another bob r column from the P-D about cats. I know I know you can link to it but what the hey...

I’ve plunged into the abyss of a third cat

By Bob Rybarczyk

SPECIAL TO THE POST-DISPATCH

09/02/2008

I swear, I am not trying to turn “Suburban Fringe” into “Bob’s House of Cats.” Yes, I’ve written about our cats a lot lately, but not by design. I do intend to write many more columns about things other than cats, as long as I don’t get hit by a bus or eaten by brain-thirsty zombies.

Having said that, this week’s column is once again about the cats. I swear, though, it’s not my fault. It’s Colette’s. She was the one who got all crazy and talked me into doing something stupid. It’s all her fault that we now have…shudder…three cats.

I’m telling you, I had nothing to do with it. I’m a victim of circumstance. A pawn. A lackey. She was the brains. I was just the guy who helped pick out the cat, signed my name to all the paperwork, and paid for it. I’m an innocent bystander.

Here’s what happened, and here’s why I’m writing this column in a room with a small black cat who is currently hopping around and attacking our carpet like it’s made out of mouse meat.

As I mentioned a couple weeks ago, we’ve been having kind of an issue with our first two cats, Frisco and Charlie. Frisco is old and fat and wants nothing more than to spend his remaining days eating, sleeping and gaining weight. Charlie is young and energetic and enjoys receiving blows to the head. Because Charlie has no other animals to play with, he’s all over Frisco like stupid on an Olly Girl. We figured if Charlie had someone his own age to play with, he’d leave Frisco alone, and the old man could go back to developing his own gravitational pull in peace.

As logical as this train of thought was, when Colette called me from the pet store a couple days ago, I was a little bit taken aback. She and Melon Ball (not her real name) had gone to the store to pick up a birthday present for Charlie and decided to check out the adoption center (or, as I like to call it, Death Row).

“You should see all the cute kitties they have here,” she said in a voice not unlike the one she would use to coerce a child into eating some nummy nummy gween beans. “They have this really cute one who’s so tiny, and a pretty calico, and then there’s this little black one who seems like a little fireball.”

“Um….” I said, “did we decide to get a cat?”

“Well, yeah,” she said. “I thought we talked about it.”

I was already sunk. I knew it the moment I heard that nummy nummy voice. But I couldn’t go down without a fight. I am, after all, the man of the house. “Yeah, we talked about it,” I sorta muttered.

“I’m not going to buy one tonight,” Colette said. “We’re just looking.” Translation: I want you to feel like you have a choice in the matter, but I’ve already seen these cats and I’m in love, and if we don’t get one I’m going to be crushed, and keep in mind I let you watch stupid old football even though it’s stupid.

“Well, OK then,” I said. Do you see? Did I not fight? Me = innocent victim.

A couple days later, I went back with Colette to the store and we – I mean, she – decided on the little black kitten. It was kinda cute, seemed to have a lot of personality, and also seemed a little bit stupid, which to me is a good trait in an animal. I don’t want my house filled with creatures that might someday plot against me.

We still haven’t integrated the cats yet (we will, though; we have a dream), but we feel pretty certain that Charlie is going to like Dexter or Lucky or Boo or whatever we decide to call the little black nugget. The new cat is every bit the spaz that Charlie is. Integrating the cats isn’t my problem.

I do, however, have a problem. Kind of a big problem, actually. Without entirely realizing what I was doing, I ended up crossing a frightening threshold. I used to be a guy with cats in his house. Being a guy with cats really isn’t so bad. When you’re a guy with cats, you can still read Maxim and know what a Youkilis is and play Madden.

But I’m not a guy with cats anymore. Going from two cats to three, even involuntarily, changes me into something else. I’m now a Cat Guy.

You know those Cat Ladies? The ones with bright lipstick, faux-leopard shawls, cigarette holders, skin that looks like an elephant’s butt, and a house swarming with one-eyed cats? I’m one of them now. I’m like a Cat Lady, except I’m a dude. I mean, I don’t wear orange lipstick or drive a Cadillac large enough to impale a warship, but still.

I’m really freaking out here, people. All sorts of things are going to change now. If I see a cat wearing a holiday sweater, I will no longer point and laugh. Instead, I’ll say, “My, that fits him quite well. I’m sure it will keep him toasty during this yuletide season.” If I die alone in the house, instead of just resting peacefully until the neighbors notice the smell, I’m going to have my face eaten by my cats. That’s one of the rules of being a Cat Person. You die, the cats eat your face. It’s a rule. And you know, I’m kind of in a panic about it.

The process of becoming a Cat Guy has already started, actually. You know what I call the stuff the cats leave behind in the litter box? “Poopins.” Yeah, that’s right. Poopins. I don’t say, “I’m going to clean the litter box,” I say, “I’m off to scoop the poopins.” I no longer pet the cats, I say that I’m “giving them their lovins.” It is not uncommon for me to order a cat to “come get your lovins.”

For the love of God, people, I AM SAYING “POOPINS” AND “LOVINS.” I’m a grown man, just a few months shy of 40, and I’m using the word “poopins” like it’s a word any red-blooded, naughty-librarian-loving man would use. Do you understand why I’m freaking out?

I don’t think it’s being overly dramatic to say that I’m completely and utterly doomed. I may as well go shop for cat sweaters now.

Come to think of it, that’s not a bad idea. I don’t want to wait until all the good Halloween designs are picked over.

Bob Rybarczyk (brybarczyk@sbcglobal.net) writes stuff. He plays soccer with third-graders to raise his self-esteem. Look for his first novel, “Acoustic Kitty,” at area Borders stores and online. He’ll be signing copies at the Sunset Hills Borders from 1 to 3 p.m. on Sunday, September 14, so come get your lovins. Be sure to say hi to him on Facebook.