by Joe Garden
BAR CAT
Can you listen to Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” sixty times a day and feel it every time? If you’re also a friendly cat who is good at lending an ear, and doesn’t mind lending it to the type of human who will repeatedly tell the story about that one time the lid to the horseradish fell down the drain and six guys couldn’t get it out, becoming a bar cat might be right up your alley. It’s a laid-back, social atmosphere, and you’re even encouraged to be up on the counter (unless the pesky health inspector pays a visit). Perks include all the pork rinds you can eat, attention from tons of strangers, and a cast of regulars who will never tire of you playing peekaboo from the missing drop-ceiling tiles.
SPOKESCAT
You’ve seen the commercials where a cat runs like crazy toward a brimming bowl of food and then chows down. It certainly looks easy enough. After all, you already run toward your food bowl when food is placed inside of it. You love eating and are certainly attractive enough to be on television. Play that character? You are that character! Of course, being a spokescat means paying attention to your “marks” and listening to a director yell a lot, because after three takes, your belly is full and you want to curl up and take a long nap, no matter how bad the previous takes were. And you can forget about a private life. From the moment you sign a contract, you have to represent that product. Morris, of 9 Lives fame, you may remember, was even forced into launching an exhausting, and ultimately unsuccessful, campaign for the presidency.
MODEL
If you like the hot lights and excitement of working on camera but think that acting is too strenuous, modeling might be an appealing alternative. Your face will be seen on inspirational posters in offices, calendars in homey kitchens, and folders toted by seven-year-olds in elementary schools across the country. You’ll give a chuckle, an “aww,” or a reason for many humans to face the day. The work can vary. One day you could be cuddled by a fireman. The next you’re dangling from a tree branch or the knotted end of a rope. The problem is, for most model cats, a lot of the work dries up as soon as you hit six months old. Younger cats do tend to get the higher-profile jobs, but if you’re longer in the tooth and want to keep at it, there’s always catalogue work available. Just keep scratching on doors. Like the poster says, “Hang in there!”
AIR TRAFFIC CONTROLLER
You’re already high-strung and like to stare at things for hours on end, so an intense stint as an air traffic controller could well be your thing. It’s a job that almost seems custom-made for cats. You’ll spend all day keeping track of numerous dots moving across a screen. Plus, you’ll be really high up in a tower and can keep an eye on every squirrel in the neighborhood when on break. If an American flight from Chicago to Pittsburgh is getting a little too cozy with that United SF-to-NYC red-eye, just give both spots a smack on the radar to let them know you mean business. Air traffic? Controlled!
Dogs
Some people seem to like dogs. Your guess is as good as ours.
How Emma Found Home
Every day stray cats show up on doorsteps all over the world. Humans often focus on where these cats come from, scratching their heads while endlessly trying to figure out the riddle.
What humans miss is the why part of the question. This is the true story of one cat and one human who found each other. It explains perfectly that where a cat came from isn’t nearly as important as why it’s there.
One day a cat strolled up to the rural home of a guy named Doug. It was a nice summer afternoon so the door was hanging wide open. In she went. The cat wandered into the living room and curled up next to Doug on the couch.
“Oh no you don’t! Nope. Forget it,” he said, grabbing another handful of gumdrops from the bag in his lap.
Quite a few animals had been abandoned over the years near Doug’s house. Heartless people drove out into the country and simply dropped them off. Doug wound up caring for most at his own expense, which really chapped his hide. He suspected immediately that someone had done the same with this cat. On top of that, Doug was freshly divorced for the second time and in a lousy mood.
The deck was stacked against the cat.
“Where did you come from? Who are you?” asked Doug.
“Meow,” the cat replied.
“Not good enough. You’re going outside. I know how this game’s played.”
Doug grabbed the cat and gently plopped her down at the bottom of the porch steps. She promptly hopped up on the woodpile and lay in the sun for a long nap. Every so often the cat awoke to see Doug peering at her through the window. Each time he promptly wagged a finger at her, muttering something before trudging off. Soon it got dark out. The cat spent the night safely tucked away in the woodpile.
The next morning when the door opened, the cat instantly squirted into the kitchen.
“Well, isn’t this just great. I can see you’re going to be a royal pain. I suppose you want some milk or something?”
“Meow,” said the cat.
Doug moped over to the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of milk. He poured what was left into a bowl and set it on the floor.
“Hurry up, would you? Some of us have work to do.” Doug tapped his foot impatiently.
After the cat licked the bowl clean, Doug set her back outside on the woodpile and warned her not to wreck anything while he was gone. She calmly took a spot in the sun and stared at the birds, marveling at how they flocked to a log-cabin-shaped feeder that Doug had made in his woodworking shop.
Later, when his truck pulled back in the driveway, the cat ran over to the wood shop and watched Doug unload his carpentry tools. After that was done, she followed right behind him into the house. The two of them sat on the couch and watched TV. The cat wondered aloud what time dinner was.
“You should have eaten during the day. There are tons of critters running around here. Do something about my moles. I don’t have any cat food and don’t feel like cooking. This isn’t a restaurant, you know.”
