By Jim Hagarty
2006
I was busy just now scribbling down all the benefits of owning cats as house pets and, while l am not known for my lack of imagination, I have been able to come up with only one. In the 16 months since we adopted our two little homewreckers on paws, our mouse population has decreased by five. Cherubic as they can look when they want to, the truth is our cats are cold-blooded murderers. It’s a bit chilling to know you’re sharing your house with two creatures who kill for fun, but as long as they keep sending mice off to the great beyond, I am willing to let them spend as much time in the garage – the scene of most of their crimes – as they want.
So, the score is 5-2: We’ve lost five mice, but gained two cats. Also to be counted are the dozens of insects of every description which have found their way down the gullets of our two wily miscreants. Though entirely finished, our basement has always had its share of earwigs, spiders and those awful, wispy centipede-type thingies that make everyone’s skin crawl (though it is claimed they are somehow beneficial, consuming smaller grubs). Since the arrival of our tag team made up of Mario and Luigi, the bugs have mysteriously disappeared.
So, as pest controllers, our cats are an excellent investment. But they are seriously lacking in their housekeeping skills and seem intent on reducing the abode we took so many years to fix up, to a decrepit shack. This has prompted me, on more than one occasion, to grumble loudly, “They’re not living in a house; we’re living in a barn!”
Declarations such as these (and worse) elicit no sympathy from a family who, perversely, seem to delight in my cat-derived misery. But tell me, how would you like to have to spend an hour on a Sunday night duct-taping the lamps in your rec room to the wooden endtables on which they are supposed to sit because they are continually being knocked over? I’m going to be honest: I can think of better things to do.
Our cats are not large creatures, but in the past year, they have performed acts that seemed to be beyond their abilities to do. Cats are not supposed to be able to knock over coffee tables or shove the cushions off chesterfields and chairs. They can’t knock over stereo speakers that stand almost four feet high and while I can see a small lamp hitting the floor after they fly by it, large lamps, especially free-standing floor lamps, should be too much for them.
Heading to the rec room one afternoon after returning from work, I was concerned that our place might have been broken into and ransacked. Ransacked it was, but not broken into. Our inventory of wrecked household items post cat arrival is a long and sad one. It includes houseplants, library books (one of them a brand new, hardcover volume – one of our guys is a chewer), lampshades, one wooden endtable, one stereo speaker, posters, letters, bank statements, newspapers, magazines and other materials that don’t spring instantly to mind.
General destruction has involved carpeting, upholstery and solid pine doors which now are etched with lengthy cat scratches.
If a couple of thugs broke into our place and left it in shambles, we’d be devastated and would be on the phone to the police and insurance company. Instead, we’ve brought in our own demolition crew and we even haul in hundreds of pounds of food and cat litter to keep them going.
They live their days in luxury, and comfort; if they were human, they’d be serving time behind bars. And I would never visit them.
