There Arose Such A Clatter by Anastasia Voight
Every year at this time I am reminded that I am named after a fictitious feline. This year, just as the days start to once again lengthen, one of Them shoved a familiar object in my face and chirped, “Here you go, Puddytat! Santa brought you a brand new Tweety bird to rip to pieces.” I did and I do. But it is because my aesthetic nature has again been insulted, not because I am a cat.
I should no longer be astonished by what They do. But… Let me set the most recent almost Christmas scene. For weeks They Who Open my Treats had discussed the upcoming holidays. You would have thought they had truly entered into the spirit of giving for They repeatedly bewailed the need to spend quantities of that money stuff. And They engaged in endless discussions that started with “What should we get for …?”
Before I elaborate further on true Christmas spirit (mine) and Their lack thereof, let me you update you on my part in this. I was pleasantly surprised a few days ago when They put out several new traps. As I said, at first I was delighted. I had met their traps before and figured I was getting my Christmas presents a bit early. But these were different. For one, these were louder and larger than the ones I remember. In truth, I lost two whiskers checking them out the first night.
I probably would have thoroughly investigated even if the new traps had not been dabbed with peanut butter (I would have thought sardine or fresh chicken a better choice…) One snap, though, was enough to make me wary. Despite the loss of some of my finest facial foliage I was still curious. For I had missed the sharp sound of success and exultantly stalked the latest devices to determine the latest rules of engagement.
You probably have guessed that in the past I ate on the fruits of those traps. Not so! I first met them when still half kitten. One of the Tall Ones put two on the supposedly off limits kitchen counter. Those were unbaited but concealed under sheets of paper. My would be overlords probably figured the startling sounds they made would scare me off without doing real harm. And they did for a bit.
But after several close and curious encounters with those original traps, curiosity is in my genes, you know, I caught on to how they worked. They soon became my favorite game. Sure beat the boring catnip toys left for my amusement while the Big Ones went off on their daily hunts. The only toys I enjoyed, after my foolish kitten-hood, were the ones that the Hairless Ones played with me. And that happened only rarely as They were always rushing off.
At first I would carefully spring a single trap - then have a thorough wash before stalking the next. When that got tame, I invented new rules. In one version I had to get both to snap and send their covering pieces of paper sailing off in one swoop. Later I added more challenges. I would time myself, “One whisker, two whiskers, three whiskers, four…” or I would do multiple wheelies around the covered traps before setting them off in rapid succession with my tail. That occasionally hurt but was always a high.
Unfortunately the Ones That Stalk On Two Legs became suspicious. In hindsight (something a cat should be good at – we wash there enough) I should have not always triggered the traps. But they were catnip to me and who knew the Openers Of Cans would realize their plan was not working and that the counters were still my playing fields? If I ever meet whoever is my daddy I will be as embarrassed to acknowledge that as to admit to a certain procedure I (unwillingly) had.
As both Providers Of Delicacies went out every day and could not always be there with the spray bottle and squirt gun that I did respect, I regrettably won that game. And those fun traps disappeared. In the months that followed I often wished for a rematch to relieve my dull existence in my house shaped trap. “Think of the poor birds he would kill.” She would say when I mewed at the window and frustratedly followed a bird or squirrel from one glass barrier to the next. Or “Some dog would get him or he would get run over.” Bleeah! All insults to my heritage and wits.
So my life plodded along. The only cats I saw were the lucky ones who ventured outside where I could spot them from my favorite window seat. Okay, one time (Yes that particular time!) I was riding in the car to the vet’s office when we passed a very small very still form lying in the roadside. “See,” said She Who Feeds Me as she held me up to look, “That would happen to you if we did not keep you safe inside.” Of course what happened next was hardly my idea of safe.
Back to the new traps. At first I wondered if the Dispensers of Liver Treats were playing nasty. These snappers surely meant business. But why? I hardly bothered to get on any counters any more. They lost most of their allure as soon as They stopped trying to stop me. And I am finding jumping to be more of a task these days.
So I gave thought to where the latest mechanisms were placed. None were even in the kitchen never mind up on the counters. Instead two were in the laundry room behind the washer and dryer and one was on a shelf in the pantry. What were They thinking? Okay, the pantry shelf in question was the one on which my food was stored but I don’t fetch that down. That’s one of Their jobs.
Perhaps I was not the intended target. Maybe it was the small rat that had found enough space next to the dishwasher (not the dryer) to let squeak through (pun intended). Most rodents I’ve met (She was not the first to sojourn here.) are latent Houdinis. She just came by of an evening now and again for a quick nosh. Never took much. But she did leave the obvious droppings. Had she used one of the litter boxes she would have never been found out and I could have continued the occasional fun stalk for our mutual practice and my pleasure. I know it’s not the usual cat attitude but I’m one who kills only if I intend to eat. And I eat plenty. I will say this for Them, They don’t stint with the meats and the treats. Of late, there is considerably more of me to wash.
Anyway, it looked to me like she was a marked mouse. (I know I said rat but artistic license.) Make that a marked mama mouse as that belly was bulging more than mine. It was only a matter of mouse minutes till she bought (or bit) the farm.
I told myself that this was just life. Death comes to all, etc. But just a few feet from where I sat polishing my right ear, They were hanging decorations and lighting a certain tree and discussing how to keep me out of it. (Yeah! Right!) There was a crackling fire and wine and music and all of the rest of the corny stuff that They indulge in when a certain pages on the 365 Days of Cats calendar is turned. You know, the ones with kittens in cute red Santa caps. I tried to focus on some filthy whiskers (Gotta love that fourth meal!) and ignore what was about to happen…
Heroism has a price. Mine was a mashed paw. I sprang just as the trap sprung and she of the long naked tail scrammed without even a thank you. Probably thought this time I was coming for the kill. I don’t know if my actions or the resulting commotion gave her enough of a scare that she will find safer fields to glean. But I’ve definitely done my part.
It was only seconds before They Who Clean The Litter Box responded to the clatter and caterwauling that arose from the laundry area. An hysterical screaming cat with a trap on its paw was certainly not what They had expected. It took forever (Slam your hand in a door and leave it there, why don’t you?) but after phone consultation with a certain vet They threw a blanket over me and toted me unseen, but not unheard, to the nearest animal emergency. I hope They found the trip as memorable as I did.
When I awoke from the anesthetic my swollen and bruised paw throbbed painfully. But it was free and still attached! That was a long sleepless night but the swelling did eventually go down and after a few days of pathetic limping, and extra attention, I was back to my lovable self.
Though They often seem to lack both sense and humanity, They did decide that Their wallets and Their nerves would be better served if the traps were taken up. And that is enough about this just past holiday season. Except that I got a stuffed rat instead of yet another bird. I did not share in their amusement when they gave it to me. Instead, I’ve played with it carefully and considerately in hopes that they will get the message: enough of Tweety bird!
And I can be magnanimous. For, on reflection, I feel that my present, the gift of life, was the better one. So I am signing off on this with:
Yours Truly,
S. Claws Esq.
