A Cat’s Tale from a Cat’s Perspective

        Hi there Doll. Wanta play a little ball? Chase a mouse around the house? Ruffle up my fur and purr? Yeah! That’s what it’s all about Tom Cat. Life is one big catnip party these days, but let me tell you, Tabby Face, it wasn’t always so. (Yaaaaaaaawwwwn! Stretccch! Wiggle-waggle) ‘Scuse me, Good Looking. It’s not the company, it’s the hour. Been on the prowl all night having a good time. Forgive my alley cat manners. I need to introduce myself. I seem to have left my good breeding behind. (That’s a joke Rat Breath. Why aren’t you laughing!) Anyway, my name is Jasmin, with a fine hissing sound on the “s” in my name. Like this Sugar…”Jassssssssmin”. It’s my “new name” for the “new” little ol’ “free and fancy me”. I’m a chocolate point SSSiamese, “if you please…or if you don’t please. Meow!” You know, Tiger, like in Lady and the Tramp. (roll over) (roll back) Ol’ Jasmine wants to let you know things weren’t always so good. This kitty cat may have a fine tail to flag, but I’ve got a sorrier one of woe to tell. Got no place to go? A little prime time to spare if you care? Perk up your ears, Boyfriend. Ol’ Jasmine is gonna dampen your whiskers.
        Couple a years ago when I was just a little fluff ball of a kit in a pet shop, a skinny old man brought a little rat-faced kid with more freckles than a speckled trout and hair the color of a salmon fillet into the store. She wanted to have a “closer look at all the cute little critters”. I knew this guy was a hairball the minute he opened his mouth. They walked over to the cage where I was snuggled up with my brothers and sisters, ready to doze off. Little did I know what that would lead to. The little rat faced kid started yelling worse than a tabby with his tail caught in a screen door when old bones said they had to leave. She kept pointing at me and yowling. The two carried on like a pair of toms fighting on the back fence under a full moon. What a scene! Before I knew it, the clerk was taking me outa my cage and handin’ poor little ol’ me over to that rug rat. She ‘bout squeezed the breath outa me and took me home and named me Tinkerbelle. I hated being Tinkerbelle. The salmon fillet kid locked me in her toy box once for six hours. I bit her real good when she finally lifted the lid. “Poor Tinkerbelle. Poor, poor kitty!” Hissssss. That brat was hard to live with. So was her old man and old lady. They kept fighting over the smell of my littler box and the fact that old Herman, their cockerpoo, kept eating my droppings outa it like they were Mrs. Field’s chocolate chip cookies. Let me tell you, Fur Face, some of the food they dumped outa those generic cans from the outlet store onto old Herman’s dish looked less appetizing than what he got outa my kitty litter. (purr purr) (Roll over-roll back) (tummy and chin to the floor kitty-rug style).
        I remember well the day they decided to throw the litter box out and me as well. That was the beginning fo a little freedom for little old me, but also a new phase of my nine lives. I met some of the neighborhood cats I’d only glanced at through the curtains up till this point. One named “Smokey” started hanging around and sent the hair of my back on edge. He turned me on to my feline feminine nature. Then there was Corky, Big Zeke, and Muffin. Lotsa toms…I lost count. I was most impressed with Muffin. He could really bite in a nice sort o’ way, and didn’t smell like a wet flea collar. Fleas were never a problem till I met Corky. He was a dog-face and “bad mews” from the start. You can never judge a cat by the neighborhood. It takes all kinds and a pussycat like myself, unfortunately, has to learn to walk around them before they walk around you. (stretch) (roll over on side) (lick right forepaw) Well, one day I noticed I was getting fat and still picking at the same old garbage the kid’s mother was feeding me from the storebrand special at the dented can store. You guessed it Sugar. There was a litter on the way. Ol’ Tinkerbell had spent her luck and became bad news. In the spring I had a kindle of five kittens…black, orange, yellow, gray twins…not one of ‘em looked like they were mine. Some old paw licker had thrown me a party and left me stranded, paying the band. Before I knew what happened, me and the kits were shoved into a cardboard box, taken for a ride, and dumped out at Blue Rock’s Springs Park with a sign saying “Free Kittens”, and left for dogfood. About this time a bleached blonde ding-a-ling in a pair of tight pants and almost no top walked by with an old Mexican guy puffing on a marijuana cigarette. The dingdong says, “Oh look at the poor kittens.” Then she whined, “Oh! I’m going to take them home.” When Speedy Gonzales said, “You can’t even feed yourself. How are you going to feed these cats?” I knew I was going from the dog’s mouth to the pound truck, so to speak.
        My whiskers go inta a twitch when I think about that dump they took me to. Broken windows, no heat, booze and dope. But it became home, and the dingdong named me Rosie Mae after two of her dead cats, which was no comfort and seemed ominous. There was a skitzo tom named Dewey that lived at the place too. I spat spit on him the first day so he kept his whiskers clean around ol’ Rosie Mae, and he kept his distance. (roll over) (roll back) (stretch fore paws out) (lick left paw and wash eyes) Crazy Dewey, they called him, and, listen Sugar, that guy wasn’t centered on the fencepost. In fact, no one around there was. But Dewey was pretty harmless, although unpredictable. The kits and I ate yogurt, milk and eggs from the local soup kitchen where ol’ blondie got her meals. Occassionally some broad would dump groceries at the door and there would be cat food in the bag for me and the kits. Finally, one day as the kits got bigger, I was able to go outside and get friendly with the neighbors. Pin your ears back Puss Face. You won’t believe what happened. Old Zachery and I were getting acquainted on the front lawn when this broad beamed woman came stomping up the front steps and pounded on the door of my happy hovel. When Dingy opened the door, ol’ beef bottom blasts, “We got a scene going on out here. I thought I told you to keep that cat in the house.” Then she went on to say how 10,000 animals were put down in the dog pound last year. About this time Zachary and I ceased to caterwahl and stood dead in our tracks with our ears twitching. Turns out the Protestor of Pussycat Procreation was president of the local branch of the SPCA. Before I knew what happened, she had Blondie cornered and me down at the vets getting spayed, and was howling to the neighborhood how she paid $25.00 out of her own pocket to do it. At first I was “hissed off” and felt like I’d been rolled by a pack of bulldogs. Then I started feeling a little better. Now that I was no longer a “kitten risk” my popularity increased with humans and I moved up in the world and went to live with an old grandmother addicted to Valium. She had heat, a warm fireplace, and plenty of grade A name brand cat food. That’s how I got a little flabby around the flanks…from the good life. Granny is the one who named me Jassssssssman. I left the kits behind. They got adopted out, although I heard the twins went to separate homes. (stretch) (stretch) (roll over, and over and over again).         Yeah! That’s little ol’ me. New name, new life style, kitten foot-loose and kitten free. (Licking paws) (cleaning right ear).
        Hey Doll, wanta play a little ball? Chase a mouse around the house? Ruffle up my fur and purr? That’s what it’s all about Tom Cat. Hey Rat Breath! Wake up!
 

                                                                                    By Jennifer grant