After visiting a friend who had recently saved a stray creature
from imminent danger, I formed a bond with the all-white,
Turkish Angora puffball with one blue and one green eye. Against
all odds, I got a cat. Named Blanche DuBois (on account of
her reliance on the kindness of strangers), this feline farthing
pushed me into being the one thing I swore I would never be:
a cat person. And I don't mean Cat People in the Simone
Simon, Val Lewton classic-film way or "cat people" who are
kind to cats, or simply have cats. I mean cat-obsessed people.
People who live, breathe, smoke (many are smokers) and squeal
for the love of their cat--that hairy being who couldn't give
two shits if they do any of the above. A varied bunch of nutballs
who are as distinctly insane as they are disgustingly cutesy,
these people either exhibit serious denial ("Fluffers loves
me!") or true reverence ("Fluffers likes to kill things.").
I love--with every fiber of my being--my cat. But dear
God, not like some people--especially not the two worst
groups of the cat-crazed, whom I like to refer to as the
Boyntons and the Believers.
The Boyntons, named for those horrible greeting cards that
depict cuddly drawings of animals gettin' into mischief,
are the most depressing and the easiest type of cat fanatic
to become. The extreme cases are those (they are almost
always women) who wear poly-blend sweat pants, secretly
love Burger King, openly love the comic strip Cathy
and have a very personal relationship with Jenny Craig.
They live in houses that smell like Glade potpourri spray
mixed with kitty dew and are decorated with squeak toys,
soggy fake mice and spreads from Cat Fancy magazine.
You might even find a Thighmaster somewhere.
The Believers--so named because they believe in the right
of every living creature not only to live, but to live with
them--are the most hypocritical and pretentious. These
are the people who brag about saving every stupid mongrel
that limps on the roadside, only to add them to their already
cluttered, and therefore inhumane, menagerie of charity
cases. These people make their cats wear bird-scaring bells
around their necks so they, too, can be vegetarians (that's
right, just take all the fun out of being a cat). They live
in houses that smell like cat piss and dog shit and read
PETA brochures with all those disgusting pictures depicting
the life of a baby cow in vealdom. Believers believe their
cats appreciate their efforts--but the believers are wrong.
On the other end of the spectrum are the Manly Cat Men.
Unafraid of resisting the knee-jerk and totally annoying
fraternity of dudes who say, "I only like big dogs. I can
take them camping," these men are either free thinkers who
are fascinated by the cat's independence or passive-aggressive
wet blankets who are too emotionally crippled to own a dog.
Manly Cat Men do well when their cats keep them in touch
with their primitive side (cats are hunters after all),
not their softer side. A man who gave the cat-obsessed a
good name was master crime writer Raymond Chandler. He was
intrigued by his cat, Taki, and wrote beautifully about
her: "A cat never behaves as if you were the only bright
spot in an otherwise clouded existence...this is another
way of saying that a cat is not a sentimentalist, which
does not mean that it has no affection." But then there
are the millions who give cat obsession a bad name, such
as this male Web denizen: "I am a proud owner of a Blue
Point Siamese. She is 11 years old (My little girl!), and
my only child. Her name is Yum-Yum. I call her Yummy for
short, or Yum." Um, someone get this man laid--please.
And then there is the best group: the Deranged Old Ladies.
Led by patron saint Sandy Dennis (the brilliant Who's
Afraid of Virginia Woolf? actress who spent her last
days in a New York City apartment overflowing with cats)
and Edith Beale Jr. and Sr. (the Jackie Bouvier relatives
featured in the Maysles brothers documentary Grey Gardens),
this group is one that should be simultaneously feared and
respected. These women usually live in houses insulated
with stacks of newspapers dating back to 1932, share tins
of sardines with their cats, forgo luxuries like hot water
and litter boxes, may possibly have an ex-husband stashed
in the freezer and were probably beautiful at one time.
Sex-kitten Brigitte Bardot may be presently fighting for
animal rights, but wait and see: Ten years from now, she'll
be living in a crooked little house with crooked-looking
kitties chasing crooked-looking crows from the stoop.
Sometimes I wonder if I haven't gone over the edge myself.
I have not just a cat, but a white, widdle wisp of winter
snow. (Awww.) That's right, the cat freaks in Satan's service
have caused me to think like them. I actually didn't haul
off and smack the veterinarian's assistant who cooed, "Ooh
look at Blanche's cute butt!" right before she probed it
with a thermometer. I've even talked to an artist about
the possibility of getting a portrait painted of me and
Blanche, Madonna with Cat. I'm not alone in fearing
the cat people: Even Raymond Chandler feared their influence.
In correspondence with a friend, Chandler questioned his
own sanity after writing an entire letter about his cat:
"Creepy--am I really writing it at all? Could it be that--no,
it must be me. Say it's me and I'm scared." I'm scared,
too.
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Willamette Week | originally
published July 14, 1999
|
