Thursday, January 22, 2009

A Cat by Any Other Name ...

I recently rescued a young marmalade-colored tomcat we named Buster (as in ball ...). I thought having him neutered (which I would do anyway) would have the beneficial side-effect of perhaps calming him down. Hah!

Buster throws a paw over the shoulder of our elderly Cocker Spaniel, Mackie, and wrestles the totally bewildered dog to the ground. Mackie now flees when he sees Buster. I should clarify ... Mackie waddles for shelter as fast as a very fat spaniel on arthritic legs can.

The Butterscotch Blur chases and torments all of the household geriatric female cats (two of whom have now ganged up on him). He unrolls paper towels by the yard, shreds them and drags the remnants around the house. What he does to toilet paper is unspeakable. He tucks pens under carpets. When he's bored, he leaps out in front of us from behind curtains, trying to startle us. It is quite effective, especially on the upstairs landing, at the top of the stairs.

The last time I had a young male cat was a decade ago. I had an old dresser that the drawers didn't quit fit into after warping in the Calfornia climate, which is quite unkind to anything wooden. Consequenty, the drawers were always open an inch or so. The kitten tore all of my underwear and socks out of the drawers and tossed them all over the bedroom on a daily basis.

When he wasn't engaged in undergarment sorting, he was busy overturning the cats' water and food dispensers and tossing aromatic lumps out of the catbox and sporting with them in batting practice.

He was such a frustrating little bugger I kept yelling, "You little shit!" repeatedly at him. His name was actually Banjo, but to this day, he thinks his name is Little Shit, and he will only respond to that.

Now that we have a new terrorist in the house, Little Shit prefers to nap on the back of a couch and observe from the sidelines. I swear he is smiling.

Click here to see Elleda's photography at the Astoria Photografpix web site


Sweeti said...

My mother being full blooded Norwegian could cuss a streak like a sailor, I remember growing up with a dog she always called the little eff-er, If he wasn't trying to get underware it was high heeled pumps. I swear she hated that dog but us kids liked him. His real name was toby.

Elleda said...

Hi Sweeti,
Hah! Love the story! You know, for some reason I hardly ever swore at the dog who ate my couch, or shoes, etc. Perhaps it was because LS always struck early in the morning, when my temper is awake even if the rest of me isn't. Worse yet, he seemed to gloat.

Gail said...

I can certainly understand your frustraion with Buster. My two little babies, Kaila and Milo, will be two years next month. I was constantly calling them little brats. "one" of their major offenses was to rip the binding off my box springs to they could hide inside. Nothing I did stopped them from ripping up the box springs. I finally gave up. When I look everywhere and cannot find them, they are sleeping inside the box springs of my bed.

Elleda said...

Buster's latest trick is to dump the water dish and food all over the floor upstairs, just like Little Shit always did. I put a rubber mat down under the water bowl and he dragged the mat down the hall and chewed on it. I'll be glad when he finally mellows out.