This phenomenon started with Bob -- this would be Bob the-most-amazing-husband-in-the-universe Bob. You know, versus any other old Bob.
When I was small we didn’t really have pets -- a brief episode with a tiny turtle (which we set free in the nearby creek -- I suspect it had died and my father didn’t want to reveal this) and, for a short time, a family of stray cats who received our leftovers but that was it. My mother would not tolerate pets of any kind and my father is deathly allergic to cats. So, no pets.
Bob taught me how to care for cats. He showed me how to hold them (always cradle their feet -- they need their feet securely planted), how to approach them (rather, how to be patient and allow them to approach you -- most definitely not my strong suit), how to pat them (do unto cats as you would have them do unto you, essentially) and, perhaps of most importance, like humans, cats like to get high on occasion. Organic catnip seems to be the most popular -- cats being all hippy/groovy, back-to-the-earth types, of course.
Bob’s son Miles taught me how to get a finicky cat to eat. We had a giant orange tabby who, for a cat rescued from a dumpster, was tremendously fussy. Miles would sprinkle Ralf’s (named for the children’s book character Rotten Ralf and YES this Ralf could be rotten -- just not to me or Miles) tinned meat with grated cheese. If that didn’t work he would spritz on a little whipped cream. C’mon! Ralfie came out of a garbage can -- someone threw this poor being out. Of course he deserved whipped cream and Parmesan!
Ralf considered the best food of all to be any that could be stolen off your plate though. He’d bound, somewhat less than delicately, onto the dinner table, play it like he was just there to say hello and then make his bold, yet sly, grab for the salmon or pizza (no, seriously). This annoyed Bob, scared Jen (best pal and, despite this, frequent dinner guest) and delighted me. What a resourceful beast!
Ralf died 20 years after his garbage can rescue as a kitten. I was heartbroken and wanted another cat right away. Bob pronounced “wait, one will come to us.” Now, this sounded awfully Zen and the Art of Cat Attraction/Obi Wan of Cat World to me but I said, with reluctance, “OK.” Sure enough, shortly after we moved down to the Neck (Hough’s Neck AKA Heaven) 3 cats showed up on our porch each one quite sure that we were precisely the pigeons they were looking for.
Eventually the big orange tabby won out. We fell in love, named him B.O.P. (Big Orange Pumpkin) and gave him the run of our kingdom. B.O.P was a bruiser, wonderful to us but always up for a good fight the minute he stepped out the door and woe-betide the dog who crossed him. He loved nasty weather best. The more Nor’Eastery the better. Maybe he was the reincarnation of Jack London or Hemingway except, you know, cute and cuddly.
So, you see, this cat magnet thing is really all about Bob. For that matter, I feel certain the area cats sing folk songs about the, hopefully NOT, mythical porch where a tall, white haired gentleman appears with bowls of Fancy Feast, treats and endless pats.
When I was small we didn’t really have pets -- a brief episode with a tiny turtle (which we set free in the nearby creek -- I suspect it had died and my father didn’t want to reveal this) and, for a short time, a family of stray cats who received our leftovers but that was it. My mother would not tolerate pets of any kind and my father is deathly allergic to cats. So, no pets.
Bob taught me how to care for cats. He showed me how to hold them (always cradle their feet -- they need their feet securely planted), how to approach them (rather, how to be patient and allow them to approach you -- most definitely not my strong suit), how to pat them (do unto cats as you would have them do unto you, essentially) and, perhaps of most importance, like humans, cats like to get high on occasion. Organic catnip seems to be the most popular -- cats being all hippy/groovy, back-to-the-earth types, of course.
Bob’s son Miles taught me how to get a finicky cat to eat. We had a giant orange tabby who, for a cat rescued from a dumpster, was tremendously fussy. Miles would sprinkle Ralf’s (named for the children’s book character Rotten Ralf and YES this Ralf could be rotten -- just not to me or Miles) tinned meat with grated cheese. If that didn’t work he would spritz on a little whipped cream. C’mon! Ralfie came out of a garbage can -- someone threw this poor being out. Of course he deserved whipped cream and Parmesan!
Ralf died 20 years after his garbage can rescue as a kitten. I was heartbroken and wanted another cat right away. Bob pronounced “wait, one will come to us.” Now, this sounded awfully Zen and the Art of Cat Attraction/Obi Wan of Cat World to me but I said, with reluctance, “OK.” Sure enough, shortly after we moved down to the Neck (Hough’s Neck AKA Heaven) 3 cats showed up on our porch each one quite sure that we were precisely the pigeons they were looking for.
Eventually the big orange tabby won out. We fell in love, named him B.O.P. (Big Orange Pumpkin) and gave him the run of our kingdom. B.O.P was a bruiser, wonderful to us but always up for a good fight the minute he stepped out the door and woe-betide the dog who crossed him. He loved nasty weather best. The more Nor’Eastery the better. Maybe he was the reincarnation of Jack London or Hemingway except, you know, cute and cuddly.
So, you see, this cat magnet thing is really all about Bob. For that matter, I feel certain the area cats sing folk songs about the, hopefully NOT, mythical porch where a tall, white haired gentleman appears with bowls of Fancy Feast, treats and endless pats.
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