Catrant

One nice thing about having a blog that no one ever reads (for the most part) is that I can rant about insane subjects and not worry about any backlash. If you are reading this, you probably won't waste your time responding, anyway. You've already wasted enough time as it is. Best be off with you, then!


So. To my rant. Can you guess what it's about? Of course you can!

It's cats. Specifically, cats as house pets.

I grew up with cats. My sisters and I all had our own cats. I used to like cats a great deal. My first cat was a beautiful Calico who gave birth to a litter of kittens underneath an Ottoman (the furniture, not the person).[1] Lovely, lovely kittens, all colors and shades. Unfortunately, when we moved to Arkansas, we had to leave all our cats behind. We were all heartbroken. There, after a time, we got a couple more: Charlie and George. Two gorgeous black half-Siamese cats with wonderful dispositions and very clean fur.

My family has always welcomed cats. Even after that infamous episode when we came home from church one Wednesday night to find that one of my pet mice had escaped from its cage, and the cats had got him. [2]

The only time cats were not part of my life was when I left home. The University certainly didn’t allow pets in the dorms, and neither I nor my roomate had one when we rented an apartment. And I didn’t get one after starting my first job out of college.

Now that I'm thinking about it, it actually never occurred to me to have a pet in those days. I didn't have time for one, not with work, and involvement in church, and living in a rented room I only saw between midnight and six in the morning. Not even when I moved to Seattle and found my own apartment, or when I rented a house with a group of guys from church. Never had the need for animal companionship, not while being constantly surrounded by people. Never had the need to cuddle up to some fur-bearing creature when I came home. Not that any cat would’ve tolerated the general disorder and aroma of the ‘bachelor pad’.[3]

No, I was waiting for real companionship. Human companionship. Of the female variety.

Perhaps that's why I was so upset when, after being married a mere six months, Cheryl and I “got” a cat, a stray rescued by a friend of ours. At the time, I certainly didn't feel the need to share my new wife with anyone, even a pet, and was rather hurt that she decided to keep it. Made me feel inadequate, like I just wasn't man enough to fill all her needs. I was jealous, although I tried hard not to show it. But it didn't help that the cat was psychotic. Due, of course, to her stray-cat, dodge-the-cars-and-dogs lifestyle.

Angie. Wonderful, sweet, psychotic scaredy-cat. Afraid of shadows. Hid behind the furniture (or under it) whenever guests would come by. Eventually she learned not to be quite so fearful. I think. Or perhaps she never really got over her kittenhood trauma. It as difficult to be certain. Does anyone ever really know the mind of a cat?

She survived the move from the apartment to our first house. She survived the arrival of the children. What she couldn't survive was competition.

We brought in a kitten one day, thinking she might enjoy a playmate, and in response, she tried to kill the poor thing outright, hissing and spitting the whole time. Definitely not a good idea. Out it went.

Years later, after it appeared she’d had time to mellow out, we tried again, and this time she reacted by trying to kill it and by spraying in the house, marking her territory. We talked to the vet about it, and the vet assured us that, once she started spraying, she would not stop, even if we immediately removed the offending intruder. So Angie went away, and the kitten stayed. And then later the kitten's supposed father, another stray, took up residence in our house. Erin and Alfred. What a pair!

Throughout our tenure in that house, the cats behaved like ... well, cats. They scratched the carpet. They tossed hairballs. They scratched the deck posts. They brought us 'gifts' of small rodentia and birds. The left their hair and dander all over the place. They scratched and clawed at the children who played a little too rough with them. They tried to jump up on the table to eat our food when we were finished with dinner.

Nothing out of the ordinary for cats.

They’re not to blame, of course. We invited them to live with us. We brought them into our house to provide ... whatever it is that cats provide. We’ve both had cats before. We both knew what cats were supposed to do. They’re supposed to sit on our laps, purr, be petted, snuggle up to us in bed, or sit at the window and stare out at the squirrels and think catty thoughts, while we watch them and try to figure out what’s going on inside their brains.

