Queen Kitty owns the kingdom; we just live here
By Burton W. Cole
We rent our house from a cat.
True, I make the monthly mortgage payments. My wife, Terry, buys the cat food — but only certain flavors from specific brands, if we know what’s good for us.
It’s my name printed on the deed, but Terry and I know who owns the place — Coconut, an all-white kitty with an invisible all-purple regal robe.
I always know which door to open when, because her highness commands it of me.
“You could just tell her no. You’re the man of the house,” Terry tells me even as she’s jumping up to serve the queen of the house another side of seafood pate.
“Squeak, squeak,” I nod, and turn the door knob at royal request.
I’ve suffered from a long history animal rule. All new pets go through an extensive training process, which lasts until the critters believe they’ve instilled in me a firm understanding of my role as servant.
As a kid, I showed dairy cattle at the county fair. I slipped the lead halter on a Holstein heifer, set to let her know was boss. She casually stepped on my foot. Air showed beneath her other three hooves.
I rammed my shoulder into hers but an 80-pound boy is no match for 800 pounds of solid indifference.
When I had agreed to all her terms and conditions, she took one lazy step backward. She gently lowed, “You don’t need those toes to sign this contract. Make it snappy. I believe under Article VI, you wish to serve me grain now.”
I grew up, married, and my bride introduced a dog into the household.
Every 3 a.m. when Jordy expressed an urgent need to relieve himself outside, whose side of the bed did he worry? Mine.
While the canine danced with legs crossed, I jammed feet into sneakers, checked to make sure I remembered pajamas and grabbed the leash. Then the dog dragged me up and down the property line as he sniffed all the pee-mail.
“She brought you home. She feeds you. Why don’t you ever wake her up? Dumb dog.”
Jordy chuckled, “Look who’s calling who dumb. You fall for this routine every night. Hey, that looks like a raccoon in the bushes. Let’s chase it!”
In the evening, I toted a book to my easy chair, ready to settle in for a good read, only to find our gray cat, Scamper, curled on the cushion. “The stupid cat took my chair again,” I howled as I thumped down onto the rickety straight-back chair.
“Stupid? You’re the one conceding the La-Z-Boy to a cat,” my loving wife said. “You do know that you’re fully capable of picking her up and setting her on the other chair.”
“She was there first,” I pouted. “Finders keepers. That’s what she told me. Can we buy another easy chair so I can have one too?”
After Scamper and Jordy passed, I kept only fancy goldfish. Fish, in general, don’t steal easy chairs or stare at you munching meatloaf. They don’t need walked or brushed or doors opened.
Occasionally the orandas hollered in bubbly voices, “The algae’s getting thick in here. Clean the glass, lackey, or I’m calling Cousin Hammerhead.” But overall, life settled into peaceful, uncommanded bliss.
Then came Coconut.
She granted me permission to keep the easy chair — on the condition that on command I immediately open the upstairs door, conveniently located right next to my chair.
“You know that you can tell her no,” my wife reminds me.
No. No, I can’t. I know who rules the roost and it isn’t us chickens. It’s her highness, the cat.
Bow before Coconut at burton.w.cole@gmail.com or at www.burtonwcole.com