The Incredible Talking Cat

I’ve spent some of my (minimal) spare time, last few evenings, fixing up some of the problems (line-misbreaks, botched image import, etc.) in earlier postings here, plus adding hyperlinks, and other time-wasting AR-heavy nit-pickery. 

So this evening, while doing more of the above, the panting gerbil doing vertical laps in the back of my head was wondering what profundities, or literary excerpt, or political tirade, I might put up on WordPress. 

But you know, let’s go light-hearted again, instead. 

We inherited our unimaginatively-named Tiger from a family friend, “Mrs. Bosco”, whose son (IIRC) was moving back in, and couldn’t tolerate cats. Tiger is interesting: overweight and beautiful, friendly to most folks (especially if you’re holding his brush, or giving him his weekly catnip-fix). He must be eighty-plus percent Maine Coon Cat: plump, tiger-striped in shades of brown (and cream on neck and belly… where he’s polka-dotted!); he has the characteristic fat fingers and toes, and fluffy tail; thick – though not long – almost-persian fur. 

Early on I concluded that he’s a very mixed breed. He has: a dog’s wet nose (and also says “woof!” when I pick him up, sometimes – really!); a squirrel’s tail and wrists (his hands hang limply like a squirrel’s); a bat’s ears; a pony’s gallop, when he’s chasing a laser-dot or catnip-laced ball-on-a-string; if he’s hunched down on his tummy and you rub his jowls, he’ll get long and slinky like a weasel or ferret; scratch him in that position by gently pulling the handful of loose skin and fur between his shoulder blades, and his purr sounds like a grunting pig. My mother thinks he’s actually part eggplant, given his shape (though not color!). I call him “Mr. Pearbody” for that same reason, among other names (Fluffbutt, Knucklehead, etc.). 

Most interestingly, he talks…REALLY! 

Until recently I was taking a bus to work (need to resume doing so – heck of a money-saver!), picking it up at a local hub where trains can also be taken to Baltimore and Washington and points beyond. And Tiger really wants me to ride the train, and tell him what it’s like. I know this, because each morning he greets me with a very clearly-spoken “Rail?” 

He also wants beer for breakfast, which I refuse him. When getting ready to pour his water, I have to listen to his hopeful plea, “Ale?” 

He knows I like stamps, too; once when I came home after buying an old album with even older stamps in it (how’s the 1850s for “old”, eh? Yow!). Tiger seemed to know what I was carrying. As I headed up the stairs to my room and collection, he looked at me and said, “Rare?” 

When my older daughter moved for a time to Baltimore, I closed off her room to save HVAC costs. But Tiger had liked going up there to hang out with her. So he led me up there once, about a week after she’d gone, and I opened the door… but of course my daughter wasn’t there. Tiger looked around in bafflement, and asked, “Where??” I don’t think he could understand the answer. 

The most hilarious word from him came when my mother was complaining about how long it had taken me to complete something essential around the house (can’t recall anymore what it was). She pointed out, “It was a whole hour!” And that very instant, Tiger looked up from his sprawl on the floor and asked incredulously – it sounded exactly like this: “OWW-wurr??” 

Qazy Qat.