Since we bought our first house a year ago, my wife and I have adjusted nicely to home living, except for one thing. Whenever someone rings the doorbell, it throws our whole household into disarray. Our 9 pound dog starts yapping her Monopoly piece-size head off, and Jess and I suddenly go to acting like two parrots caught on fire. We dart madly about the house attacking each other with the same crucial question, over and over: “Who’s that? Who’s that?” This sort of thing usually continues until someone is able to drum up the courage to answer the door. And assuming the person at the door is still there, the other takes his place behind the couch peering at the door. That person (I’m not saying it’s always me. Okay?), having already dialed a ”9″ and a “1″ on the cell, will keep a finger ready over the final “1,” waiting, stiff-muscled, to the thump of his heartbeat in his throat. 

This tactic is extremely necessary — and may or may not be approved by Oprah – in case our  surprise visitor decides to grab ahold and make off with one of us. It’s not like we live in a bad neighborhood or anything. We are just neurotically suspicious. Besides, it has just been hard for us to adjust to the throngs of Girl Scouts in the area pushing Thin Mints.

Therefore, I have decided that from now on I shall wear jeans to bed. You just never know when that next knock at the door will be. And that scares me.     

Categories: Life
4 Comments »

Cat love is a hard pill to swallow if you’re not prepared for it. But certainly, minus those living on an ice cap or a cat-free island somewhere, no one is beyond the reach of a pair of nefarious cats when the weather is right. It’s even arrogant to think so, I think. It’s like saying, “Oh, that could never happen to me.” Well, it does. And it did. And Tony and I are still humbled by it to this day.

When the cats blew into town, Tony was still serving the remaining sentence of his bachelorhood in a dusty little duplex with Matt and me. Matt and I played our parts as avid viewers of the reality show that had become Tony’s life. Late nights, after a tough day at work and an equally taxing night of wedding planning, Tony would show up, his tie half-undone, the product long wrenched from his hair, looking like he’d just been jumped by a pack of surly shrews. He’d stumble into the kitchen, going straight for a glass of Coke, like a CEO on the bad side of a hostile takeover would a Scotch. Then, he’d fizzle out on the couch and gaze at whatever game was on ESPN. The scene looked so fascinating that a year later I decided to take the wedding plunge myself. In my opinion, Tony should have won an Iron Man award or a Purple Heart or something that year. He should have been awarded not just for the outstanding measure of stamina he displayed on the ordinary, but more for the cat abuse he took as the finish line of his wedding came into view. And, while I’m handing out awards, I should probably give myself a little one, because I went down hard with him.    

A few weeks before Tony’s ”Big Day,” winter vanished into thin air. Overnight, the snow melted and the dirty last of it lay like contaminated snow cones in the storm drains and sewage grates around town. I woke up to find everyone suddenly in shorts and flip-flops and asking me if I played Frisbee golf. The new season of spring had bloomed and filled the air with the sweet fragrance of love blossoms and lifetime commitments. Things were really looking up…or were they? Indeed, the next series of nights would be a lesson in nature that even the horrific imaginations of our 6th grade Health teachers couldn’t surpass. I am not happy for what I am about to report…   

For what seemed like an endless stretch, somewhere in the deepest, blackest hours of those harrowing spring nights, I remember jolting from sleep to what sounded like two cats being skinned alive outside my window. Maddening hisses, shrieks, and savage screams — it sounded like the cat version of the apocalypse. It went on for nearly twenty minutes this way before it finally turned off. The first night, awkward but slightly amused, I was just glad to get back to the business of sleeping. I’ve always considered the ruckus of the alley cat’s mating ritual quite absurd, but what about cats aren’t?  Before I fell back to sleep, in an effort to move past the degree of disturbance I felt inside, I tried to get at it from the angle of education. That night it did the trick; I was back to snoring soundly. 

But by the third night of living this kitty-kat nightmare, I felt things escalating to a near-abusive level. My mental health had gone ugly. In the daytime I became jumpy, untrusting. I’d accidentally misplace things at work and accuse co-workers of stealing. ”You took my Post-its, didn’t you? Don’t lie, Thief! Oh, here they are…under my mouse. So we still on for lunch?” I developed all the telltale signs of a victim mixed up in a shameless, buck-wild feline free-for-all. Indeed, the cats were relentless, demented, even. For reasons known to the mysteries of nature alone, these uncouth cats had made some kind of pact to include me in their sick little game. It was like being hurled into the director’s cut of National Geographic. Why, God, why?!

Apparently, Mother Nature with her sick sense of humor had designated the threadbare sprigs outside my window as the rendezvous point for the carrying on of these unrestrained animals. I grew irate. For several nights I tossed and turned in my half-sleep, flailing in that mysterious limbo between dreaming and consciousness to the screeching tune of the cats’ mating call. In the mornings, I’d wake up all swollen-eyed with a bad taste in my mouth. Over and over I’d have to remind myself, you didn’t do anything wrong; it was the cats; they’re the bad ones. I wanted to move to Powell, or to the more fashionable part of New Albany, somewhere where cats acted more civilized.

But at least I had one thing going for me; I knew what these cats were up to. I grew up in a small town, where cats from the country came to carouse at night. As a child, after a similar cat experience outside my old bedroom window (I wonder, were these the same cats?), I vaguely remember the next day Dad, a country boy himself, saying something along the lines like, “I don’t think they were fighting, Son.” Then he flashed me a knowing look, like I’d just been let in on an age-old secret, or admitted into a secret club, like the Freemasons. For the next several years, I silently bore this burning knowledge inside of me.       

Poor Tony, on the other hand, this was his first time. His was the bedroom next to mine, and we shared the same outside wall. Little did I know that during this stint of rowdy cat escapades, Tony lay trembling in the dark wondering if he’d just heard his first string of cat murders. And if so, should he report it? To him, and understandably so, it sounded like a wolf had got a hold of a few unfortunate strays, night after night after night. Later, Tony admitted that he was surprised the next day to find no traces of blood, fur clumps, or dismembered cat legs strewn throughout the yard. Obviously we were dealing with a street-smart wolf here that was very wise on how to hide his murder evidence.  

Due to our busy schedules and just plain forgetfulness, Tony and I never brought up the cats for a long time. Then one night, near the end of the cats’ gripping reign over our lives, just before it was time to call it the night, Tony turned to me, “You hear those cats fighting at night?” 

Hear ‘em? They are destroying my life!

Then, I knew it was time. I gave myself a moment to search for the right words. There were none. Then, in plain, direct speech I passed on the torch of dark feline knowledge. I said, “Tony, I don’t think these cats are fighting.” I watched as Tony ran through the natural gamut of emotions: first surprise, then denial, then “are you serious?”, and finally sad, sad acceptance. Tony was in the secret club.

After that, the cats quit it. It’s like they’d stopped in just to teach Tony a quick, terrible lesson and to torment my soul. Then they were done. In some strange way — I don’t know how — I’d like to believe that the cats had played a small part in preparing Tony for marriage. But I wonder if I didn’t learn something, as well. Let’s see, if I think hard enough until it hurts, maybe I can squeeze a good lesson from this experience. Yes, there it is. …We live in a fallen world. And this right here, my friends, is living proof. 

Categories: Nature
3 Comments »