Missing the litter box is cat-astrophe

Missing the litter box is cat-astrophe
I've got cats to the right of me; cats on my left. As a matter of fact, there are cats everywhere.

We've got cat magazines, cat books and cat pictures galore. Cat conversations interrupt our meals; and, frankly, they even supersede the war on terrorism.

Seems to me, I'm running a cat house!

All the women who stop at our place have cats, and they talk about them. Daughter Jill has Wally; Cheri Jensen has Angel; Dee Pillar has April and Coon.

Marilyn Nyberg's cats have names which exemplify her Norwegian heritage. There's Freya (named after the Norse God of Love) and Loki (for the Norse God of Mischief).

Jim Nyberg, who shares my attitude for cats, says Loki is evil no matter what you call him.

Daughter Jan has a laid-back animal called Kiki who survived an unplanned ride on the car's engine some 15 years ago; and her husband, Pat, wants to make sure she (the cat, not Jan) has eight of her nine lives left.

Phyllis, who has Baxter and Bailey, recently read the triology about Norton the cat, and she gets weepy every time she talks about it. Norton died in the tail end of the book, and you'd think it was one of the family who passed away.

Judging from the number of cats owned by our family and friends, there must be millions of them out there. Pretty soon we'll be up to our navels in felines.

Methinks we're heading for a cat-astrophe � which will make the bird flu seem like a bad case of sniffles!

Whether or not I want them, Phyllis always brings me snippets from her cat magazines for use in my columns � and I'd better include them, or Baxter and Bailey won't speak to me.

"Cat's eyes," the magazine says, "are adapted for vision in dim light for hunting just before dawn and after dusk, prime hinting periods."

Another one reads: "At one year of age, kitty is the equivalent of a 15-year-old human. At two years of age, kitty is equal to a 24-year-old human. For every year after that, add four. So, an eight-year-old kitty is equal to a 48-year-old human!"

That makes Baxter and Bailey about half as old as I am, so I'd better show them some respect. Shucks, they're about ready for AARP!

How do I tell when they are sick? Another magazine article says I should make sure they don't miss the litter box, but I don't feel right about being involved in their potty training.

There should be a Medi-cat program to take care of that!

Needless to say, I am not a cat fancier. I'll leave that to the women who dote on their tabbies. After all, I can take them or leave them alone.

Come to think of it, I wonder where Baxter and Bailey are now. Usually they are underfoot when I write my column.

Do you suppose they are sick? I better check the litter box to make sure.

© 2006 Robert F. Karolevitz

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