The Newest Member of the Family

"Meow...Meow...MEOW!!!"

No, this isn’t the transcript of a new cat food commercial, but rather a description of my morning alarm clock.

This summer my wife brought home a kitten from a nearby feed store to serve as a surrogate buddy to my sons while they adjusted to life in a new community.

I objected to the addition on the grounds that we already had a neurotic dog and irascible cat and why would we want to upset this delicate balance by throwing a new – and possibly more eccentric – personality into the mix?

To no one’s surprise but yours truly, my argument was quickly dismissed and our pet population swelled to seven (counting the four remaining occupants of the science experiment known as my oldest son’s fish tank).

The next big decision was its name. Resigned to the fact that the furry feline was probably here to stay, I figured we could at least assign it a cool name – say, Artemis or Othello?

Too pretentious, I was told.

Then how about something tough-sounding, like Spike or Nails?

We’re not naming a new rock band, I was told,

When the cat hair settled, the new male member of the family was christened with the masculine moniker of...Mittens.

So scary!

Once named, Mittens-the-cat quickly climbed to the top of my "Things I Hate" list. He bullied our older cat, tormented our submissive dog and clawed our brand new furniture. Occasionally, he hacked up a furball the size of Vermont.

But these insolent acts were nothing compared to his habit of meowing outside our bedroom door at the first signs of life on the other side.

Did I say "meowing"? I meant to say "MEOWING!".

You see, Mittens is always hungry, but he is especially hungry in the wee hours of the morning. The moment he hears my wife or I make the slightest movement, he cries.

And cries. And cries.

It’s not a sweet little kitten meow, either. It’s a long, moaning, plaintive meow that lasts a good four or five seconds -- MEEEEOOOOWWWW! Like a cat in need of an exorcist.

Or a new home.

So, you can understand my predicament the other night when I awoke at 5:30 a.m. with an urge to visit the facilities.

What if Mittens heard me?

Like a burglar, I crept into the bathroom and slowly lowered myself onto the throne. Once finished, I encountered a new dilemma: To flush, or not to flush?

Crossing my fingers, I held my breath and pushed down on the handle.

Thirty seconds later – nothing but silence.

With my mission a success, I crept back toward bed, knowing I had at least two more hours of soothing sleep ahead of me.

Reaching my destination, eyes already closed, I stepped on a squeaky cat toy that protruded from beneath the bed like some devious trap.

"Squeak, squeak..."

"Son-of-a--"

"MEEEOOOWWW!"

Following a torrent of similar cries, my wife offered up a bit of female wisdom: "You woke him, you’ve gotta feed him."

"But I never wanted the stupid cat!"

"Then why did you let us keep him?"

"What?"

"Go on. The food’s in the pantry."

So, now you can understand why I hate the furry little creature.

And as soon as he finishes napping on my lap, I’m going to tell him so.

Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.