I ask you to look at this from my point of view. It’s the middle of the week, the middle of the winter, the middle of your life. You’re suffering from one of the worst cases of February blahs on record so you ask some people over for supper and a party on a Wednesday night.
“What’s the occasion?” they ask, and you really can’t blame them for wanting to know. It’s hard to party when there’s nothing in particular to celebrate.
You think for a minute. Wouldn’t you know it? Feb. 10 is the only day in history when absolutely nothing happened. So, something will have to dreamed up.
“It’s my cat’s birthday,” you say. “Yeah, that’s it. Grumbles will be four years old on Wednesday. I’m throwing a big gala birthday party for her.”
The wheels now in motion, it’s hard to turn back. And as you hustle around town gathering up food, beverages and helium-filled balloons, it dawns on you from time to time: “Egads, I’m having a birthday party for a cat.”
The woman at the bakery asks you what message you’d like written in icing on the chocolate cake you’ve ordered. “Just put on it Happy 4th Birthday Grumbles,” you say, and then you notice a weird look in her eyes. A look that suggests she’s wondering what kind of sicko would name a little kid Grumbles.
“Oh,” you laugh nervously. “Don’t get me wrong,” you say. “This is for my cat.” Her eyebrows hike up an inch or two and now she looks for all the world like she’s wondering what kind of sicko would order a birthday cake for a cat.
But you’re this far into it, may as well see it through. It’s either this or one more boring evening with the blahs.
The guests arrive. Grumbles tears around the house like a burp in a windstorm. She knows something’s up. Your other cat, Buddy, on the other hand, parks it next to one of the kitchen chairs and stares up like a statue at the helium-filled balloon tied to the back of it. He’ll stay that way for the rest of the night. Turns out, a balloon is the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.
Supper eaten, the cake is presented, a big number 4 candle lit and blazing away. Happy Birthday is sung and Grumbles is held up but, stubborn as ever, she won’t blow out the candle. Instead, she squirms in her master’s arms and looks at you with big wide eyes that seem to say, “I hate you.” A friend’s little girl offers to do the candle blowing but what would Grumbles want to wish for, she wonders.
“She’d wish a family of mice would move in next door,” you tell her. So, she closes her eyes, wishes for mice, and blows out the flame.
Presents are profferred and graciously accepted. A jar of homegrown catnip, a card and, from one couple, a toy bird on a long cord with a bell on it. Turns out, the bird is what has been missing from Grumbles’ life all this time. She attacks it, bites it, hits it like a hockey puck, rolls on her back and kicks it in the air. Lies on it. Sneaks up on it from behind the couch and pounces on it. Knocks it down the cellar steps. Won’t let Buddy play with it.
Ten days later, having listened day and night to the increasingly aggravating sounds of a crazed cat caught up in a never-ending hunt for a piece of felt and vinyl, you’re ready to take the toy bird, put it in the car, drive along a back road in the country, drop it off and set it free.
If that doesn’t calm down the commotion, you’re ready to drive out in the country and drop yourself off. Because before the party, your cats use to lie around the house in the evenings like a couple of doorstops. Now, the living room’s like a speedway with a couple of fuzzy racecars flying through it every five minutes.
You still have the blahs.
At least now you know why.
©1988 Jim Hagarty
