Meet the Kitties
Ken, when I met him, had a strong dislike of cats. Because I am a cat lover, I found his attitude mystifying. (I mean, what kind of human being can resist a soft and cuddly, purring bundle of fluff? Was there some flaw in his genetic makeup? Was he dropped on his head as a baby? Had some random cat in his past eaten a beloved goldfish?)
I later found out the reason for Ken’s attitude toward felines. At one time in the past, he had agreed to babysit his daughter’s cat, Rufus. (Rufus was called Rufus, because he was born on a roof.) Rufus wasn’t happy at being left behind by his mistress. Because she wasn’t there to receive his wrath, Rufus retaliated by striking out at Ken. Rufus left a kitty-bomb on Ken’s bed. That particular evening, Ken came home exhausted, and without turning on the light, plopped face-down on his bed. Poor Ken.
At that time, several feral cats hung around our yard. I wanted to pet them, and feed them, love them, and make them my very own. This desire led to the following conversation after dinner one night.
Me: “Oooh, Sweetie! Look at the cute little kitty by the tree! I bet she would love some of my leftover salmon.” (I can’t wait to make friends with the kitty!)
Ken: “No, she won’t.”
Me: “What do you mean she won’t? Cats love fish. Everyone knows that.” (Please tell me I didn’t fall in love with a moron.)
Ken: “I meant you won’t be giving her the salmon.”
Me: “Why not? She looks hungry.” (Meanie.)
Ken: “If we feed the cat, she will tell her homeless little friends, and then we’ll be overrun by poor little kitty-witties.”
Me: (Kitty-witties? Is he mocking me?) “She wouldn’t tell her friends. That would mean less salmon for her. Cats are smart like that.” (Duh.)
Ken: “You and I agreed we wouldn’t have pets.”
Me: Narrowing my eyes at him. “I don’t remember agreeing to that. Was I under the influence of alcohol when I agreed to that?”
Ken: Huge sigh. “Just don’t feed the stray cat. Okay?”
Me: Arms crossed over my chest. “And if I do? What are you going to do? Spank me? (Wait a minute…that could be fun.)
Ken: Wicked grin in place. “That could be fun.”
Me: Jumping up from my chair. “Let’s go practice!” (Whoo hoo!)
Needless to say, I fed the cat.
The next evening, as we were lounging around the table, having just finished dinner, I glanced out the window. The cat from the night before had returned. As I watched, a kitten emerged from the long grass and bumbled over to the first cat. Then a second kitten emerged, as well as a third. My heart sang with happiness! Kittens! Yay!
Ken glanced out the window and did a double take. His eyes focused on the kittens, and then on me.
Ken: “Did you feed the cat last night?”
Me: “Who me?” (Ut-oh.)
Ken: “You fed the cat.”
Me: “I couldn’t help it. It’s so cute! (Do I get another spanking?)
Ken: “I thought we had an agreement.”
Me: “If you’ll remember, I never actually said that I wouldn’t feed the cat.” (I distracted your horny-self instead.)
Ken: “We’ll never get rid of them now.”
Me: “I’m sorry.” (Yayyyyy!!!)
And that was how our yard and our carport became home to Sniffles (the momma), Susie, Mikey and Demon (the three kittens.)