This Week: Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On jones

I have a confession to make. My name is Vickie and I am a Crazy-Cat-Lady.

Every day my cat and I open our hearts to each other a little more. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to enjoy a cool glass of milk in peace. And I have fully accepted that my favourite, soft, snuggly bathrobe is not actually for wearing – it is quite clearly a cat bed.

Yes, I admit it. When it comes to Cat-Lady-Craziness, I’m a few cards short of the full deck.

The object of my crazy affections? Dave the Cat, an astonishingly handsome marmalade tabby with the heart of a lion and a penchant for belly rubs.

And my Crazy-Cat-Lady issue this week? Pussy Cat Protection.

Now, first things first. You simply have to understand that my Furry Little Prince of Fluff leads a charmed life. If some bespectacled boffins were to investigate the cat/human interaction that occurs in my home on a daily basis, they could come to but one diagnosis: I am Dave the Cat’s servant – his personal assistant; his slave.

I exist for one reason and one reason only: And that is to lovingly and unquestionably serve the every whim of Dave the Cat.

And what do I expect in return? Very little. Snuggles with my King of Cuddles are reward enough. As are the endless hours of free entertainment he provides with little more that a laser pointer from the dollar store.

But, as a single woman living alone in a spooky old heritage building in downtown Vancouver, there are three minor things – negligible almost – that I expect of Dave the Cat. And we discussed them all in depth before I brought him home from the rescue centre.

In retrospect, maybe I should have got him to sign something.

A. Firstly, it is Dave the Cat’s responsibility to scare away all ghosts and ghouls. We all know that our feline friends have a sixth sense, and as such, Dave the Cat is expected to warn off any spooks and souls that may be hanging around my 1912 building. To date, his methods – whatever they are – have proved highly satisfactory.

B. Secondly, it is Dave the Cat’s duty to scare aware any mice that may wish to set up home in my cosy little apartment. Although soft and squishy and snuggly to the extreme, it is my belief that if he ever did come face to face with a rodent, he would transform into a ninja psycho-killer of unspeakable heartlessness. And although this theory has yet to be tested, I believe that the word has already spread through the local rodent grapevine that there is a fearsome be-clawed beastlike murder machine residing in suite 105. And I think they’re referring to Dave the Cat, not me. So yes, Dave the Cat’s efforts in this field are adequate.

C. And finally, it is Dave the Cat’s obligation to use his paranormal gifts to notify his human about any impeding natural disasters. Tsunamis, mud slides, earthquakes, that sort of thing. The idea that cats can sense natural disasters before they occur has been around since 373 BC, when historians recorded that felines deserted the Greek city of Helice in their droves before a quake devastated the place. So I fully expect to be alerted to any sort of impending doom. The power of Pussy Cat Protection must kick in.

Sadly, to date, he’s not doing so great at this last requirement.

His skills were put to the test for the first time just last night. There we were, snuggled up on the sofa watching a news report about how there had been a 6.6 magnitude earthquake off the west coast of Vancouver Island that could be felt as far away as Kelowna and Seattle.

I looked at Dave the Cat.

Dave the Cat looked at me.

“Is there something you failed to bring to my attention this evening, Dave?” I enquired. To which he got up, stretched out to his full length, carelessly clawed the arm of the sofa and then – tail held defiantly in the air – casually sauntered over to his litter tray to deposit a little ‘gift’ for me to clean up.

To say that his attitude was cavalier is something of an understatement.

It was a shameless demonstration of indifference. He was laughing in the face of his Pussy Cat Protection responsibilities.

So, I have to accept that I have one of two things on my hands: A cat with no sixth sense or a cat who is lazy.

I must say, that I think it is the latter. As I clearly explained is point A, Dave the Cat’s sixth sense seems sharp enough, as I have no ghosties or ghoulies floating around my apartment. No ectoplasm in the kitchen; no banshees in the bathtub.

So he must be lazy. Dave the Cat finds it easier to live on the edge than to make an effort to mess with larger, more powerful, cosmic powers.

I live with the kind of cat who would pour himself a brandy and light up his pipe when facing imminent disaster.

Which, if I’m completely honest, makes us two of a kind. So don’t bother calling us in emergency. We’ll be too busy stockpiling laser pointers and pouring brandies...


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