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Jan. 30, 2005 In conclusion to yesterday's cliffhanger........ Henry had nothing to worry about. I tend to exaggerate numbers by a factor of 100. Thus the "1000-foot drop off" was the 10-foot plunge to the bottom of the cement pond [actually it was fiberglass, but let's maintain a vernacular that wouldn't stretch the limits of Jed Clampett's worldly knowledge, since that's about as far as mine extends], in which a few neighbors were swimming. What surely appeared as the edge of a towering precipice to a cat was the pool ledge. The hillside near our condominium was a large mound of dirt left by a bulldozer which had started to clear a nearby lot years earlier for a never-completed apartment complex. There are no mountains in Florida. Not counting a 345-foot sand dune in the panhandle, the highest natural elevation in the entire peninsula is about 27 feet above sea level. Anyone wishing to scale a peak in the Sunshine State would have to be content with using the stairs in a downtown skyscraper [this accounts for pylons driven into stairwell walls, which mystified the Miami vice squad for years]. So........as the frog jumped into the pool, Henry in pursuit took an unexpected dive [more like a bellyflop that would have earned a 0.1 Olympic rating - the one-tenth being awarded for impacting the surface with all 4 feet fully splayed] into the water. Sorry if you were hoping for a more dramatic resolution. ********************** We moved across town eight months later. The cats adjusted to their new home, but Kathleen and I had some etiquette problems to deal with. When we found out that "Henry" was the name of the guy living next door, we were embarrassed to tell him what we called our cat. I know that I wouldn't be especially appreciative to hear of animals that share my first name ("Hey really? That's *your* name too? That's what I call my dog!" "Here, Mike!" "Sit, Mike!" "Heel, Mike!" Roll Over, Mike!" [at which point Mike unceremoniously leaves, because he hears these things plenty enough from his wife everyday]). Henry the feline ran outside once. We began yelling "Henry, get over here!" Our next door neighbor came running out of his house half- dressed. We figured it was as good a time as any to tell him about his namesake. We now keep a squirt bottle by the front door. We have to "prepump" every time before entering the house (pre'-pump, verb; The act of squeezing the trigger on the squirt bottle several times before opening the door to get the water flow started so you're ready to spray the cat into submission if he tries to get out). Still, it's impossible to keep him from EVER running outside [why be content to stay in the insect-free, air-conditioned, free food & water always available, house, when you can forage for grubs, get bitten by fire ants, and generally just enjoy the 95% humidity/101 degree outdoors]? Kathleen had started feeding the birds in the frontyard. One time when Henry was playing fugitive, she noticed that he was drinking from the birdbath and eating birdseed. I guess Henry figured it was a case of "if you can't _EAT_ 'em, join 'em." Angel's not fast enough to run out a briefly opened door but she is not lacking in ingenuity. First cat I've ever seen drink water by dipping her paw in the bowl like a sponge, then slurping it dry. Saves on that tedious rapid tongue lapping. ****************** Feeding time invoked somewhat of a battle when Angel first came along. Henry would guard "his" food, not allowing Angel to approach. We would put out twice as much food, but Henry would *eat* twice as much. His daunting glare kept her away if she stepped towards him while he was eating. We eventually had to synchronize feeding [and I mean exact: if so much as one flake of tuna hit Angel's plate before Henry's, he'd be there instantly to prevent the scandalous hoarding] in different rooms. Separate States probably wouldn't have mattered. Henry would eat as fast as possible, then run over and intimidate Angel away from her plate to finish her food [no matter he was too full to eat anymore; tuna IS tuna afterall, and must be closely guarded]. She mastered her competition quickly. Now dinnertime has become a fast and efficient affair. They *both* eat fast and they both eat everything. It may not be the best thing for their digestion, but at least there's no waste. Still, there remains a dilemma. Since we are Catholic and therefore observe abstinence during Fridays of Lent, our biggest question as cat owners has been whether or not to allow the cats to have meat on those days. I suppose that most animals are not bound by Church law, but we once took Henry and Angel to a special "blessing of the pets!" I suppose we could always get a special dispensation from the Bishop allowing our cats to have chicken & liver on the seven Fridays preceding Easter. ******************** Their taste towards food may be similar, but Henry and Angel have completely different phobias. Angel is terrified of vacuum cleaners. It's hard to blame her - if I was barely a foot and a half long and stood about seven inches above the floor, I'd tend to keep my distance from giant howling, sucking machines too. We have a bathroom on either side of the house, and Angel can always be found cowering behind the shower curtain in the bathroom opposite the end of the house being vacuumed. On cleaning days, Angel is only visible as a brief white streak as she runs from one bathroom to another in an effort to maintain a maximum safe distance between herself and the screaming canister with a long trunk. Henry has no problem with vacuum cleaners. He's the type that has to be physically relocated (picked up and moved) if he is lying in a spot needing vacuuming. Henry's biggest fear is thunder. He may be frightened by the initial rumblings, but it does little to upset his sleeping schedule. When an afternoon lighting storm passes by, he simply goes from the top of the bed to underneath the bed. ************** Communication has never been a problem for either cat. But that doesn't necessarily infer a vocal "meow." Angel makes sort of a grunting noise [like a pig, which along with her prancing like a horse [we call her a "ponypuss" sometimes], leads us to speculate that perhaps she grew up with a herd of swine that lived next to a horse corral. She'll never utter anything louder in our presence. We had come to believe that she was incapable of making any other noise, until one day when Kathleen was gone for the day, I was in the back bedroom, and Angel thought she was alone in the house. I heard a mournful wailing emanate from the living room. Possibly a cow had wandered into our house and gone into labor, I thought. Expecting to find a newborn calf, I cautiously rolled to the spot the sound seemed to be originating from. The room was devoid of life, except for Angel. Angel is apparently a member of the secret ICRY ("I Can Really Yowl) society. And Henry knows how to make his presence known when he feels neglected. He's learned that a quick stroll up and down the piano keyboard will draw the attention he wants. Of course, that's usually in the middle of the night. The feline duo always manage to engage in their loudest activities when we're trying to sleep. Whether it's batting something around in the kitchen that sounds like a bowling ball, knocking loose items off countertops that crash to the floor like boulders or playing with the doorstop on the bedroom door to produce that unique "boing boing boing" sound, they create a nocturnal symphony that would challenge the best of cacophony choruses. Angel & Henry also wrestle at night [sounds more like a reenactment of the 1863 Battle of Gettysburg to me] and he must yank out tufts of her long fur. When we come into the family room in the morning, there's little pieces of "cotton" lying all over. The first time I saw the white clumps covering the rug, I thought we'd been sent manna from heaven. There may not have been any mouses stirring in our house last Christmas Eve, but the cats were loud enough to keep me from getting much sleep. I'm considering chaining them to a treadmill in the daytime so that they'll rest at night, whether that be a long Winter's nap or an eight hour Summer slumber. ------------ 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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