Marie Taylor, Ink

The one great similarity between having children and having pets is the overwhelming urge to tell other people how cute, smart or talented they are. As I’ve mentioned before my cat Sweetie Pie wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer so I am left to sing her praises in the cute category.

I remember our initial meeting and mutual seduction at the local animal shelter. “Fluffy black and white beauty with golden eyes and romantic disposition likes sunbathing, bird watching and milk.  Seeking LTR with adoring, not too bright, mature woman with warm lap and steady income.”

Yes, it was all there for those who had eyes to see. She tamed me within the hour. I fetched and carried and brushed and petted from that time on. Her demands were endless but not unreasonable.

She liked a tidy house in which schedules were adhered to and routines not disturbed. For instance, the time for bed was 9 pm. If I tarried too long watching old Star Trek reruns, her peepers emitted a florescent glow and my head started to hurt.

She waited on the couch while my evening ablutions were performed and it was not until I was cozily ensconced in bed, pillows fluffed and her brush at the ready, that she made her entrance. After several abortive attempts, she hopped up on the bed, sat patiently through the evening’s petting frenzy, then toppled over from ecstasy, and slept.

I knew when it was time to get up in the morning for she came plodding across the quilt (though small she is of Rubenesque proportions) and settled on my pillow a few inches from my face. This allowed her to spot the least movement of the tiniest eyelash which was the signal for her to turn on the purr which was extraordinary for a cat of her size as it had no volume control. After she had her breakfast, she went back to bed while I, bleary-eyed, cranked up the computer and stumbled into another day.

An omnivore, Sweetie Pie liked hot dogs, peanut butter, baloney sandwiches, mayonnaise, chicken bits, spaghetti and custard pie. As I watched her sashaying from the kitchen, she was a circle in motion, her round little belly and bum swaying back and forth. The only thing not curved was her short busy tail which was as upright and uncompromising as my second grade teacher.

Which was not to say that Sweetie Pie cannot surprise me. We shared a perfect psychic communication and I had naturally assumed that she had evolved way beyond meowing. But I learned differently when I took her to the vet. There was a long, lanky and unattractive orange cat in a carrier who was quite vocal in his outrage, yowling like a singer on American Idol.

You can imagine my astonishment when the heretofore silent Sweetie joined the orange cat in an operatic duet. I don’t mind saying I was shaken by this discovery. What other surprises might lay hidden in her mysterious depths? When I remonstrated over this misdirection, she simply cocked a golden eye at me while a small smirk played across her whiskers.

Which brings me to another point. Sweetie Pie does not really have a sense of humor, unless you include torture as part of your definition. If you want a good laugh, get a dog. A dog has great memory for punch lines and the willingness to play the fool will always have you rolling on the floor.

Cats, on the other hand, are too fastidious for jokes about farting and too prudish for stories about farmer’s daughters. Slapstick is not their forte and they prefer, when pressed, the caustic quip, well-placed pun or a flip of the tail.

I remember the day I had just placed the newly washed quilt upon the bed and Sweetie Pie immediately threw up all over it. She didn’t even smile, let alone apologize, for her faux paw (she made me say that). She merely tossed her head and went back to the kitchen for a refill.

I stop here to give the gentle readers an opportunity to shake their head in wonder over Sweetie Pie’s incredible cuteness.