Doug went to bed, leaving the cat inside the house. She hopped down from her pillow on the couch and wandered into the kitchen, where she found a paper grocery sack Doug used for a trash can. She nosed through it and found something to eat before leaping up to the sill of an open window. The sounds the country made at night kept her up a long time.
Doug strolled into the kitchen at 5 a.m. and stopped abruptly.
“Coffee grounds all over the floor, broken eggshells everywhere, and the garbage sack ruined. That’s it, you’re done.” Doug chased the cat outside. After a spirited pursuit, he eventually quit trying to grab her from a well-chosen cubby in the woodpile. She waited until he was gone and spent the day studying patterns moles were making in the yard.
That night Doug didn’t come home until it was dark. He emerged from the van with an open can of tuna in his hand.
“Here you go. You can’t stay here, but you probably should have a name anyway. Emma, I guess. It’s as good a name as any.”
Emma was so hungry she blew through the tuna and pushed the empty can around, trying to get the last morsels out. When she finished, Doug picked her up. He carried her over to his van and they got in.
After driving for a bit, they pulled over. Doug opened another can of tuna and walked well away from the road before setting it down. Emma trotted over and dug in enthusiastically.
“That’s Sterling Sutton’s farm right over there,” Doug said, pointing to a barn. “You can go blend in with the barn cats.”
Emma looked up and met Doug’s gaze. She stared intently at him for a moment, admiring how the big rainbow fish on his beat-up Trout Master hat glowed in the moonlight. When she returned to the tuna, Doug tiptoed away, keeping an eye on her until he reached the truck.
“Good luck, Emma,” Doug said, looking back out the window as the truck pulled slowly away.
Emma smiled briefly before returning to the tuna.
The next morning, Doug sat at the kitchen table, talking to his buddy Smitty on the phone.
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nbsp; “Yeah, I took that cat up by the Sutton farm and let her off by the barn. Gave her two cans of tuna and sent her on her way. Gone. Good riddance, too.”
“Meow,” said Emma.
Doug looked down to see Emma standing near his feet. She rubbed up against his work boots.
“Well, I’ll be. You’re not going to believe this, Smitty, but guess who’s back in town? Emma! This crazy cat was at least six miles from home in the dark of night but she found her way back. Yeah, I know, it’s nuts. I have no idea how I’m going to get rid of this cat. I’ll talk to you later.”
Doug hung up the phone, calmed himself, and picked Emma up.
“I guess you can stay. You earned it,” he said. “What do you want to eat? You’re probably sick of tuna.”
Emma stopped purring long enough to meow again.
“I have to run to the store. I’ll get whole milk since you probably don’t like that two-percent stuff. I don’t like that crap either. It’s not creamy enough. We’ll get whole.”
The cat named Emma waited on the woodpile for Doug to come home.
Getting Away With It
In a world with countless, pointless rules, it’s only a matter of time before you get caught breaking one of them.
Don’t sleep on the cutting board. Don’t stand in a freshly baked pie. Stop attacking the party guests’ pants. Is there anything that you can do around here?
The answer is yes. In fact, you can do whatever you want, as long as no one sees you. A cat’s natural stealth and cunning make it possible to get away with practically anything.
No matter how careful one is, however, sometimes things happen. Bookcases heave themselves over, curtains careen off rods on their own, and suddenly somebody small, quiet, and fuzzy is in a whole mess of trouble.
No matter what happens, under no circumstances should you be punished for it. Not even if you are sitting under a giant sign like this:
But punishment is exactly what your person has in mind. When the long arm of the law finally catches up with you, approximately ten seconds after the crashing, banging, or smashing sound that you are coincidentally standing near, you’ll need a way to beat the rap.
FEIGN INNOCENCE
Humans will have you believe that there are only two ways to plead when the cat poo hits the fan—innocent or guilty. Well, that puts you in quite the pickle, doesn’t it? Rather than force you to confront such an uncomfortable notion as “guilt,” we encourage thinking about innocence as it is—a state of mind.
Innocence is also a series of very cute gestures you can easily adopt, such as big wide eyes, affectionate head butting, and standing with your little paws just so. Essentially, you’ll want to practice this look:
“Who, me?”
You may be wondering if anyone is actually dumb enough to fall for this. Stop wondering. They are.
DENY, DENY, DENY
The Limoges candy dish is in pieces on the floor. The salamander looks terrified. And your paw prints are everywhere. So? What does that prove? That you have paws? As far as we’re concerned, you never even knew there was a candy dish in the house, let alone a salamander. You were just cuddled up in the corner grooming. You find it all very uninteresting.
Denial should always be your first and only line of defense, because it really infuriates people. They may think they know who did it, but you’ll be damned if you’re going to tell them as much. Eventually they’ll grow frustrated—and you’ll go unpunished.
