Guest Blog: Marie the Cat Sets the Record Straight September 24, 2010Posted by rwf1954 in cat anecdotes, cat stories, cats, pets.
Tags: cat stories, cats, pets
I am Marie the Cat, and I should have been first to post at this blog, ahead of the one they call “Magic.” (Yes, yes, this is the blog of Richard Warren Field, author of The Swords of Faith. But I’m talking now, so you’ll have to do your swording and faithing some other time.) The humans never get much of anything right, so it isn’t surprising they let Magic give his thoughts first. I have spent my thirteen plus years of life trying to straighten humans out. They have capabilities I don’t have or I would just handle everything myself. But as it is, I keep them in line with a constant stream of short meows. Short and insistent. If you go too long with a meow, it can sound pleading, or pathetic, or maybe even—God forbid—cute. Cute doesn’t get things done. Cute does not get you taken seriously. Constant nagging meows—that’s what is needed. You get a lot done with short nagging meows. That’s been my life’s work. I’ll have more to say about that in later posts. But I need to set the record straight about this “serious news” Magic told you about.
It’s true, I had lost a lot of weight. I felt tired a lot. Forgive me, because we cats are clean, tidy creatures—but I’ll tell you, my poops were coming out loose and stinky, ugly business. Something wasn’t right. It could have been the green water I’d been sipping out of the neighbor’s pool. The humans think so. It could be those new cats they brought in—that loud and pushy Magic, and that insufferably cute ball of fluffy energy they call Diva! I am under a lot of stress here, keeping the humans in line and dealing with the new cats—that should be obvious to anyone. But whatever it was, I was not feeling my best. I even had trouble getting my nagging meows to come out. Just little airy utterances. The humans mess things up when I can’t keep them in line with my input.
One afternoon, the tall one with the hair on his face—Richard or Dad they call him—picked me up and put me in that portable cage thing with the handle. I don’t trust humans to be very smart about anything, but my experience with Richard is that he is often the least incompetent human. So I went in the portable cage. They took me to the big metal box that rolls on wheels and rolled it away from the house. They all came with me in the rolling box, all the humans, the one they call Carrie, or Mom, or Mommy, and the two humans who went from small to big over the years—Michelle the girl and Ryan the boy. They all came. They all doted on me. Of course, they could have brought along snacks if they had really wanted to be useful.
We got to the place they were taking me to; it’s the place they call the vet. A sad-faced human with a white coat kept looking at me, looking at my four humans, and kept shaking his head. He poked me. When it hurt, I gave him the best nagging meow I could generate.
Then the really scary thing happened. My four humans left. The vet people put me in a metal cage stacked up with a bunch of other metal cages and all my human housemates left. Many years ago, I was left in a place like that with three of my children—you call them kitties. One of them is the one they call Nala who still lives with me. Were they leaving me in this place because I have not been feeling my best lately?
The sad-faced white-coated man and some other humans in dark blue put me under a machine that flashed lights. They put up strange pictures of black and white, in front of lighted screens, then moved me back into a cage. What manner of weirdness was this? And everyone was forgetting about the snacks! Every occasion should have snacks, silly humans!
My humans returned. It probably wasn’t long, but it seemed forever. The sad-faced man pointed at me, shaking his head again. My humans then became sad-faced too. They looked at me with pity in their eyes. And their eyes seemed to water. I noticed the one they call Ryan—he looked a little put out, like he was not happy with the way things were going. Neither was I! I suspected Ryan and I might have had a similar mind on all of this at that point. Then, they left again. I wasn’t sure what to think. But whatever the humans were going to do, I wasn’t going to be able to stop them.
Then pretty quickly, my humans returned again. Richard said something to the sad-faced man and they brought over the cage with the handle to put me in—I hoped to go home. The sad-faced man looked surprised. I think he expected something else—that I wasn’t going home? I’m not sure. The sad-faced man shrugged. He shook his head one last time. And my humans took me back home.
Over the next days and weeks, I have to say, the humans did everything right. They brought food and water right up to me, wherever I was. No green water next door when bowls of fresh water are brought right up to me! And snacks! Treats! Of all sorts! Even table food the humans eat, like fresh-cooked chicken, fish, and sliced meats. I started to feel better. My meow voice came back.
That silly big black goofball cat Magic would hang around and sit near me. The other two cats left me alone. But not Magic. He thinks he’s running things now. But he’s not smart enough, and he has no sense of the short nagging meow! He does long, roaring meows. He’s big. He’s aggressive. He even has an oversized goofy kind of charm, though I will never let him know I feel that way. But he has no chance of keeping the humans in line the way I can.
The humans did this weird thing about seven days after the vet, bringing long-stemmed glasses outside where I was resting. They were smiling, laughing, petting me, clinking the glasses, raising them, then drinking the liquid. They were so satisfied about something. Not me. I wanted to know, where were my snacks?
They’ve done that glasses thing a few more times. The treats have tapered off a little. And so, I have no choice. The humans are messing up again and I have my voice back; my meow-strength voice has returned. I have no choice but to stake out that place they call the kitchen, and the minute anyone goes in there to start doing anything with food, I get right next to their legs so they know I’m there, and meow constantly. They move—I move, meowing all the more. That is my thing. That is what I do. And believe me, the house is much better run now that I am back to keeping them in line.
Marie the Cat passed away quietly during the early morning hours of September 26, 2010. We believe she was about 14 years old (this is difficult to know for certain). The vet gave her two to seven days to live after seeing her last August. She lived 43 days. She gained strength briefly, regaining her meowing voice, and treated us to her barrage of nagging meows right up to her final moments. She went out on her own terms. We will miss her.
RWF – 9/26/10
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