Friends, following my last column in which I described the increased population of rodents in my neighborhood as a burgeoning concern, I was offered a variety of advice from our readers. Along with the usual recommendations to go back from whence I came, it was suggested that I might consider employing a feline contractor to help eliminate my unwanted guests (the mice, not my son’s friends). Although I am not opposed to cats, I have not had much luck with them either.
My first paying job came at age ten, when our neighbors hired me to take care of their cat while they were on vacation. The job seemed simple; I was to feed Zsa Zsa twice a day, make sure she had water to drink, and collect the mail and newspapers from the porch. For this seven day gig I would be paid $10.00 (big money for the time). Not even a schlemiel such as I could bungle this assignment, right?
Before embarking on their trip, our neighbors stopped by around seven to remind me to feed Zsa Zsa no later than ten. Eager to please, I strolled next door a little bit after nine to check on my new buddy and prepare her food. As I walked into the kitchen I could see Zsa Zsa stretched out on the floor. Unalarmed and familiar with the down right inert behavior of the common house cat, I continued to the frig and began to ready the feline feast. Placing the bowl on the ground, I started to realize that something was wrong. Hoping for the best, I reached over to pet Zsa Zsa who was stiff as a leftover pork chop. Yes, the kitty in my custody (for less than two hours) had ascended to the great litter box in the sky.
Panicked, I sprinted back to my house and into the care of my loving mother. Mom sat me down and explained that Zsa Zsa was twenty-one years old and had lived a long and rewarding life and her time had come to fly up to heaven. Mom had a true talent for spinning a believable story with little to no preparation. (Note: after watching Lee Harvey Oswald gunned down live on television in a Dallas garage, Mom calmly explained that the fracas I witnessed was just some dumb guys fighting over a parking space, fearing the experience might somehow damage me.) Still, even with Mom’s colorful revisionist recollection of Zsa Zsa’s life, I was inconsolable.
When the neighbors returned, they were quite kind to me, although my cat sitting fee was prorated down to $1.00. One could hardly blame them. Entombed in a shoebox Zsa Zsa was laid to rest under a tree in our neighbor’s backyard. I donated my fee back to help pay for the arrangements and perhaps purchase some inner peace.
Over the years I roomed with people who housed a feline or two, and other than a couple of bulimic kitty’s who were fond of purging on my bed pillow, I found them to be fine furry bunkmates. Our veterinarian’s office boards perhaps the ugliest cat I have ever laid eyes on. Completely void of fur, this poor thing looks like it’s been turned inside out! Very friendly and fond of rubbing up against me when I am picking up diabetic dog food, this hair barren creature manages to be sweet, creepy, and loving all at the same time. For an animal that looks as though she was the night watchmen’s companion at the Chernobyl Nuclear Plant, she seems very well adjusted.
Perhaps Dr. Jennings will loan me the services of her bald mouser? Even if the feline mutant can’t catch the offending rodents, she might be able to scare them into relinquishing their squatter’s rights. As long as I am not her primary care taker, the Chernobyl Cat should live a long and rewarding life just like the dearly departed Zsa Zsa.
By Jon Kaufman [email protected]