Do onto other peoples cats as ...

With my house being short a couple of cats and cooler weather setting in, I currently find myself in direct need of a new mouser.   I think a cat is a cat.  It shouldn't matter what kind, color or sex, right? 

Several years ago, one of my cat-loving daughters was able to prove my theory wrong.  At the time, she was living in Lawrence, Kansas.  I don't know if you've ever been there, but if you are thinking about going, take your Birkenstock sandals, healing crystals, John Lennon style sunglasses, peace-sign head-bands and any other 70s memorabilia in order to fit in because that town is so oddly hippie-like I nicknamed it "The Berkeley of the mid-west"  It's been a little over seven years since I've been there.  Due to a statute of limitations, I'm now able to return to Kansas after a small misunderstanding one summer involving my reaction to a perceived late night mugging.  Thankfully, no one was permanently injured.   

Sara showed up for deer season with a pet cat named Saugua in tow.  I can only describe it's physical attributes as hideous.  This little rat-cat was beyond ugly.  It was like a cross between a mutant Siamese and an albino demon-cat.  It was rescued from an animal shelter raid of an abandoned farm.  This particular beast was three quarters-starved and less than properly hygienic at rescue time.  It's skin was missing hair here and there, along with several nicks and scars likely from fighting over what little food was available to the horde of cats it resided with at the farm.  As bad I felt for this unfortunate little creature of God, it didn't change the fact that it was one unsightly critter. 

What this cat lacked due to aesthetic constraints, it unfortunately could not make up in personality and charm.  Sara was able to gain some measure of favor with it, but when it came to anyone else,  it was like trying to hold a porcupine/Tasmanian-devil hybrid.  I hate to be judgmental.  You all know that, right?  Anyhow, there was just no other way to describe its personality than "psychotic"   That's actually what we called it,  "psycho-cat"     

Five minutes before she had to leave to go back to Kansas, the miniature feline decided to escape into the nether regions of our laundry room.  It found a small opening by the dryer vent to slither through and disappear into the darkness under the basement stairs.  Sara could not stay any longer and we decided to try to capture it and take it to her a couple weeks later, as we were heading there for Thanksgiving.

We never heard a sound from it for at least ten days, but we left water and food out for it at night and it would at least take advantage of that.  Finally, we had to use a live-trap and sardines as bait to catch it.   Once that happened, we had to transfer it to a box for the eight hour trip.  This was by no means an easy task.  Apparently, cats with a minor to severe mental pathology do not like being placed in a box and have a lid put on it.  You learn something new every day, don't you?  It's hard to really describe the carnage of that process accurately, but I hadn't bled that much since the 80s.  The scene ended with me poking a hole in the box for Saugua-the-cat to breathe.   The hole started as the size of a butter-knife poked in and turned in a circle.  As soon as the knife was pulled out, precious little Saugua's head came bursting through the small hole like an alien through an actor's abdomen, biting my hand with all the vengeance it's troubled soul could muster.  The fleshy part of my hand between the thumb and index finger received battlefield first-aid by my 15 year-old son Bobby while I was making new air-holes with the tip of a pencil with my other hand, being "ever so careful" not to strike the Lord's tiny blessing with one of my gentle thrusts of the pencil into the cardboard box. 

At the point we were ready to leave for the trip to deliver this incubus, my blood pressure had lowered enough to safely drive.  I allowed for one bathroom break only on this 509 mile trip.  Driving the posted speed limit the entire time of course, we arrived in just under six hours.  I can only assume google maps has their mileage miscalculated somehow.  Never-the-less, the darned cat never quit screaming the entire time. 

Sara met us outside her house as we arrived with an anxious and hopeful look on her face.  Her countenance changed quickly when she saw the box of screaming cat being taken out of the back seat and greeted us with an unenthusiastic, "Oh I guess you found it, huh?"  

Thinking outside the box

There's nothing more special than the relationship between a father and son. Anytime I want to make my wife cry, I'll say something like that. There are actually many things just as or more special than that relationship, but for the purposes of this story you'll need to play along. 

Throughout history and in nearly ever society the first-born son in a family was considered the blessed one. He was placed with extra responsibility as well as gaining the family treasures as a man. It's almost non-existent in our current society. At least to the point of being noticeable anyhow. It's just my opinion, but it seems like whichever child is the most charming, the most fun, or the one that gains the most favor of the mother tends to be the blessed one. Right or wrong, I take no sides. I have enough trouble figuring my own family out than to be analyzing anyone else's.  

I remember learning about a society in a faraway land. I don't think it was the country of Greece, but I have envisioned the people to be similar. In the past Greece is sort of known for some deep thinkers, inventors, philosophers and teachers. The only person I have ever met from Greece stayed at my house for 30 days and like most of my family and other people that met him, I wanted to kill him by the time he left. Apparently, Europeans think they are all superior in intellect to us 'muricans that only breath in and out through our mouths. People from Greece believe that too, but they also think they invented everything. Seriously, EVERYTHING! Ben Franklin, Alexander Graham Bell, Thomas Edison, Jack Kirby and Ajay Bhatt apparently all stole their ideas for their inventions from lessor know Greek scientists. What are the odds? 

Another funny thing he told me that he honestly believes is that there is a yearly military special-forces tournament held in Greece (shocker).  Teams from all over the world come to showcase their special deadly skills. Wouldn't you know it, Greece comes in first place every year! Lithuania and France are always in the top five. The USA? Nope, they rarely place in the top ten. That's the point I decided not to believe another word that came out of his olive-oil drinking, baklava eating mouth. I could rant for hours about Mr. Greece, but I'll save it for later.

The society of people I was previously referring to believe strongly in traditions. That's usually a good thing unless the traditions are sacrificing virgins to volcanoes, stoning women for as little as being accused of something with or without proof, throwing a child off the boat to learn how to swim or many other ill-advised acts that were somehow thought to be the right thing to do by whatever genius was in charge at the time.

One tradition that held through the ages in that land was when the old became too weak, too frail or otherwise a burden to the family the oldest son would construct a box big enough for the aging father to sit or lie down. They would put several personal items of the father in the box along with dear ol' dad. The son would then tie a rope on the box and after a few goodbyes with the rest of the family, he would begin to pull the box on a long trek upwards into the hills. Not an easy task to be sure.

Once they arrived at the top of their favorite hill, the son would give his father a customary kiss on the cheek. He would then turn and leave, never looking back. The old man would stay and rest peacefully until he expired. Something like that seems unimaginable to us, but there's stranger things on Earth, I can assure you. 

The story I heard about what happened once during this traditional send-off should make all of us think a little harder about how we treat our old.

As the son turned to leave, the father spoke up. "Son, please come back. I have a favor to ask"

The son returned to his father's side and asked what he must do. The Father said, "Son, remove me from this box and set me beside that rock behind us."

"But father, why?" said the good son, "It's not our way"

"I want you to leave and take this box back with you" The father answered. 

"Why must I do such a thing, father?" He objected. 

The old man replied, "Because your son will need it to bring you up here one day"