But Erin and Alfred are not lap cats. They don't really like to be around people unless they're in the mood, and they aren't in the mood most of the time. They don't like to be picked up or held. They definitely don't like to be brushed. They put up with petting, probably because they realize it helps to shed five or six pounds of fur and dander from their backs every time we do it. They rub against our legs when they want something, usually food. They follow Cheryl everywhere. They can sense that she is their protector.

It has taken them a long time to get to the point where they can tolerate the children. Actually, they seem to put up with James best, because he pays them the most attention. Alfred even puts up with being picked up and carried around occasionally. But one look at his face is enough to know he doesn’t like it.

As for myself, they both know I'd just as soon toss them out on their ears as look at them.

Not to be mean or cruel, of course. I just don't see the practical advantage of having them. As the dog says in the Warner Brothers cartoon, "It just don't add up!"

On the plus side, they occasionally allow me to pet them, which only results in my hand looking like the first stage of a werewolf transformation, all black and hairy. On the minus side, they shed. They shed everywhere. And I'm allergic to their dander. And we don't vacuum enough to keep it out of the air. They sleep on my bed at night, so that the comforter is covered with fur (and I get to breathe it all night long). They "nest" under the bed during the day, which leaves a huge amount of fur on the carpet, which drifts through the room during the day and eventually settles in my sinus cavities.

They also throw up hairballs all over the place. (Sometimes it appears like they are merely using their mouths to transport their breakfast from the plate down in the kitchen to some random spot on the carpet somewhere else in the house, with stomach acid thrown in for good measure.) They poop on the floor in my garage for some unknown reason.

And they destroy the carpet.


It was one thing for them to destroy the carpet in that forty-year old house back in Everett, when the carpet was old and stained after years of use and we knew eventually we could sell it to somebody else and they would want to put new carpet in it and that would be fine because we’d gotten our fair use out of it and it was about time for it anyway.

But this ... this is a brand-new house, and we're not even done building it yet! We're planning on finishing the basement rooms downstairs, hoping to put nice carpet in our entertainment room or den or whatever it will be. And those cats have already managed to shred at least two different areas of the existing carpet on the main floor. Do you think I fancy the idea of spending thousands of dollars to put brand-new carpet downstairs so they can rip that up, too?

Sure, and you can just go downstairs and start whacking holes in my new drywall, too. Might as well give you my Visa card as well so you can go buy a new car and then smash it into a lamp-post because it accomplishes the same thing - taking my money and throwing it out the bloody window.

I’ve mentioned the problem to a few friends at work and they’ve all suggested the same thing: de-clawing. Which seems like the obvious thing to do, if we’re intending on having totally indoor cats. But that makes me a bit uncomfortable. Personally, I’m not into modification of animals to fit a particular lifestyle. I mean, God made these cats a certain way, and they’re here to fulfill a purpose, right? And for me to bring them inside and say, I want you to live in my house with me, but in order to make it work, I’m first going to rip out your claws so you don’t damage my stuff... Well, it seems a bit unfair to start making all these caveats and exceptions and special rules, like changing their bodies in order to make them fit my little world. It doesn’t really add up, either.[4]

I’ve seen many cats without claws indoors, and it makes me sad to watch them try to scratch things up, and accomplish nothing. They were born to scratch, and I empathize with their frustration in trying so hard and getting nowhere. And it doesn’t solve the main problem – they’re still going to throw hairballs and have territorial disputes and chew on wires and do all sorts of things that cats are just born to do. They still possess the ability to destroy my house.

I much prefer that cats remain the way they are, doing their job, chasing small furry animals and birds around outside, eating them (if necessary), eating grass and tossing hairballs outside, pooping outside, climbing trees and scratching posts outside, and maybe perhaps occasionally coming to the deck when I’m sitting outside and allowing me to pet them (while all the ticks and fleas and other assorted vermin leap from their skin to mine, carrying dread diseases which will put me on the next episode of House). Not only would it reduce their interaction with the interior of my house, it might also reduce my pet food bill.[5]

The alternative is to modify my house so that there is no way for them to destroy it. Which means removing anything that they might scratch or rip or tear or stain, including carpet, comforters, furniture, and children, if necessary. Because if they destroy parts of my house, I’m going to defend my house. Do you understand? The castle is under siege! I have invested hundreds of hours of my life working to pay for this house – and I’m not done yet! – and so every time they destroy part of that house, they invalidate all those hours of my work. They take my work and spit on it, turning it into waste. They make it so I have to work even more hours, hours which cannot be spent with my family. In effect, they steal precious time from me.

