Funny Cat Story I was told - part 1
Posted: Mon Aug 18, 2008 2:15 pm
Sasha the Cat
Back in 1995, I lived in a lovely town called San Angelo, Texas. (If you know the place, then you also know that by "lovely" I really mean "the un-wiped business end of Texas".) For the first time in my life, I was on my own without the guiding hand of parents or the military hovering over the direction of my life. It was perfectly natural, after a time, to look for a companion to help fill the long days and the much-needed role of a demanding and domineering pain in my ass.
Was it a woman I sought? No, tried that, and had just come off of a long, bad rollercoaster ride. Maybe a dog? No, my work hours were far too unstable to have that kind of responsibility. What needs very little money and almost no attention during normal hours of the day? I finally concluded that a cat would be good for this particular job.
I scoured the newspapers looking for just the right animal in need of a home balanced with a breed that was genetically geared to be moderately psychotic. One "cute mixed kitten in need of a home" after another "family with a new baby, must find home for cat" after another "stepdaughter allergic to cats, need a loving home for Poopsy" until, finally, after weeks of going through the local newspaper and the freely available grocery store classifieds, this caught my eye: "Pure Siamese kittens, $30 -- NO PAPERS." I promptly dialed up the number and, after a brief conversation, was at their front door five minutes later. After a quick exchange of money, I held in my arms the sweet and lovable Sasha.
As is always the case with the Siamese cats in my life, they start out as quite normal and very loveable kittens. I don’t know if their skull never quite grows to the correct size for their brain (which is my theory) or if some sort of internal switch goes off inside this breed of cats; but after their first year, something makes them quite... odd. True to form, Sasha began the love bites, paranoia, and ghost-chasing after her first birthday. Life was good for a few months -- a great balance of love and insanity.
I train most of my cats to come running when I shake a particular brand of cat treat. With Sasha, this brand began with a "P" and ended in "ounce". As soon as I would get in every day, I would take the can down from the kitchen cabinet and give it a shake. Sasha would snap out of her catnip house-freak mode and be at my feet in five seconds or less. One or two treats; that was her limit every day. She seemed okay with this; she just ate her snacks and proceeded to demand love and attention for a few minutes before sneaking off somewhere else. That was the routine, and that was the way things were supposed to be. But that changed one day.
After a shift bartending, I came home to find that somehow Sasha had managed to get in the kitchen cabinet. Not happy with simply getting the plastic lid off the treats, she had torn a breach in the round cardboard container, allowing her unlimited access to the delectable morsels held within. Not one or two this time, but everything in what had been a seventy-five-percent full container had been consumed in one sitting.
I had no idea at the time what effect this would have. I just assumed these were like cat food. So after cleaning up all the bits of paper, I settled down for a beer and started watching TV.
About an hour later, I heard a noise unlike anything I had ever heard from a cat. It can only be described as a cross between a cat in heat and the groan of the metal hull in a ship in rough seas. A guttural Merrraaoooooooow later, and Sash appeared at the bedroom door, looking at me with in a way I will never forget -- almost an "Oh god, what have I done!?!" Suddenly all four of her legs shot out in opposite angles, as if she had been dropped and was assuming a landing position. Her eyes widened and she made off as quickly as possible for her litter box. As she ran, control was lost and loud farts sounded, each punctuated with squirts of liquid cat poo against the wall and carpet.
Stunned, I sat there, my beer half-lifted, watching the events unfold, completely clueless as to what I was supposed to do.
After what seemed to be the fastest land record for eternity, she made it to her bathroom. Once inside her sandbox, she poked her head out of the opening and I could see her eyes peeled back in helpless terror as she began to paint the walls of the plastic shatbox.
continued in part 2
Back in 1995, I lived in a lovely town called San Angelo, Texas. (If you know the place, then you also know that by "lovely" I really mean "the un-wiped business end of Texas".) For the first time in my life, I was on my own without the guiding hand of parents or the military hovering over the direction of my life. It was perfectly natural, after a time, to look for a companion to help fill the long days and the much-needed role of a demanding and domineering pain in my ass.
Was it a woman I sought? No, tried that, and had just come off of a long, bad rollercoaster ride. Maybe a dog? No, my work hours were far too unstable to have that kind of responsibility. What needs very little money and almost no attention during normal hours of the day? I finally concluded that a cat would be good for this particular job.
I scoured the newspapers looking for just the right animal in need of a home balanced with a breed that was genetically geared to be moderately psychotic. One "cute mixed kitten in need of a home" after another "family with a new baby, must find home for cat" after another "stepdaughter allergic to cats, need a loving home for Poopsy" until, finally, after weeks of going through the local newspaper and the freely available grocery store classifieds, this caught my eye: "Pure Siamese kittens, $30 -- NO PAPERS." I promptly dialed up the number and, after a brief conversation, was at their front door five minutes later. After a quick exchange of money, I held in my arms the sweet and lovable Sasha.
As is always the case with the Siamese cats in my life, they start out as quite normal and very loveable kittens. I don’t know if their skull never quite grows to the correct size for their brain (which is my theory) or if some sort of internal switch goes off inside this breed of cats; but after their first year, something makes them quite... odd. True to form, Sasha began the love bites, paranoia, and ghost-chasing after her first birthday. Life was good for a few months -- a great balance of love and insanity.
I train most of my cats to come running when I shake a particular brand of cat treat. With Sasha, this brand began with a "P" and ended in "ounce". As soon as I would get in every day, I would take the can down from the kitchen cabinet and give it a shake. Sasha would snap out of her catnip house-freak mode and be at my feet in five seconds or less. One or two treats; that was her limit every day. She seemed okay with this; she just ate her snacks and proceeded to demand love and attention for a few minutes before sneaking off somewhere else. That was the routine, and that was the way things were supposed to be. But that changed one day.
After a shift bartending, I came home to find that somehow Sasha had managed to get in the kitchen cabinet. Not happy with simply getting the plastic lid off the treats, she had torn a breach in the round cardboard container, allowing her unlimited access to the delectable morsels held within. Not one or two this time, but everything in what had been a seventy-five-percent full container had been consumed in one sitting.
I had no idea at the time what effect this would have. I just assumed these were like cat food. So after cleaning up all the bits of paper, I settled down for a beer and started watching TV.
About an hour later, I heard a noise unlike anything I had ever heard from a cat. It can only be described as a cross between a cat in heat and the groan of the metal hull in a ship in rough seas. A guttural Merrraaoooooooow later, and Sash appeared at the bedroom door, looking at me with in a way I will never forget -- almost an "Oh god, what have I done!?!" Suddenly all four of her legs shot out in opposite angles, as if she had been dropped and was assuming a landing position. Her eyes widened and she made off as quickly as possible for her litter box. As she ran, control was lost and loud farts sounded, each punctuated with squirts of liquid cat poo against the wall and carpet.
Stunned, I sat there, my beer half-lifted, watching the events unfold, completely clueless as to what I was supposed to do.
After what seemed to be the fastest land record for eternity, she made it to her bathroom. Once inside her sandbox, she poked her head out of the opening and I could see her eyes peeled back in helpless terror as she began to paint the walls of the plastic shatbox.
continued in part 2
