The cat's me-ow

It began with a loud crash in the middle of the night, the sound of broken glass. Naturally, when you hear a noise like that, your mind cycles through all the possibilities: A renegade ostrich escaped from the zoo, drank our Heineken, and is dropping-kicking all the glassware! A Jewish couple broke into the house, got married in our living room, and is smashing wine glasses underfoot! Pauly Shore is drunk and on the rampage!

 

Then you shake out the cobwebs and start envisioning scenarios that could actually happen: A burglar! A thief! Pauly Shore is drunk and on the rampage!

 

I was 10, and scared out of my Batman-smattered trousers. If I was a different kind of kid, I would have grabbed my Louisville Slugger from the closet and creeped out of my bedroom to ascertain the cause of all the ruckus. But I was the kind of kid I was, and that meant pulling the covers over my head and waiting for mom and dad to make the bad stuff go away. And possibly wetting myself.

 

The sound of my parents’ bedroom door opening. Footsteps inching down the hall. Then my mother, stomping her foot and screaming at the top of her lungs, “Garfield!”

 

“Oh,” I thought. “The cat.”

 

Sure enough, when I inched open my door and peeked around the corner, there was the Christmas tree lying flat on the floor, branches splayed, goofy Santa ornaments squished under its woodsy girth. In the corner of the room hunched Garfield, shielded by the China cabinet. With his face fixed in an expression of mingled confusion and fear, his eyes shone nervously in the room’s ambient light, silently conveying the wish that whatever transgression he’d committed wouldn’t be met with the swipe of a broom across his orange, tabby face.

 

He needn’t have worried. He was a pain in butt, but we loved him.

 

If you want to commit minor crimes and always get away with them, the two best things to be are a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader or a fluffy pet. Garfield, mischievous in his youth in an eerie imitation of his comic-strip namesake, is the poster child for how cuteness can help a creature avoid premature death. If he had looked like Ed Asner, or the quarry foreman on “The Flintstones,” he would have been history before his first birthday, and the only furry friend left in the house would have been the armadillo-shaped Chia Pet on the television stand. Ever try to snuggle with a Chia Pet? There’s no way to do it and maintain any semblance of self-esteem. Or so I’m told.

 

It was his eyes, I think. Those innocent, half-pleading eyes. Most cats are renowned for a kind of detachment that borders on coldness; Joseph Stalin, watching an enemy meet his end at the hands of Bolshevik justice, wouldn’t have been able to match the icy stare emanating from a feline deprived of his canned food. Garfield was different. There was something soft, almost ingratiating, in his face, in his whole manner, as though he were always about to shine your shoes.

 

But see, that’s how they do it. Pets can be adorably devious. They ply you with heart rending squeals and sandpaper licks on your fingers, then in the next instant they’re pooping in the entryway and knocking priceless valuables onto the floor. The smart ones sense that their owners are morally opposed to striking a defenseless animal, and take advantage by sweeping through living rooms with the destructive force of a small hurricane, or a miniature army of scorched-earth freedom fighters. Union General William Sherman, notorious for burning Southern villages to the ground during the Civil War, would stand in awe at Garfield’s body of work. And Sherman never got his ears scratched lovingly after a campaign. Well, probably. Who knows what happened in those tents.

 

It’s a good things pets are awesome. I mean, it’s not like we put up with occasional mischief for no good reason. They’re cuddly and loyal and a source of love in a world with far too little of it. Plus, there are certain dogs that can be trained to fetch beer from the fridge. That alone is worth the price of admission. 

 

Man, though, what a cost sometimes. I think successful pet ownership often comes down to knowing your susceptibility to cuteness is being taken advantage of, and just being okay with that.

 

I’ve written before about my neighbor’s cat, Schmucky. My neighbor and I share access to a giant shed-like structure attached to the rear of our building – the kind of place you use to store broken toasters and neglected workout machines – and every so often, when I walk inside, there’s his tabby cat, being a putz in some way; hissing at me, usually, or otherwise acting unfriendly. He’s a bad dude, Schmucky. If he were a man, he’d be one of the dancing gang members in “West Side Story,” tattooed and switchblade-wielding and sucking on an unfiltered Lucky Strike. To look into his eyes, you’d think he’d killed members of the Viet Cong with his bare hands.

 

As shady as this character is, I’ve developed a grudging respect for him. Because at least he’s honest. He’s not trying to ply me with cuteness; he couldn’t give a crap about all that. He’s a badass mofo, and he’ll act like one if he dang well pleases. 

 

I’d rather he be cute and lovey, of course; I’m not insane, at least not yet. But there’s a certain kind of integrity there. So. Well played, Schmucky. When I wake in the night to hear boxes crashing in the weird shed area, I’ll know it’s just you.

 

Unless it’s Pauly Shore. Seriously, does anyone know what that dude’s up to nowadays? Lock up your liquor, folks.