Cats: who's the boss?

Greye joining me in the "Square" this Sunday morning

 

A column in the Saline Courier last week by Gene Lyons, one of my must-read writers, was titled “Humans don’t domesticate cats.” Aha, thought I, here’s my next blog. Though I won’t allude to any erudite sources as he did, I have plenty of empirical evidence that agrees with the headline.
 

A month before hosting the family reunion, I’d returned from a week in Piggott. The cats, Greye and Bibbs, were outside that week, fed every two days by Daughter. Since one of the relatives was allergic to cats, I thought (again), “Why not keep the cats outside until after the reunion on July 4?” Surely, that would alleviate any further buildup of dander. I would sweep well and wet-wipe the back of the upholstery where they used to sit.
 

Done.
 

But they were not happy campers, uh, cats. Greye, named for his color, brightened by patches of white here and there, has been with me the longer. He’s a sweet cat and loves to be brushed under his chin. He often closes his eyes as if in ecstasy. But he isn’t a lap cat like Billy’s first feline, Elizabeth.
 

 Greye used to lie on any available rug or floor pillow. After his month outside, he has chosen to sleep nestled against two wooden feet of the old, columned dining table. Now and then, when I’m in the kitchen, he’ll pad in and meow. I know he’s ready for a brushing. He hasn’t yet done what a poet/writer friend said her cat did once: brought me the brush!

 

Bibbs, on the other hand, “fixed” as early as was possible, must have a dreadful memory of the experience. He keeps his distance, and when he’s down from his favorite haunt—the attic—he skitters away when I come around. Despite this, he didn’t like his outside confinement. Don’t tell the relative this, but two days before the event, Bibbs stealthily positioned himself so that when I opened the front door, he could slip in. Which he did.
 

 Oh, my. I quickly opened the attic door and he zoomed through it. “You’re here until company leaves,” I hollered after him. Taking food, water and a small box of litter to the head of the stairs, I closed the door firmly. That night, I heard him yowl. I opened the attic door, hurried to the front door and opened it, and he flew outside as fast as his tabby legs could run.

 

I was saved. My relative was saved.
 

After the reunion guests left, I called the cats up. Of course, being their own bosses, they took their sweet time. When I held the door open, both were a tad hesitant, but wanted inside badly enough that they took the chance. Bibbs still prefers the attic and Greye, the table legs. Their sustenance, etc. is at the back of the house, and, obediently, I see to their every need. Bibbs will never see the inside of a vet’s office unless he is so sick he can’t resist my blanketing him for the trip. I CAN still get Greye inside a carrier, thank goodness.
 

Thanks to Gene Lyons for the idea. Maybe I can return the favor one day.
 

Yeah, when cats obey!!