By Jim Hagarty
1993
As I rush around at 6:30 a.m. every day, getting ready for work, I sometimes look over at my cat sitting like the Sphinx on a hot-air register under the kitchen window, warming up for her day’s activities too, and I envy her her life. Not that I wish my favourite sport was chasing down mice and chewing their heads off as she does from time to time. Nor do I wish I belonged to someone who stands seven times taller than me or weighs 20 times more. And I can’t say I’m ever struck by a desire to bust my teeth eating kibble out of a clay bowl on the floor every half hour, day after day, although it must be nice not to have to set the table or wash dishes. I also wouldn’t give much for the ability to run up and down a tree whenever I want.
No, the reason I sometimes wish I could trade places with Grumbles has nothing to do with wanting to do the things she can do. I just, now and then, envy the simplicity of her life. She has no bills to pay, no licences to renew and no eavestroughs to clean out and doesn’t have to be anywhere on time. As far as I can see, she has no regrets, no fears (except of dogs) and no enemies (except dogs) and couldn’t care less that she too, like the rest of us, is growing older day by day. Her days are carefree but structured and she is a true creature of habit that does what she needs to do and lets the rest go.
Grumbles lives by a few basic principles that guide her days and keep her more or less content. Somewhere along the line, she declared war on running shoe laces and attacks them whenever they venture into her territory. She can wrestle with a lace for half an hour every day and never lose interest.
Though no laces I’ve ever seen have gotten up and chased her through the house, she creeps up on them from behind chairs as if they were somehow possessed with the power and desire to kill cats.
My cat also believes she must lay claim to every small space that presents itself such as an open suitcase, dresser door or closet. She finds cardboard boxes especially irresistible and must hop into every one. Once inside, she assumes a meditative pose, not unlike one of those transcendental yogi guys. She sits in her box like Cleopatra on her throne and looks as if she is receiving communications from some cat god in the sky.
Also of vital importance to this 10-pound lump of fur with the pointy ears and the chainsaw-sharp claws are slippers. Leather preferred but cloth will do. If she thinks she has a purpose in life, other to maim and kill all the wildlife not of her species, I’m sure it’s to destroy slippers. At this, she is a true artist. It is breathtaking to watch her work.
So, from shoe laces to shoe boxes to shoe leather, my cat’s days are full. She has other diversions, ranging from lying on every horizontal torso she can find, knocking the whiskers off the other cat which lives at my place and shredding paper towels into a hundred pieces. She also has this love-hate thing with upholstery which I’d like to discuss if the subject wasn’t still too emotional for me.
But at the end of each day, she’s dog tired (or whatever) and falls asleep on a blanket on the couch with a look on her puss (or whatever) which is a picture of perfect peace. After all, she knows tomorrow there’ll be all the old shoe laces to pursue and with any luck, someone will drop in and there’ll be a new set. There’ll be a cardboard box or even a paper bag someone will bring home from the store. And then, those ever-present slippers will still be ever-present.
And on the really good days, a mouse with a chewable head will wander by when she’s on her rounds outside.
Except for the part about the decapitated rodent, it all sounds pretty good to me.
