Another snowy day here in Seymour, but as fast as the snow falls, it melts faster. Because of the damp cold, I couldn't get out to walk, so I spent the morning reading journals. Now I can go on with the story of Jake Dog and the Four Cats.
*************
After Chris and I came home from the Humane Society without a cat, I comforted him about the tragedy and told him we would have a cat.
Here is the thing about a small town: if you want a cat, you need only go out on your front porch and whisper to the wind, "I need a cat" and by the end of the day, you will be the servant of some kind of mangy feline. Most of the folks here in Seymour either have a cat they want to dispose of or know someone who does.
The next morning, I went down to Ashman's, a restaurant on North Main Street. It really wasn't a restaurant, it was more a cafe. It was the kind of place where farmers hung out. There was always a slight smell of manure to the place. There were two horseshoe counters where old guys liked to sit. They could keep their coffee going for hours with only slight warm ups from the waitress. They discussed politics, gossiped, and talked about whoever was down at the funeral home. There was ancient man who proposed to me every time I came in. I wasn't interested but I didn't mind being asked once in a while. When he finally died I told everyone that he had been my last chance.
They were good at solving problems, these old guys. When I needed a car, I asked them and they knew who had a solid used car for sale. They were more honest than any used car salesman. When I needed to construct a rich man's home for a set design for our community theatre, the guys who had worked in the Valley's paper mills told me to get the cores of the big paper rolls that would become expensive stationery. They arranged for me to get some which I painted white and turned into marble columns.
So when I came in to Ashman's and said I needed a cat, I got an immediate response from the waitress who told me she had a cat I could have, a year old neutered and declawed female. I didn't approve of declawing a cat, but I liked the idea of having a cat that had its female parts removed and had her shots. A vet bill was more than I could afford just then, so I didn't want a kitten.
"I'll take her," I said. On the way home, I got kitty litter and some cat food.
The waitress and her husband brought the big white cat that night and thrust her at me. "Her name is Tinker," they said and took off.
I held her in my arms and examined her pretty white fur. She was a beauty, I thought...until I looked closer and saw the quicksilver movements. I stroked aside the fur and saw them. She was covered with fleas.
I had had cats before and knew if those fleas got into the carpet I would be fighting with them for years. I went straight into the bathroom and wrapped her in a towel. I held her tight as she struggled, meowed hissed, and tried to bite me. I turned on the water in the tub and grabbed at some baby shampoo I had for some reason, probably because in those days I didn't throw much away. It was probably some I used on Chris a decade before. I was about to give a cat a bath for the first and last time in my life.
I draw the curtain on what happened next. The fleas were washed away along with the blood on my arms.
From that day on, the cat hated me.
*************
After Chris and I came home from the Humane Society without a cat, I comforted him about the tragedy and told him we would have a cat.
Here is the thing about a small town: if you want a cat, you need only go out on your front porch and whisper to the wind, "I need a cat" and by the end of the day, you will be the servant of some kind of mangy feline. Most of the folks here in Seymour either have a cat they want to dispose of or know someone who does.
The next morning, I went down to Ashman's, a restaurant on North Main Street. It really wasn't a restaurant, it was more a cafe. It was the kind of place where farmers hung out. There was always a slight smell of manure to the place. There were two horseshoe counters where old guys liked to sit. They could keep their coffee going for hours with only slight warm ups from the waitress. They discussed politics, gossiped, and talked about whoever was down at the funeral home. There was ancient man who proposed to me every time I came in. I wasn't interested but I didn't mind being asked once in a while. When he finally died I told everyone that he had been my last chance.
They were good at solving problems, these old guys. When I needed a car, I asked them and they knew who had a solid used car for sale. They were more honest than any used car salesman. When I needed to construct a rich man's home for a set design for our community theatre, the guys who had worked in the Valley's paper mills told me to get the cores of the big paper rolls that would become expensive stationery. They arranged for me to get some which I painted white and turned into marble columns.
So when I came in to Ashman's and said I needed a cat, I got an immediate response from the waitress who told me she had a cat I could have, a year old neutered and declawed female. I didn't approve of declawing a cat, but I liked the idea of having a cat that had its female parts removed and had her shots. A vet bill was more than I could afford just then, so I didn't want a kitten.
"I'll take her," I said. On the way home, I got kitty litter and some cat food.
The waitress and her husband brought the big white cat that night and thrust her at me. "Her name is Tinker," they said and took off.
I held her in my arms and examined her pretty white fur. She was a beauty, I thought...until I looked closer and saw the quicksilver movements. I stroked aside the fur and saw them. She was covered with fleas.
I had had cats before and knew if those fleas got into the carpet I would be fighting with them for years. I went straight into the bathroom and wrapped her in a towel. I held her tight as she struggled, meowed hissed, and tried to bite me. I turned on the water in the tub and grabbed at some baby shampoo I had for some reason, probably because in those days I didn't throw much away. It was probably some I used on Chris a decade before. I was about to give a cat a bath for the first and last time in my life.
I draw the curtain on what happened next. The fleas were washed away along with the blood on my arms.
From that day on, the cat hated me.
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