Linda and I have been good friends for nearly 25 years. And during that time she must have told me 100 times how
wonderful I am.. That's what friends are for, right? Then one day a while back, she confessed that there's something
she's never liked about me -- "a great a big character flaw" she called it, saying it's just something she's learned to
live with.
Okay, lay it on me!
"You've never liked my kitties," she said.
Wait a minute! It's not that I didn't like the ferocious foes. I just didn't like them in my space -- you know, brushing up
against my legs and jumping on my lap. And I assurred her that it wasn't just her cats I didn't like. It was anybody's
cats! But Linda didn't understand how I could be like that. Especially since I've handled snakes, raised mice,
adopted a Brazillian cockroach at a Chicago zoo, and once had a lime-green tree frog named Mary Lou. And worst
of all, I have a gripping fascination with the only living thing she detests -- spiders!
As a child, I never had the urge to cuddle a puppy or feel the gentle purr of a cat on my lap. But find me a bug, any
kind of bug, and I was uncontrolably delighted.
In the 1970s, when Linda and I were country neighbors, my sons had a few cats and as many as a dozen dogs at
one time -- much to my dismay. That's when I learned that dogs are different than cats.
At least I could understand dogs, which didn't say much for my mental maturity at the time.
In passive obedience, dogs will do tricks for a treat, and they're always lapping at your feet. Dogs are forgiving and
love you unconditionally. You can slam their noses in the door when carrying in groceries, and they'll wimper right
over to you for some love and reassurance.
But not so with cats. If you even look like you'd catch a cat's nose in the door, it would lash out at you with claws in
the air ready to do battle.
Once, while drinking tea in Linda's kitchen, we both began to scream. Her cat, probably Thumper or Snagglepuss,
jumped on my lap, and at the same time, Linda saw a spider on the ceiling. She removed the cat from the room, and
I took the spider outside. Now, after all these years, she admits she was seething inside because of the way I treated
her kitties. And many times she was tempted to give Thumper my tea and make me leave the room.
After all these years, Linda decided it was safe to tell me about my "character flaw" because it slowly began to
disappear a while back when I married Dan and inherited his old white cat, Wisc. Not only was Wisc a cat. He was a
house cat!
But much to my surprise, I soon found out that you can't live under the same roof with a critter like Wisc without his
elusive charms pawing their way into your heart. I don't know how it happened, but once it did, there was a solid grip.
And suddenly I understood Linda's love for her cats.
Still, it was hard for her to imagine a cat sitting at me feet without me screaming for its removal. "It's more than I can
vision," she told me over the phone. "All I can picture is you getting stiff and sitting on the edge of your chair figiting
with a spoon when my cats came into the room," she said.
It's true. Her cats had that effect on me. There was just something unnatural about the unfettered liberty of those
cats coming into the kitchen when we were drinking our tea in a stream of easy talk.
Yes, they were her pets, but they never seemed totally tea-tame to me. They always had this jungle-wild glint in their
eyes, and it became a roaring blaze as I watched from the corner of my eye and waited for them to lop onto my lap
with titanic force.
Today, it's hard for me to fathom that dewy coolness toward cats.
Wisc died six years ago this month and I miss coming home to the old cat greeting me at the door. He had a
personality all his own -- one that demanded respect. And he wouldn't settle for anything less.
He was too intelligent to do tricks, and he was independent with an unflecked confidence, elegant grace and
clairvoyant nature that not only amazed me -- it made me appreciate how much I'd grown in my own thinking.
Wisc also had a keen insight into our moods. Roaming from room to room, he somehow knew which lap needed him
the most. And he had his own moods. Sometimes there was a domesticated hint in his eyes that craved a sroke of
love and attention. And other times the wild spirit of his ancestors took over and he left the room to chase his
solitary heritage.
From the beginning, I knew Wisc was growing old. His movements were slowing down and arthritis had settled in his
bones. Still, like Linda's cats, he had that jungle-wild glint in his eyes. And he refused to be submissive about
anything.
Wisc lived to be nearly 19 years old, and I don't think he was ever domesticated at heart. He always had that wild,
confident glint in his eyes. It was his birthright. And he never, ever let anybody take that away from him.
