Cat-tharsis

My neighbor doesn't like my cat. No, that isn't quite true. What she actually said was that though it was a strong word to use, she 'hated' my cat. I believe the actions 'get rid of' and 'kill' were coolly laid out before me, and the other women at our neighborhood function within earshot that night, during the course of her short dissertation on the lackluster feelings she has toward my freewheeling feline. In the most honest and perfunctory of tones, she went on to say she dislikes animals in general, pets in specific, dogs and cats in the finite. Her ailing father's manic mutt irritates her to no end and almost cost her a tailbone on the basement stairs a not too long ago.

It aggravates her that she must keep her garage closed against possible molestation of her car's cloth top by my offending handsome pet. It annoys her when she escapes to the haven of her lovely back porch to recline in her comfortable chairs, any one of the four, only to return to reality with a hair coat spread across her ample behind courtesy of my wandering orange kitty. She is vexed by her husband's continuing friendliness towards my boundary-retarded stalker of bird and bunny. I wonder if she would be disturbed if her hubby kicked or shot at him instead? Mmm, probably not.

But what can I do? What should I do? Where does my responsibility for this animal begin and end? Cats simply are NOT like dogs. They can't be kept on leads or trained to remain behind fences or kept from causing chaos at the bird feeder. He is an indoor-outdoor pet who showed up on our doorstep two years ago just weeks before Thanksgiving as a scrappy, scrawny critter with an unending appetite and a penchant for belly rubs from strangers. Unlike the previous strays, he did not depart, choosing, instead, to adopt us as his family, his home base. My son took an intense liking to him as did my daughter. I surrendered to their desires and before long, I, too, fell under his masculine charm. At nine months of age, his wanderlust was ingrained and well-exercised. Who was I to strip him of that freedom? Who was I to pull out his nails, one by one, and restrain him behind glass and wall for the rest of his life? He was destined to the lifestyle he was leading when he came to us, and we resolved to allow him that right despite the dangers he might face. Better he be happy in death then to devolve into a frustrated tomcat confined to 2,900 square feet of living space with plenty of spots for spraying out of feline vengeance.

From block to block, home to home, there are fans to be found. He is admired and watched, crooned over and petted, fed and watered -- so much so that his collar now prominently displays a purple tag with the admonition "Please Don't Feed Me" -- to such a degree that his already highly developed ego took on a luster never before seen in such an animal. Fabio, as he was named by a neighborhood boy who sincerely believed all cats are Italian (NOT my son but his friend), has a substantial body of believers dedicated to his spoiling and he spreads himself around with gusto on a daily basis. During my morning walks, I've even come across him in the neighborhood BEHIND ours! That is covering some distance. I often wonder if most folks know from whence he comes. Sometimes, I think even HE forgets, except at mealtimes and naptimes! My pantry door, my ankles, my daughter's bed: these he recalls with deep fondness. But, our need to rub up against his fur the way he rubs up against us around mealtime, is NOT held in high regard. Now that he has staked us out as territory, we are mere markers in his big-game-hunt existence. Sometimes I feel a bit taken advantage of, but the trade-off has been worth it. He's not needy. His independence and orneriness are quite appealing. I am NOT an animal hater. I find there to be great value in pet ownership. Dogs and cats and the rest of the menagerie.

So, I will do what I can do for my neighbor. I CAN bestow upon her a peace offering in the form of a basket of goodies. Let's see . . . one of those sticky roller brushes for collecting hair and lint from clothing. A spray bottle like the one we use at home; even if she just displays it near a chair and shakes it once in awhile, he'll get the message. A container of cat-repellent from PetSmart which can be applied around the perimeter of her back patio and porch. I can have my son make a boldface sign to remind her nice husband NOT to pet the animals! I'll include a gift card to her favorite local Mexican restaurant, stressing the Margarita's in the note card which will be thoughtfully positioned next to one of those wee picture books from the store with endearing photos of animals. I can promise her his pelt upon his demise or advise her to keep it if she transgresses against him in a weakened moment. As I want to keep the peace and do like this woman as a person, overall, I will sign it, "From One Christian Sister To Another . . . Sorry 'Bout The Cat!"

What else can I do?