Pussy was a gourmet cat

Who would have a bite of this?

And a piece of that.

of lamb dragons

And chicken in every way,

With bacon and ham

And Veal Bordelaise.

with tastes like that

You become a gourmet cat

Over the years my wife and I searched our restaurant, her indoor and outdoor cats fended for themselves from nine in the morning until after midnight. To make up for it, she left out a smorgasbord of cat food for the five ungrateful little bastards. Our kitchen floor was a minefield of cat food bowls.

A cat had only to whimper, and the next sound would be the can opener grinding up a new feline culinary offering. Suzie only wanted shrimp. Shrimp? Sylvester only ate dry, crunchy food that none of the others would touch. Rhett Butler preferred canned food but ate another brand of crisps. Merry liked to eat a raw egg every once in a while, which made it difficult to make breakfast with her feet under her feet.

Everyone was offended if little sacks of “goodies” were not regularly offered. I have no idea what controlled substance was in those treats, but it kept the beauties of Kay hanging and begging for more. That cat food comes from little cans with $0.50 price tags means nothing to these furry little reprobates. Something gets to the darkest part of me when I see one of the adorable little ones walk up to a freshly opened expensive can of cat food, take a puff, turn around, and start trying to cover the food as if it had just made its needs. But the urge to drop the perceptive little darling soon passes.

Television at the time was awash with cat food ads assuring all cat lovers that pussycats would break through brick walls to get to their mark. One of the most offensive ads featured a housewife, dressed in a cat suit, on the roof with a bowl of food trying to lure a cat to dinner. I looked everywhere for a catsuit for Kay, my wife, for Mother’s Day, but I couldn’t find it.

I chose Mother’s Day, because Kay and I don’t have kids, and the cats fill the void for her. My two beautiful daughters fulfilled my desire for progeny. So every time I file a complaint about a cat, Kay reminds me that cats don’t require orthodontics or a college education. I have comforted myself with that thought throughout our marriage.

Then comes the question of what these furry little despots do with what they eat and drink. He hoped that since they were indoor/outdoor cats, they would have the decency to relieve themselves outdoors, preferably in the neighbors’ yards. But these little darlings would kick down the back door to get in and make a mess in the house. It’s still amazing how creative charmers are at hiding their droppings in our house. Dropping a load into a cat box does not require any talent. Hiding one where the smell gets so intense that I selflessly call for a nuclear strike to save humanity, takes some effort.

Let’s not forget the hair: cat hair everywhere. It starts out as air pollution after your endless licks and scratches, then settles as a fine dust on everything we own. Other times, huge balls of hair roll around like tumbleweeds. These furballs were ripped off during nightly catfights that fell to the referee’s lot.

You’ve probably guessed that I’m not a lover of silly, soggy cats who talks in the third person to these creatures. I can build a pretty strong case for feline extinction. I also hope that the person who first invited one of these animals into his abode will spend eternity up to his neck in them.

Of all of Kay’s cats, there was, however, one excellent example of what any self-respecting cat should be. His name was Cunt. Pussy was a gelding, a condition that could produce psychological trauma in other males whose load had been lightened. No cunt. He was totally self-sufficient and brave.

A neighbor had a cat named Peter, and the two cats were bitter enemies. One night, a howling cat fight broke out in our backyard, waking Kay and me. She went to the window, went back to bed, and announced, “It’s just Peter fighting Pussy.” Kay went to sleep while I lay in bed for two hours and laughed out loud at the semantics of the occasion.

Another time I saw a large German Shepherd mistakenly wander into Pussy’s front yard lot. From the ambush, Pussy landed on the dog’s back launching a diminutive version of a circus pony and dog act. Approaching the street, Pussy jumped after the dog, hit him on the butt and literally, as they say, “ripped off a new one.”

Pussy had two completely endearing qualities. First, she would eat whatever she didn’t eat first. Her favorites were the leftover treats that Kay brought home from our restaurant. The higher, the better cooking for Pussy. Second, I never saw where she did her business. I’m talking almost feline perfection here.

Pussy waited very stoically in the driveway each night for our return home. She jumped into the car with the door half open and gave enough love to ensure the continuation of the ritual. She then proceeded to the business at hand: exploring Kay’s ever-present brown bag containing her gift of the night delivered personally from our restaurant.

It was definitely a different kind of cat. He was able to appreciate his love for good food, and he had no bad habits. He wasn’t hyperactive like most cats around humans and his own kind. Constantly in control and always completely trusting Kay and me, his poise and composure were always intact.

His most endearing trait; however, it was his passion to be out where the action was. A cat that only appears for short periods of time is something that non-cat lovers can really appreciate. Pussy and I had years of pleasant relaxation.

When Pussy died of feline leukemia, we asked the vet to save her remains. Somehow it didn’t seem right for an old friend to end up in a plastic bag in a trash can.

Kay asked me to bury it in our backyard so she’d be close. I also think she felt that two hours of digging in the limestone-infested Texas Hill Country would stop me from wishing the untimely deaths of her other four cats.

Fittingly, we buried Pussy in a wooden wine crate from Chateau Trottevieille St. Emilion. As she lowered it to the ground, I noticed the Chateau’s quality designation engraved on the end of the wooden case: “1er Premier Grand Cru Classe.”

Yeah, that was old Pussy.