Today, I admire that in a cat. And I understand
wonderful I am.. That's what friends are for, right? Then one day a while back, she confessed that there's something
she's never liked about me -- "a great a big character flaw" she called it, saying it's just something she's learned to
live with.
Okay, lay it on me!
"You've never liked my kitties," she said.
Wait a minute! It's not that I didn't like the ferocious foes. I just didn't like them in my space -- you know, brushing up
against my legs and jumping on my lap. And I assurred her that it wasn't just her cats I didn't like. It was anybody's
cats! But Linda didn't understand how I could be like that. Especially since I've handled snakes, raised mice,
adopted a Brazillian cockroach at a Chicago zoo, and once had a lime-green tree frog named Mary Lou. And worst
of all, I have a gripping fascination with the only living thing she detests -- spiders!
As a child, I never had the urge to cuddle a puppy or feel the gentle purr of a cat on my lap. But find me a bug, any
kind of bug, and I was uncontrolably delighted.
In the 1970s, when Linda and I were country neighbors, my sons had a few cats and as many as a dozen dogs at
one time -- much to my dismay. That's when I learned that dogs are different than cats.
At least I could understand dogs, which didn't say much for my mental maturity at the time.
In passive obedience, dogs will do tricks for a treat, and they're always lapping at your feet. Dogs are forgiving and
love you unconditionally. You can slam their noses in the door when carrying in groceries, and they'll wimper right
over to you for some love and reassurance.
But not so with cats. If you even look like you'd catch a cat's nose in the door, it would lash out at you with claws in
the air ready to do battle.
Once, while drinking tea in Linda's kitchen, we both began to scream. Her cat, probably Thumper or Snagglepuss,
jumped on my lap, and at the same time, Linda saw a spider on the ceiling. She removed the cat from the room, and
I took the spider outside. Now, after all these years, she admits she was seething inside because of the way I treated
her kitties. And many times she was tempted to give Thumper my tea and make me leave the room.
After all these years, Linda decided it was safe to tell me about my "character flaw" because it slowly began to
disappear a while back when I married Dan and inherited his old white cat, Wisc. Not only was Wisc a cat. He was a
house cat!
But much to my surprise, I soon found out that you can't live under the same roof with a critter like Wisc without his
elusive charms pawing their way into your heart. I don't know how it happened, but once it did, there was a solid grip.
And suddenly I understood Linda's love for her cats.
Still, it was hard for her to imagine a cat sitting at me feet without me screaming for its removal. "It's more than I can
vision," she told me over the phone. "All I can picture is you getting stiff and sitting on the edge of your chair figiting
with a spoon when my cats came into the room," she said.
It's true. Her cats had that effect on me. There was just something unnatural about the unfettered liberty of those
cats coming into the kitchen when we were drinking our tea in a stream of easy talk.
Yes, they were her pets, but they never seemed totally tea-tame to me. They always had this jungle-wild glint in their
eyes, and it became a roaring blaze as I watched from the corner of my eye and waited for them to lop onto my lap
with titanic force.
Today, it's hard for me to fathom that dewy coolness toward cats.
Wisc died six years ago this month and I miss coming home to the old cat greeting me at the door. He had a
personality all his own -- one that demanded respect. And he wouldn't settle for anything less.
He was too intelligent to do tricks, and he was independent with an unflecked confidence, elegant grace and
clairvoyant nature that not only amazed me -- it made me appreciate how much I'd grown in my own thinking.
Wisc also had a keen insight into our moods. Roaming from room to room, he somehow knew which lap needed him
the most. And he had his own moods. Sometimes there was a domesticated hint in his eyes that craved a sroke of
love and attention. And other times the wild spirit of his ancestors took over and he left the room to chase his
solitary heritage.
From the beginning, I knew Wisc was growing old. His movements were slowing down and arthritis had settled in his
bones. Still, like Linda's cats, he had that jungle-wild glint in his eyes. And he refused to be submissive about
anything.
Wisc lived to be nearly 19 years old, and I don't think he was ever domesticated at heart. He always had that wild,
confident glint in his eyes. It was his birthright. And he never, ever let anybody take that away from him.
Today, I admire that in a cat. And I understand
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