"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.
Tuesday, October 14, 2003
Tuesday, September 30, 2003
Mr. Fix-it
I need a new lawnmower.
This, of course, is not an earth-shaking development unless your lawn is beginning to resemble the plains of the Serengeti.
Mine? Well, let's put it this way -- I ventured into the backyard this weekend and nearly mistook our golden retriever for a prowling lion. After taking a second look to confirm the shaggy beast was canine rather than feline, I maneuvered past a group of grazing gazelles and headed for the garage.
Pulling out our twelve-year-old Craftsman mower, I berated the mute machine for quitting on me the month before.
"After all we've been through," I said with more than a hint of disappointment.
Actually, the engine still ran, but the "self-propelled" mechanics had suddenly stopped "propelling," turning the formerly easy-to-push cutting machine into a block of heavy metal that would have trouble moving down an Olympic ski jump.
And, of course, I'd walk naked through town before I'd drag the immobile monster across our large, hilly yard.
Still, with the cutting season nearly over, the prospect of sinking a wad of cash into a new mower thrilled me about as much as a jury-duty notice.
"Whatcha doing, Dad?"
My younger son had joined me in the garage.
"I'm about to take the old mower apart to see if I can fix it."
"No, really, what are you doing?"
"What's that supposed to mean? You don't think your old man can fix things?"
He didn't even hesitate.
"Remember when you tried to put my new bike together?"
"Yeah, so?"
"So you turned it into a unicycle!"
"Did it roll, Mr. Smartypants?"
"Not really."
"Oh. Well, that's because it was defective."
"Actually, that's the same word used by the man at the bike store when Mom had him fix it. Except I don't think he was talking about the bike."
"Speaking of Mom, isn't she calling your name right now?"
"I don't hear anything."
"Yep. You'd better go see what she wants."
After he had disappeared, I unscrewed the plastic cover that protected the self-propelling apparatus, then stared hard at the gears and belts and suspenders. It all appeared to be in working order.
I started the engine, shifted the thing into drive.
A little arm seemed to release, a belt began to turn, then so did the gears. Still, the wheels held firm, like the derrieres of my children when seated in front of a video game.
I turned it off, then pulled on this and pushed on that. Satisfied with my efforts, I started the mower once again but, alas, no improvement.
A half-hour later, I had a badly-scraped knuckle, a cut on my thumb and a sore foot (from a well-placed kick), but the lawnmower wasn't budging.
Fortunately, my other foot was spared by my wife's call for lunch.
With my batteries recharged, I returned to the garage and, by day's end, my overgrown lawn was neat and trim.
However, if you find yourself in my hometown this week and you happen to spot a naked guy walking along the sidewalk, please look away.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
This, of course, is not an earth-shaking development unless your lawn is beginning to resemble the plains of the Serengeti.
Mine? Well, let's put it this way -- I ventured into the backyard this weekend and nearly mistook our golden retriever for a prowling lion. After taking a second look to confirm the shaggy beast was canine rather than feline, I maneuvered past a group of grazing gazelles and headed for the garage.
Pulling out our twelve-year-old Craftsman mower, I berated the mute machine for quitting on me the month before.
"After all we've been through," I said with more than a hint of disappointment.
Actually, the engine still ran, but the "self-propelled" mechanics had suddenly stopped "propelling," turning the formerly easy-to-push cutting machine into a block of heavy metal that would have trouble moving down an Olympic ski jump.
And, of course, I'd walk naked through town before I'd drag the immobile monster across our large, hilly yard.
Still, with the cutting season nearly over, the prospect of sinking a wad of cash into a new mower thrilled me about as much as a jury-duty notice.
"Whatcha doing, Dad?"
My younger son had joined me in the garage.
"I'm about to take the old mower apart to see if I can fix it."
"No, really, what are you doing?"
"What's that supposed to mean? You don't think your old man can fix things?"
He didn't even hesitate.
"Remember when you tried to put my new bike together?"
"Yeah, so?"
"So you turned it into a unicycle!"
"Did it roll, Mr. Smartypants?"
"Not really."
"Oh. Well, that's because it was defective."
"Actually, that's the same word used by the man at the bike store when Mom had him fix it. Except I don't think he was talking about the bike."
"Speaking of Mom, isn't she calling your name right now?"
"I don't hear anything."
"Yep. You'd better go see what she wants."
After he had disappeared, I unscrewed the plastic cover that protected the self-propelling apparatus, then stared hard at the gears and belts and suspenders. It all appeared to be in working order.
I started the engine, shifted the thing into drive.
A little arm seemed to release, a belt began to turn, then so did the gears. Still, the wheels held firm, like the derrieres of my children when seated in front of a video game.
I turned it off, then pulled on this and pushed on that. Satisfied with my efforts, I started the mower once again but, alas, no improvement.
A half-hour later, I had a badly-scraped knuckle, a cut on my thumb and a sore foot (from a well-placed kick), but the lawnmower wasn't budging.
Fortunately, my other foot was spared by my wife's call for lunch.
With my batteries recharged, I returned to the garage and, by day's end, my overgrown lawn was neat and trim.
However, if you find yourself in my hometown this week and you happen to spot a naked guy walking along the sidewalk, please look away.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
