My husband and I acquired a kitten in the same way most middle-aged people acquire a pet. We inherited it from our son.
Over the years, I’ve had some minor issues with cat allergies, but this cat doesn’t seem to bother me. Or rather he doesn’t seem to bother my allergies. He does bother me. He climbs like Spider Man. He thinks my stocking feet are chew toys. He just now jumped up on the keyboard and typed cccccchhhkkkkooop. He types very fast – but with lots of errors.
Still, we would get along just fine, were it not for the other pet we inherited from our son a few years back: A canary. You might think a cat and a canary under the same roof is like a fox living in the henhouse or like me living at Dairy Queen. And you would be right. I sense impending disaster.
We call the kitten Kitty because, by the time we caught on to his name, "Kitty" was habit. We call the canary Mr. Tweeters because creativity isn’t our strong suit.
For his safety, Tweeters has been banished to a lonely guest room where we can close the door to keep the cat out. It’s such a waste. He sings so beautifully; it’s like having an orchestra perform in the shower.
Tweeters seems OK with the arrangement though. He sits on the swing in his cage, singing his little canary heart out, oblivious to the drama taking place on the other side of the door. I don’t feel good about the situation though. Tweeters has done nothing to deserve it, except be born a canary. I’ve done nothing to deserve it either, except be born a sucker.
I visit Mr. Tweeters often. He’s lived with us for nearly three years, so I’ve become attached. Plus he needs to eat. But visiting him requires stealth and strategy. Kitty always wants to come along, and maybe I’m cynical, but I don’t trust his motives.
And that’s why I find myself tiptoeing down the hallway, carrying Tweeters his food and fresh water. There’s not a cat in sight. I open the door just wide enough to slip through, and suddenly Kitty appears out of nowhere, heading my way. I dash in and close the door behind me, spilling water and bird seed. Kitty stops short at the door, meowing loud enough to make Tweeters and every other bird in the neighborhood stop singing and take cover.
And that’s when it hits me. Sufferin’ succotash! I’m living in a dad-burned cartoon. I tawt I taw a puddy tat! I did! I did taw a puddy tat!
I don’t care what his name is; from now on I’m calling the cat Sylvester. If you didn’t grow up with Tweety and Sylvester cartoons like I did, hang out at my house for few days, and you can watch a Tweety and Sylvester marathon.
In episode after episode, the original Sylvester attempted to capture sweet, innocent Tweety, but Tweety always escaped, often thanks to his own cleverness. Other times, he was rescued by his loyal bodyguard, Hector the bulldog, or his owner and protector, the umbrella-wielding Granny.
That’s how it is at our house too. Kitty is cuter than Sylvester, but he’s just as persistent. Mr. Tweeters sings cheerfully until the cat sneaks into the guest room. There is no Hector, so I’m left to defend Tweeters. I guess that makes me Granny. Hey wait …
"Around the Bend" appears regularly in the Advocate and about 25 newspapers in the Midwest, including the Rapid City Journal. Rosby, Rapid City, S.D., lives with her husband and college-age son. Her book "I Used to Think I Was Not That Bad and Then I Got to Know Me Better" is available at the Advocate. For more on Rosby, visit www.dorothyrosby.com.