“That’s impressive that they’re next to each other eating.” I’ve stopped midstride to comment on a pair of cats, one black and white, one grey plush, head-to-head, chowing down on bowls of kibble. A woman, white middle-aged cat lady, stands in front of them on the front lawn, phone in hand, taking photos.
“Yes, well,
it’s taken some time. But the black and white one is very aggressive.”
I nod,
thinking about my own pair of tabbies back at home. Little old lady Ivy, a new
comer to the house, AKA The Mansion, has turned out to be the aggressive,
dominant cat. Always meowing loudly at poor little Clara, who turns tail and
runs to hide: on top of the refrigerator, behind the washing machine, knocking over the photos on the piano. I feel bad about this dynamic, but what can I do? It’s
the way of cats; one is always going to be top cat.
“I know
what you mean,” I say to Cat Lady now. “But my two cats wouldn’t eat next to
each other like that.”
She smiles
at me, clicking a photo.
“That looks
like Smoky,” I say pointing to the grey plush cat.
“Oh…” she sighs, shakes her head, “Smoky is no longer with us.”
Immediately
I think he’s been run over. These cats in the neighborhood just meander across
the street without looking both ways. And people in the neighborhood drive like
Poop Heads as my piano student calls them. Screeching up and down the streets,
doing donuts in the intersections, passing each other at stop signs when a
pedestrian wants to cross. It’s the Wild West!
“Oh, I’m
sorry to hear this,” I say, trying to keep the sadness out of my tone. Smoky
was a very friendly grey plusher, doing rollovers on the sidewalk and demanding
pets from passersby.
“Yes, well,
the people who took him wanted him. I hear that he’s doing well.”
Breathing a
sigh of relief, I nod, watching as the two cats in front of me devour the last
morsels of their meals.
“We don’t
know who the black and white one belongs to. That’s why I’m taking photos to
post.”
“He looks
like the black and white one across the street,” I note.
“No, Oreo has more white on him.”
“Ah….” Cat
Lady knows her neighborhood felines. Why is it that every neighborhood has a
Cat Lady that takes it upon herself to watch over the cats? It’s never a man.
And it’s never a young woman. I suppose they have real human babies to look
after.
“I want to
make sure that she’s fixed,” she nods toward the grey plusher, who has lifted
her head, eyeing Mr. Aggressor.
Then she
bolts. Dashing across the street. And he’s after her. Fortunately, no cars are careening
down 32nd street at the moment.
I watch as Grey Plusher reaches the sidewalk, but then Mr. Aggressor has caught her. Mounts her from behind. Starts a mighty humping.
“Well, I hope
she’s fixed too,” I say. “Cause there’s some frantic cat sex going on right
now.”
Cat Lady
laughs, “Isn’t it a bit early?”
We both chuckle,
“Yeah, why didn’t he wait till the afternoon?”
I turn and
start down the street, the bright crisp January morning enveloping me.
“You have a
good rest of your day,” Cat Lady calls after me.
“You, too,”
I answer, pausing for a moment to watch the cat action. He’s still on top of
her, humping away.
As I turn the corner, I think, well, if Grey Plusher isn’t fixed, they’ll produce some very cute kittens.
