Monday, March 24, 2008
Fantasy meowed loudly from the kitchen, announcing her presence in a way not dissimilar to the shrieking of an air raid siren. My only choice was to arise and do her bidding. If not, the unbearable noise would continue until my ears gushed blood like a aural version of Angel Falls. Such is the life of a cat owner. You are more the pet than they, you become a constant servant of their whimsy.
We have three felines in our domicile (the picture to the left shows what it would be like if we had more than that), which we inherited when my roommate John's brother Rhea moved to a smaller house and could no longer care for them. Two females, Fantasy and Sierra, and one male who goes by the name of Simon. Fantasy, is of course the most vocal of the three. She runs the house, telling the other cats where they can go and when, and commanding her owners to jump as if we were listening to an old House of Pain song. Squeaky, as we often refer to her, is mostly black with a white underbelly and a dandruff problem that reminds me of the snowfall in some remote Himalayan region.
Sierra is the largest of the three cats, a long-haired furball colored brown, orange, and black. The least social of the three, Sierra usually only comes out of her cave to demand sustenance beyond what is needed for survival. She also has the smallest head and combined with her massive body, she appears to be the victim of a savage African tribe's head-shrinking witch doctor. On the plus side, she has some massive ups considering her girth. If an all out effort is given, she can leap from a standing start to the top of my lazy boy. Well, almost - she lands just short and pulls herself up like a bowling ball dragging a tractor if you can imagine such a thing, which I can't personally, but maybe you are more competent at visualization than I.
Simon is, as stated earlier, the only male - or at least he used to be before being made a eunuch. His fur is a pretty gray color, very smooth, almost begging you to pet it. Simon is the consumate feline, a complete scaredy cat, likely as not to run from his own shadow, much less any loud noise. He is so sad and pathetic that you can not help but love him when he jumps up and rubs against your leg. Along with the fact that is by far the cutest of the cats, how could he not be my favorite? Well here is how. Simon is a scientifically designed, state-of-the-art, bazooka-barfing machine. He is so dumb. Unreal how stupid this cat is. He will eat anything - styrofoam peanuts, plastic, plants, etcs. None of these things agree well with his digestive tract and consequently they spend little time inside it, exiting out the front door soon after their arrival. The stomach contents are left in a nice little pile for us to clean. There is nothing you can do to stop it - if you chase him while he barfs, cleanup is all the more challenging as vomit is spread in a random pattern that would make Picasso proud.
All that being said, I don't think I could easily adjust to living without these animals now that they are a part of my life. They have somehow managed to sneak into my heart and lay landmines that I can not defuse, the bastards. I am their slave and even now my ears detect their summoning shriek. Off like a zombie I go to answer it, a drooling automaton here to satisfy their feline desires.