The Rake Magazine

Tag: cats

  • Satan in the Litter Box

    I hate my cat. Cat people, save yourself the trouble of emailing me. And, rest assured, this is not a one-sided kind of a deal. The cat hates me, too. I know it is childish and wrong for me to hate the cat. After all, it is not her fault that I bought her. I should feel sorry for her. Imagine, being purchased by someone you hate and not having the thumbs to do anything about it. Poor, sweet, evil baby.

    My cat is very beautiful, and people who come over to my house—cat people, that is—are beside themselves when they see her. They coo and moon like it was Angelina Jolie who just ambled into the room after taking a dump. “Who is this gorgeous one?” they say, stretching their spines sensuously. (Scritchy-scratch.) Or “Ooooooh, look at that pretty kitty!” (Caress, stroke.)

    Cat people, listen to me. I have never nor will I ever mistreat or neglect this wee beastie. If you want me to believe you when you say that cats have personalities just like humans do, then sure; I’m with you. Because then you will have to agree with me when I tell you that, without a doubt, some of them are total cat-holes.

    Having one cat does not make you a cat person. Having three or more does. Maybe you have a cat or a cat person in your life. I have four cat people in my life. They are all physically beautiful, well-educated people, but other than that, they come from different neighborhoods and socio-economic backgrounds. The wealthier cat people, I have noticed, can sort of mask their cat person-hood by claiming eccentricity. This doesn’t fly with those of lower income. These cat people just seem all the crazier for choosing to scoop poop and de-lint in their spare time, and for spending what disposable income they have on food, litter, and all manner of feline accessories.

    Cats cost about three hundred dollars a year to maintain. They have a projected fifteen- to seventeen-year lifespan. If you have three cats, this adds up to a grand total of $13,500. I understand that it is nice to come home to “someone.” But please try to think outside the litter box for a second. Nine hundred dollars a year might purchase you a shot at human companionship. You could take a life-enriching class. Get out and meet people. A painting class, maybe. You could even paint pictures of cats.

    Cat people, you love to speak of the companionship that these tiny terrors offer, but have you ever stopped to notice that there are no “man’s best friend” genre movies starring cats? Could Old Yeller ever have been made if the script called for an orange tabby? How come there are no such things as bomb-sniffing cats? Or seeing-eye cats? “Cats are too smart for that.” I’ve heard that one before. Tell it to Judge Judy. Cats are inherently wicked, self-involved pleasure seekers. If being a wicked, self-involved pleasure seeker equals smart, how come we’re so quick to call Britney Spears stupid? Britney Spears would totally be worshipped in ancient Egypt. And look what happened to the ancient Egyptians.

    Furthering my argument: The next time you go out for dim sum, check out the animals on your placemat. You’ll find a pig, a goat, a rat, even a snake! There is no year of the cat in Chinese astrology. They have a dragon. A pretend animal was better than a cat.

    Plus, cats have got that otherworldly, spooky vibe. Nostradamus was a cat owner, ditto Aleister Crowley. I don’t think it’s just black cats—all cats are bad luck. There is no good-luck correlation to cats. People don’t carry around lucky cat’s feet. Unlike horse manure, if you step in cat poop on a city street, it doesn’t mean that you are lucky.

    Cats are the opposite of heroic. You always hear modern folktales of devoted dogs who were tragically separated from their owners and sniffed their way cross-country from Nebraska to Vermont, making their way back to little Billy. People write love songs about dogs. “Lily,” by Pink Martini. “Queenie’s Song,” by Guy Clark. “Old King,” by Neil Young. What songs are there about cats? “The Cat Came Back.”

    As I sit here tonight, daubing my five-inch laceration with a sterile alcohol pad from the first-aid kit, these unkind thoughts about my cat comfort me. On the upside, it is nice to have a face (even if it is three inches wide and furry) upon which to superimpose all of my earthly hatred and anxieties. On the downside, it means putting up with violent and bloody surprise attacks in my own home. I am the bumbling Inspector Clouseau, and she is my Cat-o.