Some may argue that I’m being hypocritical; after all, I have children, and children destroy the house, too. And they do, with a vengeance. But I put up with that because they are long-term investments. They can be taught to not cause damage. In fact, they can be taught to repair damage, to restore the house to its previous condition, or better.

But cats? What can they do for me? What can they learn, or un-learn? How can they un-do the damage they have done?[6]

You may think I’m being unfairly focused on cats. Believe me, my attitude does not restrict itself to cats alone. I feel the same way about all pets. In my life, I’ve had cats and mice and gerbils (and, for a very short time in a car long, long ago, a bird) – and, of course, there was ol’ Chumley, my sister’s beloved dog – so my opinion is not stated in a vacuum of experience.

Let me clarify. I like pets. But I do not like pets in my house. In fact, I have come to believe that animals do not belong in a house with humans. I believe that animals belong in the environment in which they were designed to live. Animals were not designed to live indoors, but outdoors. They are free to visit indoors anytime it is permissable by those who do live indoors. If a human wants to devote the time and energy and money to bring an animal inside to be a ‘pet’, they are free to do so. But before they make that choice, they must be prepared to carry through with the commitment.

Which means, in short, pet owners must provide an environment which does not cause mental, physical, or spiritual harm to themselves, their pets, or others.

If you live by yourself, have all the pets you want. You’re the only one who has to deal with it – until the moment you invite your friends in for a visit. In which case you shouldn’t be surprised when they make disparaging comments, especially after seeing what kind of damage your pets have done to the place. Or, if they suffer from particular allergies to animals, don’t be surprised if they flee from the building immediately.

Also, don’t be surprised if your own character is judged by the way in which you care for your furry friends. You may think nothing of it, but your human friends can tell a lot about you merely by observing the health and well-being of those who are in your charge.[7]

For those who share a residence with other human beings, it may be the case that those with whom you live do not share your love for the animal(s). Therefore you may have to resign yourself to making every effort to prevent those animals from acting on the worst of their animal natures. Read books. Ask professionals. Look into behavioral training, genetic modification, hypnosis, surgery - whatever it takes to force them into the desired mold. Spray the furniture with nasty-smelling Pet-B-Gone spray, scoop up the hairballs, buy the expensive vacuums to suck up vomit and/or feces before it sets into the carpet, take a carpet-laying class so you can replace the sections they destroy, teach them how to go outside and come back in without shredding the screen door (and leaving long scratches all over the front door), clean the litter box every day, get them out-of-doors at least twice a day, make sure they have adequate food and clean water, brush them often, run the vacuum over the entire house at least three times a week, station a guard at every entrance to make sure they don’t bring any wild game inside, file down their teeth so they can’t gnaw through the phone wires, give them a place to rest that they can call their own – and make sure it isn’t in your bedroom.

If you are willing to do all these things, go ahead and have a pet. Enjoy the fruit of your labors.

But if you aren’t willing to go the distance, then don’t even start, because otherwise you’re going to end up with filthy houses and resentful housemates and lots of pointless arguments which go nowhere – and let’s not forget the repair bills for the damaged furniture and the vet bills for all those interesting pet diseases. I wish you luck.


As for our house, we are not getting rid of our cats. At this point, they are a part of the family, like it or not. Getting rid of them would be like getting rid of an eccentric relative. It’s unthinkable. And we’re not de-clawing them, either. They’re going to stay as God intended - other than the fact that they cannot breed - and they’re going to prance about the house at night, knocking things over and causing all manner of disruption, and they’re going to sleep during the day, leaving mounds of fur all about the place, wafting through the air and into my nose so that I’ll spend an inordinate amount of money toking up on antihistamines and caffeine tablets to remain functional; and every so often I’ll go off into a frothing rage because of something they’ve done, and have to take a long drive somewhere in order to calm down again. And then we’ll go right back to vacuuming the carpet and scooping up the accidents and brushing out their fur and cleaning out the litter boxes and calling up the vet now and then and spending scads of money to keep the house in good repair.

