I have never gone pet-shopping. Never left home intent upon returning with some sub-sentient companionship (which also explains why I never hung out in singles bars in Texas). And on the extremely rare occasions when I did return with a fur-bearing refugee, it was always the result of a sneak attack. And so it was with my most recent assailant.
Mary and I had gone to see my grandfather, intending to run a few errands afterwards. But the visit was rather protracted and depressing, and aftewards I just wanted to go home and stick my head under a sofa cushion (it doesn’t do much for existential despair, but I often find enough loose change to buy liquor). She agreed to indulge me, on the condition that we stop by Pet Smart on the way and pick up some catfood and a filter for Riley’s drinking fountain cum water feature.
They were having a pet adoption fair when we arrived. Most of the crowd was clustered around the dogs, who lounged under canopies in the parking lot, while inside was a stack of cages containing a motley assortment of superannuated felines. A sleek, gorgeous, and utterly resentful-looking Blue Persian was laying in the near topmost cage. She had been the pampered darling of a young married couple, who dumped her when the wife got pregnant, for fear the cat would sneak into the nursery and suck the newborn’s breath. There were a couple kittens attracting a squealing cluster of little girls, and a friendly, balding, and obese cat the approximate size and weight of a medicine ball who was attracting mostly horrified stares (and who, according to a note taped across her cage, was on the kitty equivalent of Jenny Craig).
The cat in the far bottom cage was striking in appearance and demeanor, but seemingly invisible to the crowd. A thin marmalade, about two years old, he was curled up in the back of his cell, watching the passing feet through slitted eyes and occasionally huffing a fatalistic little sigh. Mary paused on her way to the pet food aisle and squatted down to say hello. He gazed at her appraisingly for a long moment, then uncoiled abruptly and padded to the front of the cage. She opened the door and tentatively scratched his head. They eyes locked, and suddenly, from out of nowhere, I heard “Unchained Melody.”
The woman who brought him in came over and talked to us while I admired his unusual coat – flanks dappled like a cheetah’s, tail ringed like a lemur’s. For some reason, she’d named him “Cotton,” perhaps in honor of the zinc oxide-like smear of white on his nose. She was a veterinary technician who volunteered at the local shelter and had impulsively claimed him when he was 24 hours away from termination. Unfortunately, she was already over the pet quota allowed by her lease, and couldn’t afford to keep him.
The bottom line? We’re suckers, and I’m just grateful this woman was a running a cat placement operation and not a three card monte game. We were both ambivalent about taking on another cat while we were still grieving over the loss of Hobbes, but he seemed very attached to Mary (literally — there were holes in her t-shirt when we finally pulled him off), and we hoped some same-species companionship would lift Riley out of the funk she’s been in since Hobbes’ death. Alas, the new kitty’s introduction instantly turned Riley from a inconsolable Indian widow inches from commiting suttee to Glenn Close in the last third of Fatal Attraction. But there have been some recent signs that we may indeed see Peace in Our Time. But more on that later.
So here’s the new addition. Due to his white nose and preternaturally laid-back attitude (I would suspect him of smoking my stash if I had one), we figured we could name him after an Amsterdam hashish cafe or a surfer. So allow me to present: Moondoggie.
Dude…The flash…harshing my buzz…