  • The Cat Who Outlived Christ

    “Baby” is thirty-seven years old. This is the claim of one Al Palusky, of Duluth, who considers the black, long-haired cat to be his best friend. This is not news to Al’s wife Mary. “When we were married Al’s priest told him that he couldn’t call Baby his best friend anymore,” she said. Al just shrugged and added, “It’s true, he’s still my best friend.”

    It might be hard to argue with that, but some people have questioned the veracity of Palusky’s claim about the age of his cat. There’s actually no way to determine it, since there’s no such thing as feline birth certificates, and it’s not as if you can cut his tail and count the rings. Also, Baby only visited the local vet for the first time at age twenty-eight (if you believe he’s now thirty-seven), when he was declawed. “I had to do it,” Al said. “We were just married and had all new furniture, and Baby ran all over the house scratching everything.” Outside of eyewitness testimony, the only evidence Palusky can provide is a photo dated from June 1973, which ostensibly proves that the cat’s at least thirty-four years old. The cat in the photo, grainy and shown at a distance, does have a sloping snout that seems to match that of the aged feline. If that’s not enough evidence, well, Al simply doesn’t care.

    Baby certainly looks old. There’s the matted coat streaked with gray, the milky white eyes, and the complaining, scratchy meow. Baby was adopted from an animal shelter by Al’s mother in 1970; her friend had rescued the poor kitty from the clutches of a gang of firecracker-tossing hooligans, who had him trapped in a garbage can. Baby was brought back to the modest two-story white clapboard home where he has spent his nearly four decades. In those early years, he had to put up with a pair of dogs and another cat, but as those animals passed on, Baby became the sole pet of the Palusky household.

    The creature still has some pep, as evidenced by the way he struts around the house or squirms violently when held. He’ll still catch flies, too, according to Al. But he’s definitely showing his age, and spends most of his days asleep. In fact, “Baby will sleep so hard,” Al laments, “that he’ll wake up and suddenly just poop right there.”

    There’s an upside to Baby’s age, however: It won him a contest held by Cat Fancy magazine to find the world’s oldest cat. Part of the $150 prize was spent on a new bed and some toys, and the rest was deposited in a savings account under the name “Baby Palusky.” Apparently, Baby will use the money for retirement.

    How do the Paluskys account for Baby’s longevity? Mainly it’s his diet. “The vets and so-called ‘people in the know’ say don’t feed cats from the table,” Al scoffs. “But Baby eats what we eat.” When Al and Mary sit down to dinner, Baby gets his own little plate of food as well. He enjoys peas, green olives—“and olive juice!” Mary chimes in—steak, and even corn cut off the cob (without butter or salt). He munches on snacks of cheese several times a day, and has an ever-present supply of cat food next to his water bowl. It’s a diet that appears to work, and not just because he’s thirty-seven—the cat is svelte, for all the calories he takes in. Ultimately, Al believes that Baby has lived to a ripe old age due to consistency through the years. “Same diet, same house, same owner,” he notes. The cat, too, is reliable: Baby serves as Palusky’s alarm clock, waking him in time to get to work as a janitor at a local medical center.

    Since winning the Cat Fancy contest earlier this year, Baby has been featured in a number of publications, on television stations as far away as Dallas and Los Angeles, and in chat rooms across the internet. Palusky is not much interested in all of this attention, though he would like to see his pet on Willard Scott’s Today Show segment honoring the aged—after all, the cat is 185 if you go by the five-cat-years-per-one-human-year-rule. The exposure has also led to a steady trickle of email from cat lovers challenging Palusky’s assertion. One of them, a lawyer, was sent a digital version of the documenting photo. Says Palusky, “The guy wrote back, ‘That would stand up in court!’”

    Other pet owners write to share tales of their own aged and beloved companions. And then there are the lonely souls who want to pay a visit to Baby and befriend him. At this, Al rolls his eyes. “Sometimes I wish people would just get a life.”