And when they’ve finally passed on to the great Catnip Garden in the sky, we’re going to stop all this pet nonsense and get something reasonable like a goldfish.[8]

--
Notes

[1] Oddly, I don’t remember her name.

[2] It wasn’t their fault. They were just being cats. Actually, it was the fault of mouse psychology which prevents daddy mice from staying with mommy mice after the offspring are born. She almost killed the poor guy, so we had to separate them. As we didn't have a second Habitrail to put him in, we had to get this budget wire-frame cage which was not designed for mice but for larger rodents, like hamsters or gerbils. Consequently, the vertical bars were just a tad too wide apart to keep the mouse from escaping. So that night he squeezed through the bars – freedom! – and scurried around on the floor, having a wonderful time until, unfortunately, he attracted the attention of Charlie and George. They made short work of him, and no doubt had a wonderful time as well. A little exercise, followed by a little snack, and all that was left was a little red smear on the bathroom floor.

[3] Five guys from extremely disparate backgrounds, newly acquainted and trying to figure each other out: three who had lived on the streets before, one barely out of high school, only two with steady jobs. We were supposed to be the Light in the neighborhood. In reality, we were running a street Mission, bringing in stray folk off the street and trying to talk to them about spiritual matters. There was an incredible number of people streaming through the place at all hours of the day, and they weren’t the kind that remembered where the trash bins were kept, or their purpose for that matter. You can imagine what the inside of the fridge looked like. And the top of the stove, which only occasionally got cleaned. The backyard never got mowed, so for all I know, we might’ve been harboring several stray cats back there unawares, but none ever came into the house.

[4] We also neuter our pets, but that is not a modification performed for the sake of our convenience; it is done to prevent the neighborhood from being overrun by litters of unwanted kittens. Some may argue that this is splitting hairs, and they may be correct. Were I living on a farm where the cat performs what I consider a necessary function, there would be no need for neutering because they would be subject to the same predator/prey laws as all the other animals. But we live in a suburban area where they are relatively protected, and thus subject to overbreeding.

[5] I’ve always felt that a cat’s place is on the farm, getting rid of the mice who try to eat the grain. It makes perfect sense. I don’t really understand why a cat would need to live in a house where there isn’t a rodent pest problem. What is their function? Why do we spend so much time and money on them? Wouldn’t that time and money be better spent on the other people who live in the house? Does the cat really offer so much companionship that we can overlook their obvious incompatibilities? Or have we been merely unlucky in our choice of cat breed?

[6] I’ve heard that cats can be trained to use the toilet. But I’ve not yet heard of cats being trained not to throw up hairballs (although some vets claim they have medicines and things that keep them from getting hairballs). Or, in our case, just throwing up for fun. Most importantly, I’ve never heard of cats pounding nails, driving screws, hanging drywall, or replacing carpet. Until that day, don’t talk to me of ‘training’ cats. The only ‘training’ associated with cats is the ‘training’ of owners to come up with all kinds of excuses for putting up with ill-behaved cats.

[7] Many years ago, there was a very nice girl in whom I had more than a passing interest, and we had a wonderful friendship, and she was hoping that it would blossom into something Really Special; and one day when it was obvious that it was not going to become something Really Special, she asked me why. And I didn’t know how to explain to her then, but the one thing that spoke volumes to me about her true character was the way she treated her dog. That is to say, she did not take care of it. It was unkempt, wild, miserable, and was driving her roommates crazy. I could never have a serious relationship with a person who would not take care of her pets.

[8] There currently exist a marvelous set of fish aquarium screen savers for the PC which are remarkably life-like. Perhaps I’ll set up an extra monitor just for this purpose, so as to avoid messing about with cleaning the water-tank, maintaining the proper pH, not to mention having to purchase fish-food flakes, which smell horribly.