Despite the Recession, I see progress in a prolonged version of the nativity as told by a cat. Instead of myrrh, Leah gave me five mice this year. Instead of gold, Malcolm brings me tin foil balls. Jesus never had it so good.
By becoming a fan of the cat, also known as Felis catus, I’ve entered the 9,500 year-old tradition of humans befriending cats. It’s no wonder these vermin eating felines, faster than thoughts, are currently the world’s most popular pet. They’re cheerful companions, clear individuals.
Before Malcolm and Leah, I’d had limited experience with cats, scared to be an instant cat mom when I was: 1) a single person, 2) a harried New Yorker, and 3) a self-proclaimed "dog person." To my surprise, the cats needed no toilet training. As instructed, I dabbed their feet in the litter,and off they went. There was no potty training drama, no Freudian repression. The cats just did their business, rolled it in litter, and usually buried it. Quickly, they became my clever children.
First came Leah, a feminine black cat. Named after Corlear Avenue--her place of rescue--she was in heat when my boss picked her off the street. Now spayed, inoculated, and micro-chipped, she has a cute habit of sitting on the toilet seat. Every morning, she sits on her toilet throne, watches me get ready, and makes agreeable noises. What a wonderful way to start my day.
Malcolm, a little black kitten, moved in July 4 week. He came to me with all of his necessary shots and surgeries. In other words, he’d lost his balls before he cared. With or without testicles, Malcolm is very much a boy.
On his first night, he happily rolled on his back displaying his crotch. Then he slept on my pillow, inches from my face. Before Leah trained him, Malcolm pooped on top of the litter. Now he buries his poop, purring instead of reading Sports Illustrated. He leaves the box with a skip and scuttle of litter.
Every morning is theater: Malcolm dropping toys on my leg and Leah examining the items on my night stand--eye glasses and a very exciting pencil.
People ask how I tell two black cats apart. It’s in the color and shape of their eyes. Mostly, it’s in the way they move: Each has a different agenda. Malcolm chases cat nip toys while Leah rubs the same toys on her face.
A week ago, my boyfriend adopted Maxwell House, thus named because his roommate found him outside, huddled in a coffee tin. A week later, this tuxedo kitten has all of his shots, a spot on the couch, and a giant companion in my boyfriend James, a self-proclaimed "dog person." Jesus never had it so good.
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