Conflict With the Cat

 

Once upon a time, I was little and crazy.  Correction, I am still little and crazy. 

I digress. 

When I was a little girl, I had a plethora of pets.  My favorite choice of animal was a cat and so I think I must have had about 97 of them.  My two most favorite were Puddin’ Pop and Lester.  Puddin’ Pop was named after my love of pudding pops and Lester was my dad’s cat, apparently, and so he named him after Lester Flatt, the great Bluegrasser. 

Puddin’ was my baby.  He was white, blind in one eye, about 19 pounds, had a gimpy back claw, no front claws and a meow that melted my young heart.

Lester, on the other hand, was evil.  He was 6 feet long, splotchy black and brown, could jump 9 feet in the air and he sharpened his claws on a disk grinder. 

            I had a bad habit of loving animals to death.  I just loved them so much I couldn’t stand it.  I had to constantly be holding, petting or, as my family says, torturing them.  I gained the nickname “Elmyra,” after the girl on Looney Toons.

            Puddin’ would let be do anything to him.  Everyday, I would put baby doll clothes on him and push him around in a stroller.  He loved it.  I think. 

            Lester wouldn’t even let me look at him, let alone touch him.  But I just had to!  He was soft and fuzzy and I needed to pet and squeeze him!  This is where he and I differed on opinions.  This difference in opinion led to injury.  Not to him, to me.  Claws.  Gnashing of teeth.  Hissing.  You name it.

            The harder I fought, the harder he fought.  I was done for. 

            I remember, vividly, at Christmas, I would tape wrapping paper to his tail and head so he couldn’t see. Then I would tape some to his feet so he couldn’t walk.  This was too enjoyable to me.  This fun would always end in tears, however, because Lester would maul me. 

            Now, with all of this going on, something had to be done.  My parents threatened to take Lester away from me.  I cried and cried, but my love for him and his fuzziness just couldn’t let me leave him alone!  This was when my physiologist father came up with the Think Before You Do journal…boy oh boy.

            Everyday, I would write and draw a picture in my journal of a way that I avoided conflict with the cat and what I had learned from the experience. 

            This tactic must have worked because I eventually stopped having scratches all over me and Lester remained in the house.  

            The cat lived to be 97,000 years old and I would like to think that that had something to do with me.  I taught him to be tough and well rounded in the art of escape.  So, you’re welcome, Lester.