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Jan. 29, 2005 "Henry" is an intelligent (at least compared to me), declawed, tan/white DMH [I hear that is the abbreviation cats use when they run personal ads, and wish to describe themselves as a "domestic medium-haired"]. Thus, Henry's profile in the personals might read: 8", 12 lb., DMH, age 16, seeks mature female for platonic (sorry, I'm neutered) relationship, to help pass endless hours laying around doing nothing, for company during consumption of meat & meat byproducts, and to share flea collection. 909-370-3723. Ask for the Coppicat. ******************** As way of background, I offer the following story from when we lived in Florida with his adopted sister........ My wife and I had a cat. "Henry" had been with us for several years, but he had become so dependent on us for attention that we were afraid to leave him alone for more than a six hours at a time. Thus we vowed to one day get a feline friend for him. The "one day" came a bit sooner than we thought. Only a matter of days after we had made that pledge, it was time to take Henry to the vet to get his annual shots. Normally, the visit amounted to a routine procedure that only took a few minutes. That year, though, matters became a bit more complicated. We were told to bring a "stool" sample (for the checkup to be given when the shots were administered), so we brought the barstool that Henry used to always sit on. Apparently unimpressed that he could leap atop a tall 3-legged chair in a single bound, an attendant made Kathleen drive home to get a "real poop" sample, while I stayed at the office with Henry. Still in the waiting room, a white kitten crawled up to examine Henry inside of his cat carrier. This cat was literally crawling: dragging its apparently paralyzed back end around with its front legs. I was told that her previous owners had left her there after she had been accidentally caught in a tackle pile-up by some kids playing football. They didn't want a "crippled" cat. I have to admit, I wasn't too crazy about a cat that could barely walk, either. They didn't make feline wheelchairs and litter boxes are not handicap accessible. However, I knew that if my wife saw this animal, she'd immediately feel sorry for it and want to take it home. Needless to say, she walked in right then, so what I feared would come to pass is exactly what happened. The injured white kitten was promptly dubbed with the sissy name "Angel" by Kathleen. We now had two cats that were dependent on our constant attention. **************** Angel recuperated to the point where she now walks with only a slight limp which becomes sort of a cross between a forestalled ballet leap and a stifled gallop when she tries to run. When someone questions her odd gait, we just tell them it's due to an old football injury. The last part of her body to become fully operational was her tail. It was at least a year before she could hold her long bushy appendage in an upright manner. Before that, it would just drag behind her like a lamb dutifully following a sheepherder. In fact, I was sad to see that day of rebound come. I had just perfected a device to attach to her tail which would pick up dust wherever she walked. Henry's tail has always worked fine. In fact, he might be offended if he knew just how well it worked. Like most felines, his pride won't allow him to respond when he is being called. But his tail acts as an alter ego and it's sometimes a giveaway that his brain truly does react to our voices, despite what he would otherwise have us believe. No other muscle in his body makes the slightest twinge if he's ignoring the outside world, but his tail always jerks spontaneously at the call of his name. *************** Henry is as lazy as any housecat. This means that our bed gets 24-hour-a-day use. As soon as we get up in the morning, Henry is right there on or under [usually the latter since Kathleen only makes the bed if I fall trying to get up and the paramedics get "invited" over] the blankets to take our place, where he invariably spends half the day. But Angel seems to be constantly active. If I could figure out a way to harness her energy, there would probably be enough power for our household to shift from fossil-fuel-supplied [not many dams in Florida] electricity. She never did quite get the hang of proper use of the litter box, though. Maybe she hadn't been an indoor cat until she moved in with us or maybe she just never received proper toilet training. At any rate, her method of "covering up" after using the litter box has always been somewhat strange, if not totally useless. Henry had always been very proficient at scraping the sand to neatly cover everything. He was so proud of this neatness, in fact, that he refused to use the litter box at all if more than a day passed without us cleaning it out. He'd hold out until we changed it. But once fresh litter was being poured in, he couldn't wait any longer, and he'd often get sprinkled with granules after jumping in the box too soon. Actually, it didn't look bad. The little white rocks contrasted nicely with the tan fur on his back. Angel's methodology soon ruined Henry's reputation. We always place a few sheets of newspaper underneath the cat box. Angel knew enough to scrape in the likeness of a backhoe when she was finished, but could never quite correlate this motion to what she was trying to accomplish. Invariably, she'll scratch at the newspaper *outside of the box*, look back, and wonder why she hasn't succeeded at burying anything. This can continue for up to ten minutes as she furiously scrapes at the paper. Finally, she'll give up, leaving the final burial chores to Henry. But if Angel is guilty of not properly covering up, Henry is to blame for sometimes *overdoing* the job. Perhaps because of his frustration at not being able to maintain a neat litter box any longer, he'll sometimes kick so hard at the desecrated gravel that previously buried clumps get flung out of the box onto the floor. We'll then find lying about little brown balls coated with specks of white sand. These bear a strong resemblance to frosted Christmas cookies. Fortunately we don't have any children who might be in the habit of picking up appetizing-looking snacks from the floor. ****************** Sometimes they leave other surprises lying around too: One time I got up in the middle of the night to open the window in the frontroom. As I wheeled across the carpet, my bare foot brushed over something cold and wet. I was almost afraid to look, but I turned the light on and saw 2 disembodied frog eyes looking up at me. Those cats are real connoisseurs. They pass over the Friskies and go straight for the frog legs. After a particularly heavy thunderstorm one night [*any* rainfall in Florida makes a California "storm watch" look like a heavy dew], small frogs en masse got inside the house. We opened the door to usher them back outside, and Henry proceeded to chase one into the darkness and [unknown to him] 1000-foot drop off behind our hillside condominium. He barely saw that mountain edge in time to stop running, but his momentum carried him forward until all but his back feet overshot the precipice, and....... [Cliffhanger until Part 2 tomorrow] ------------ About the author: Mike Coppi is a freelance writer from Arcadia, California. Email: mjcoppi@cs.com Tell a friend about this site! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com and are not allowed to be posted on other websites. ARTICLE THIEVES WILL BE PROSECUTED! |
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