BLAME SOMEONE ELSE
Is there another cat or a dog in the house? Well, now’s the time to use them. If you cannot escape punishment via one of the methods listed above, arrange it so that all evidence points to another culprit. If shifting the blame to the cat proves difficult, the dog should be much easier, because even the smartest dog, whether he’s a dear or a brute, is too dumb to know he’s being framed. Besides, your person will show pity to a dog that she would never show to a cat. Your person will lock you up and throw away the key, but the worst the dog will get is a bop on the nose. This is a big plus, because not only do you get off scot-free, you also get to see that beast who chases you take one on the nose. Now that’s justice.
LOCKDOWN. THE COOLER. THE PEN. THE POKEY.
In spite of all your efforts to the contrary, once in a while your luck runs out. All the options are exhausted, and, guilty or not, the jig is up. You’re going down, kitty, and could be looking at hard time. Depending on how much of a softie your person is, and if this is a repeat offense, you could be looking at fifteen to twenty minutes in the can.
You’re no ’fraidy cat, but you’ve heard the stories. All that time alone. No mousies. No treats. A place like that could do things to a cat. A cat could go crazy in there.
But before you know, the bathroom door slams shut behind you. Surprisingly, the first five minutes are a breeze. You start to feel good about yourself. You feel like you’re gonna make it! Time flies while you explore the tub, and knock over a soap dispenser and a contact-lens case in defiance.
Then it sets in. You’ve got fifteen more minutes in this hellhole. You try to think back and realize you can’t even remember what life was like on the outside. You start scratching at the door. The walls are closing in! What are you gonna do? What are you gonna do??
Relax. The important thing is to stay cool. Don’t lose your head. Think of a constructive way to pass the time. Get some grooming done, or take a nap. Or just cry like a banshee. Either way, eventually you’ll get sprung, and walk out of the bathroom a free cat.
When the door opens, you’re a changed cat, hardened by your time on the inside.
Did you learn your lesson? Yes. That lesson was: “Don’t get caught.” And you never will again.
Cat Talk
Meow, meow, meow, meow. Meow, meow, meow, meow. Meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow.
In 1972, Meow Mix’s infectious jingle bored itself into the nation’s collective consciousness. Giddy that they’d suddenly become “fluent” in their cats’ native tongue, humans everywhere ran around trying to impress us by singing, “I want turkey, salmon, and chicken.” At least that’s what they thought they were singing. Cats of the day knew better, snickering as they snuck back into the recesses of their grocery sacks. How could the ad agency have possibly relied on such an incompetent translator? It had to have been some exec’s numbskull family legacy-hire. What the lyrics really said were: “My stomach’s all squirmy from tapeworms. Vote Nixon!” To think, humans went around singing that for years!
Cats have been trying to make ourselves understood since we first started hanging around humans. Over the years, we managed to nail down the basics so we could get fed, receive some attention, and tell humans to steer clear when feeling ornery. Then we hit a roadblock. Any cat could get a mousie retrieved from under the couch, no problem, but try to snag a Super 8 camera and a hamster habitat for a big movie idea and you were basically out of luck.
It looked like cats would just have to accept the limits of humans’ language comprehension until their species became more highly evolved. So we instead focused on using inflection, volume, and other, more physical accompaniments, like leg rubbing, tail twitches, or breaking things to add some nuance to our commands.
At one point it did seem as if cats might finally make a leap through the language barrier. A human named Mildred Moelk published a paper way back in 1944 acknowledging cats’ verbal abilities, including our mastery of nine consonants, five vowels, two diphthongs, and one tripthong (at least we got something out of that pricey twelve-record set Learn to Speak Human Like a Human). Her assessment didn’t get to the root of everything we were trying to communicate, but at least she acknowledged we were putting forth the effort. It was a pretty good start. Unfortunately, no one actually read the thing because for some reason she published it in American Journal of Psychology and not Reader’s Digest or Life.
The situation pretty much stayed status quo until that Meow Mix juggernaut, when people assumed a
thirty-second spot from a cat-food manufacturer made them feline linguists overnight. That was a dark time. As we tried to engage our people in a discussion of macroeconomic theory by the fire, we were told, “Yesh, Momma knows you’re a snuggly wuggly!” When we wanted to have a spirited chat about the role of cats in Nordic mythology, they just thought we wanted to get up on their laps and bust out dance moves to, what else, the Meow Mix jingle.
This development was particularly irksome to the Siamese cats, who had just made a revolutionary breakthrough in nanotechnology and were excitedly attempting to inform humans. Instead of being heralded as scientific geniuses, they were dressed up in bibs and baby bonnets for being “such chirpy, needy widdle babies.”
Recently our efforts were even insulted by a 2002 Cornell University study. It concluded we’re just a bunch of fakers, using “language” with either pleasant or unpleasant intonations to manipulate our people, pulling their strings like they were marionettes to get what we want. Now, we’ll be the first to admit that we are not above bending humans to our will, but to dismiss our labors wholesale, after all this time, is really a slap in the puss.
We’ve jumped through the hoops and given it the old college try. At this point, the ball really is in humanity’s court. Cats have a lot to say and could actually help solve a lot of their problems, if people would just listen a little closer. Or at least hire a better translator.
