is when she developed her obsession.
My wife doesn’t hoard clothing or shoes, antiques or knickknacks, yard sale mementos or garage-room junk, nothing like that. She hoards cats. That’s right, cats!
We probably have close to a hundred. There’s no way to get an accurate count because they move around too much, and after a while, they all start looking the same. We have so many, in fact, that they rotate in shifts between the house and the outdoors, not all of them being able to fit inside at one time.
We never had children, and I guess that’s a good thing. They would have nowhere to live. The only room that is forbidden to them is my study, which I keep locked. I’ve even moved a cot and microwave in there where I can sleep and eat in peace.
It’s not just waking up with a tail (or worse) under your nose, but it’s everything else as well. It’s the ammonia from cat spray that burns your eyes when you enter the house, the little bits of cat litter found in every room, the fur balls on your sofa, and the cat fur that seems attracted to your finest clothes. And it’s the predatory eyes and meows when you’re trying to eat.
Luckily, I sell farm equipment and travel a lot and don’t have to deal with it as much. But the drive back home is always with dread.
I’ve always heard rabbits are prolific breeders, but cats have to run a close second. Most of the ones we have now are the offspring of the few she started out with.
I’ve mentioned to Edith on several occasions about getting rid of some. That suggestion is met with the same reaction every time: first, she throws a fit; then, she has a seizure; and she ends it all by saying how unbearable it would be to lose any of her babies. I tell her they’re not babies, just cats, and she has another seizure.
Sometimes, one will run off, get run over by a car, or get sick and die. But let me say the birth rate is much higher than the mortality. One time when some of them got distemper, she mentioned to me about getting them vaccinated. That’s when I threw my fit. I explain that it would take three vans to carry them in, that I don’t have Donald Trump’s money to doctor them with, and that there aren’t enough vets in town to see them all.
Could I carry my car full then? I put my foot down. The only two cats I will carry to the vet are the only two she has that are full-blooded. They are two Siamese she has papers with: the male is Singing Sammy Lee Jr. and the female is Fancy Mae West.
“Besides,” I tell her, “the cat food bill is astronomical.”
“Oh, Lester,” she says, “you make good money, and the cats are very appreciative.”
“I would appreciate spending more of it on ourselves,” my reply.
“That would be living selfishly, Lester.”
I mentioned one time that maybe a medical professional could help her with her problem. That is when she had her worst seizure ever. That idea was never mentioned again.
I love my wife. I don’t want to leave her, but I also know I can’t keep on living like this.
I even mention it to my doctor during my annual company physical. “Doc, is there a way to give someone an allergy to cats?” I ask him.
“I don’t think so.” He looks at the red rashes on my arms, around my neck, and under my nose. He laughs. “But it looks as if you’ve developed quite a nasty one though.”
The only reason you haven’t seen us on the news, with animal control rushing in and caging up truckloads of cats and authorities carting our asses off for animal neglect, is because we live in a rural part of the county. Our closest neighbors, Herb and Clara Edwards, live a quarter mile away with woods in between. In fact, woods surround my house, and maybe that’s a good thing.
* * * * *
I walk the quarter mile by road one day to have a beer with Herb and discuss my problem with him.
“That’s easy, Les. Just take your rifle and start shooting them.”
I just about choke on my first swallow of beer. “Are you crazy? She would either take the rifle and start shooting at me or have to be institutionalized. I have to devise a plan for getting rid of them without her knowing I’m behind it.”
Herb thinks for a minute. “Look around us, Les.” We are standing at his shed, so I do. “There are critters in these woods who would gladly kill and eat a cat.”
“And how do you propose I advertise cats are on the menu?” I ask.
“You have to bring them to you. Lure them in with bait, and when they see the cats, presto, problem solved.”
“The only things I’ve baited,” I tell him, “are deer with apples and corn and fish with earthworms, and neither of those kill cats.”
“I’m thinking more along the line of Alpo. Buy some cases of it, and set some bowls out around the edge of the woods. The meat is cheap, has a fatty content, and the smell will entice animals from near and far.”
“That could bring up anything.”
“Nothing dangerous. We don’t have any bears in this area, and bobcats are few. It will bring coyotes who are skittish around people but notorious small pet killers. And it will attract raccoons and possums too.”
“I didn’t know they eat cats.”
“I don’t know that they do, but they will kill a cat over the Alpo, and that’s one less cat you have to worry about.”
I think about it for a minute. “It sounds like the long way around the short end to me. But at this point, I’m willing to try anything, no matter how asinine your plan may be.”
Herb rubs his chin, thinking some more. “I may have something better. We have lots of barn owls around here. They would cart a cat off in a minute.”
“How do I get the owls and cats together?”
“We need something to attract them both. He throws his arms up into the air. “I’ve got it…what do owls like most?”
“Female owls?”
“Well, that too…I’m talking rabbits.”
I give it some thought. “I don’t know,” I say. “Rabbit trapping sounds harder than dumping cans of dog food.”
“No, Les.” Herb gives me an exasperated look. “You spread rabbit pellets around the yard. The rabbits come for the pellets, the cats come for the rabbits, and the owls come for both, taking the cat away because they are competing for the same food source. Problem solved.”
“It could work I guess.” I finish my second beer. “Thanks for the beer, Herb. I’ll go to the store soon.”
I’ve walked almost to the end of his driveway when he comes running.
“Wait, here’s the best one yet.” He tells me about this guy he works with who owns a dog whose claim to fame is being a cat killer. “I’ve seen him. He’s a big, mixed breed named Bruno. He will tolerate people and other animals, but when a cat comes around, he goes into monster mode. It’s not a pretty sight.
