Feline Squatter Nothing to Sneeze At

Friday, May 2, 2008

Page 11

AT THE SIDEBAR (Column)

Feline Squatter Nothing to Sneeze At

By J’AMY PACHECO

It’s a funny thing, being allergic to cats.

Actually, the allergy itself is not really funny – it can be downright annoying and embarrassing. Even if friends and family lock their felines away, roll up their rugs and wash everything down, I end up sniffling, sneezing and having to swallow allergy medicine when I’m sharing space with cats.

What’s funny about my allergy is the unusual effect it has on cats. For reasons I’ll never understand, it makes them love me and want to live with me.

I first noticed this about a decade ago, when I moved into a new house. About the time we moved in, a big gray cat moved into the backyard and refused to leave. When I’d go out back to water plants, she’d try to rub against my legs. It was like having a stalker, only one that made my nose run.

Eventually, we came to tolerate her presence. My daughter named her Mrs. World, and the neighbors all assumed she was ours. We didn’t have to feed her—she must have had an alternative family somewhere, for she was clearly well-fed and healthy. I guess we were just her vacation home.

When it came time to move, we felt sorry for the cat. We didn’t want to keep her, but we couldn’t bear to leave her at the mercy of the next residents, who might not be as tolerant. So we helped my animal-loving sister-in-law trick her into a cat carrier (no easy feat, and there were human injuries involved). My sister in law took her home, fed her canned tuna, renamed her “Ginger,” and turned her into a loving little house kitty.

Needless to say, we don’t visit much anymore.

It’s two houses later for us, and wouldn’t you know it – there’s a cat living in my yard. This one is also gray, but it’s ugly, scruffy, and mean. It likes to huddle by my front door, and especially enjoys depositing bodily fluids there. Not even anti-cat pellets will keep this monster away.

If the door deposits weren’t enough to make me despise this cat, it adds insult to injury by hanging on the living room screen. You can’t imagine how horrific the noise is when the cat starts clawing up the screen—I always think a home invasion robbery is imminent. Looking at the cat, I wouldn’t rule that out.

Topping it all off, I think it’s a murderer. Every year, a dove lays an egg in a nest on my front porch. I can see it from the stairs inside my house, and a few days ago, there was a sweet baby dove in the nest. It’s gone now, and there are feathers in my flower bed. I suspect the cat is responsible, and I’m not happy about it.

Last summer, someone’s cat had kittens in my backyard. I couldn’t believe it. But each day, we’d see four little kitties scampering all over our yard while the mommy kitty regally occupied our porch swing.

I wasn’t thrilled about the cat family in my yard, but the kittens provided so much entertainment that I didn’t complain. Before I could even ponder their fate, they moved on and we never saw them again.

But the gray monster keeps coming back, and I don’t know what to do about it.

When I was a Girl Scout, our troop used to sing a song about a guy named Mr. Johnson trying to get rid of his big yellow cat. He gave the cat away, but it came back. He paid a boy to dump the cat in a river, but the cat returned, and the boy drowned instead. In the end, the “H-bomb” fell; France, Spain, Russia and the Good-ole-USA all were destroyed – but the cat survived.

I know what you’re thinking—boy, Girl Scouts were sick and twisted in the 1960s. What I’m thinking is that Mr. Johnson’s cat is still alive and kicking, but has changed its hair color to evade capture.

Each time the cat hangs on the window screen, I’m tempted to call Animal Control to pick it up. But as much as I despise the creature, I can’t stand the thought of sending it to almost certain doom. I can’t imagine any sane person looking at this cat and wanting to take it home.

One of my friends suggested I do the obvious – get a dog. I think dogs are nice, but I’m not ready to trade the front-door spray for a backyard full of poop.

I’d move, but I suspect there would be no point. I’m sure somehow, a gray cat will find me.

So, if anybody out there wants an ugly, mean cat, give me a call. But bring band-aids, and maybe an H-bomb or two.

Not that I think it will help.