I have the best cat in the world. Everyone agrees. He's won the Chadsford Hall Best Cat of the Year for three years running. He's nine years old and at 15.25 pounds, he's in mid-season racing form. If you think he's a bit heavy, then you're probably more familiar with the smaller, run-of-the-mill kitty.
Ben, that's his name, Beignet Lafayette, is a child of the Neva River--that's my theory anyway. The Slavic soul requires a substantial body. Not that there's anything wrong with felines that lack Slavic ethnicity. To be sure, all cats will keep the zombies away. Why even the kittens too small to walk straight and having tails that look like lint brushes will send the brain-eaters herky-jerking back to the cemetery if they come from a cemetery.
So by all means, get a cat. Get two. You can't have too many. The more you have, the less chance there is that they will all be sleeping when the zombies start prowling.
When we were at the cat hospital earlier today, the vet suggested that we begin routine yearly lab workups to make sure Ben is around forever. None of us can imagine what life would be like without him, so he donated a little blood to keep us happy. He got one of those stretchy little bandages around his leg to prevent bleeding. Ever tried to remove one of those? Not as simple as it seems. The material gets all wrapped around and makes it hard to find the pull tab.
When we arrived back home, Ben had an agenda that included lots of socializing with the other cats. This takes a while, of course, sniffing, licking, marking, you know the drill. It must have been the same for Napoleon when reviewing the troops.
I cornered him and pretended to be interested in brushing him, which generally puts him in good humor and distracts him from what the other hand is doing. I found the bandage and began feeling around for the end of it. Ben tolerated about two seconds of this before changing position. I tried again with more determination. He matched my efforts with his own determination, which spoke volumes about leaving his leg alone.
I might have given the whole thing a miss for an hour or so and perhaps gotten some editing done on the book--you remember the book--but no, I decided that bandage was coming off and I knew how to get it done. I rolled up my sleeves and took a deep breath.
Cat wrestling, like alligator wrestling, is best done sparingly and only in season. I lay on the floor for the best orientation and applied a hold that I call the front leg pass-through. Ben seemed to consider this a sign of affection and began purring. Then I reached for that bandage and pinched the leader solidly between the thumb and the first two fingers. I have a lot of practice at this and it was a good firm grip. I tugged.
It must have been the tug that did it. Ben shot out from under me like a crazed weasel and made straight for the doorway, keeping the body close to the floor and using the back legs for the heavy work. Like the Iditarod musher pulled along by her sled dogs, I was pulled along by that bandage and slid smoothly along the hardwoods. Then he made a sharp right-hand turn and headed down the stairs.
Now, if the cherry floors were smooth, then the oak staircase was bumpy. And there are fourteen steps. I have, over the years, acquired the wisdom to know the difference in situations where I have control and those that I don't. I took the stairs with fair calm. Not too anxious, given the circs. I remember thinking, for some reason that I can't fathom now, that when we hit the tile floor on the lower levels, I would have more options.
Now, some years ago, I went in for rock climbing, a sport that I'm sure you remember from your own youth. In those days, my toes could find purchase in the smallest crevices, and perhaps I was thinking that the grout lines in the tile would give me something to work with to stop or slow our forward movement, giving me a chance to free my fingers from the bandage.
The plan I had in mind if you can call it a plan, turned out to be no more than the idle wind, which Ben respected not because he continued through the kitchen with me calling out to my mother to look sharp and not get overturned by our wake.
Eventually, Beignet found a quiet and comfortable spot underneath a sofa in the den and we were done. I pulled the bandage off and he seemed not to notice.
Once again, we see that life comes hard and fast and that it sneaks up on us when we least expect it. Be prepared for anything, of course, and always keep in mind something I learned from our veterinarian... "It's our job to do what's right, not what's convenient." Amen.