sense of cross-species kinship as I remind her that Kat is just my nickname and a growling personae or alter ego, at best. Besides, I am a cantankerous jungle cat and not impressed with domestic pussies.
I wouldn’t think twice about using this lumpy and lethargic fur ball as a head cover for a three wood. Too bad I don’t golf. The only reason her precious pet is still sucking oxygen through its asymmetrical snaggle-toothed smirk is that it does have moments of pseudo-worth when it finally decides to come down from its purring pedestal and grace me with its perpetually aloof presence.
It is only then that I pause in my snarling intolerance and allow it to rub me the right way, letting it head-butt me in some freakish display of bonding, which always results in an itchy case of hives and a need to go wash my face and change clothes. Sometimes, love just isn’t worth the hassle.
After I stop sneezing and brush her remaining essence from my lap, shoulders, chest, chin and thighs, I sigh, resigning myself to the practice of tolerance for all god’s creatures — great and small. Besides, this little cat was here, first, and I chose to move in. Ultimately, I honor the code of First Dibs and realize my frustration is misdirected. So, to keep peace in the household, I grit my teeth, put down the roll of duct tape and try to give Li’l Miss Fuzz Butt some space.
Yesterday morning, my roommate hinted that, since I work late most evenings, her new boyfriend would be coming over to cook an early Valentine’s dinner — a sweet little romantic gesture as a precursor to the inevitable game of tonsil hockey they’ll play. Naturally, one game leads to another and, before you can say Louisville Slugger, homeboy is sliding head-first into home, but I digress.
Normally, I don’t give much thought to my housemate’s intimate interludes, but I knew she wouldn’t be willing to invite him over, unless she vacuumed the house, first, and it was most definitely her turn. I was even willing to stay later at work to give them privacy; anything to ensure that I might get a respite from the incessantly shedding shag carpet with yellow eyes that likes to use my new Goretex — once waterproof, but not catproof — hiking boots as a scratching post.
However, upon my late-night return, tip-toeing across the old wooden porch and quietly unlocking the front door, what do I find inside? Buddha on the banister, the cat on the chair and dust bunnies on the stairs, oh my! The tiny holy-man figurine is a sign of whether anyone’s home. If Buddha’s on the banister, then she’s spending the night, elsewhere, getting hers and I, too, am getting screwed. The watch-cat me-yowls a pitiful greeting of neglect. She’s happy to see anyone at this hour, but I just glare.
Rub my belly and I'll tell you why I'm laughing
Before she can stir from the back of the chair, I put Buddha in his place and shuffle up the stairs in silence. I don’t mind trudging toward an empty bed and sleeping alone, even on Valentine’s Eve. I don’t mind sharing this ol’ house with Li’l Miss Fuzz Butt and her mistress, proper, though it’s sometimes like oil and water. And while both of them seem to enjoy having me around to take out the trash, scratch behind certain ears and listen to their wails and woes, I wonder what horrible deed I must have done in another life to have earned this karmic privilege.
Aristotle said, “Horror vacui” or “Nature abhors a vacuum.” Apparently, so does my roommate. And the cat is terrified of it, which is ironic, since she is the primary cause for requiring the great sucking sound. Smirking at the absurdity of this world, I softly ascend on beggar’s velvet, leaving no tracks, and enter my darkened cave.
I hear Plato and Buddha laughing as the shadows on the wall dance about my fortress of solitude while the roommate and her lover sleep, entwined, far from the land of brobdingnagian hairballs and lilliputian awakened ones. And all the cats in the house fall asleep dreaming of the Energizer Dust Bunny who keeps on shedding and shedding and . . .
I don’t know about love, but happiness is a warm Dustbuster. Happy Friggin’ Valentine’s Day!
The Kat
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