How I missed the war

I get a lot more done when Peggy is away because her presence is a distraction. During this absence, I’ve been roofing our new deck during the day and making crackers and soups at night. When I’m working in the kitchen, I watch films one after the other. Tonight, I watched two war documentaries. The first was The Corporal’s Diary, which was about an American soldier who died in Iraq, and the second was Heroes of Iwo Jima. In a few minutes, I’ll go to bed and continue my nightly reading of a newly-released book entitled Survivor: Auschwitz, the Death March, and My Fight for Freedom, which is surely the last first-person account of a Nazi death camp that the world will ever see.

When I was younger, I sometimes experienced regret that I had never gone to war because I saw it as a rite of passage like no other, and because it enables men to bond closely with other men. Yet, I went to great lengths to avoid the only war I had a chance at. I’m not sure whether I did this because I thought that only suckers voluntarily went to Vietnam, or because I had no stomach for any war. I suspect the former because, unlike World War II, which made at least a little sense to me, and during which those who didn’t fight were viewed with suspicion, I never felt the least inner desire or societal pressure to go to Vietnam, although I felt a lot of pressure from the draft board, which was forever eliminating my latest exemption in what seemed like a cat and mouse game with me being the mouse. When it seemed as if the cat finally had me cornered, my doctor wrote to the draft board saying that I had passed several kidney stones, so I was reclassified from 1A (kiss your ass goodbye) to 4F (we wouldn’t draft a worthless fucker like you no matter what) for a year, and by the time that year ended, the war was winding down. I was surprised to learn that I had suffered from kidney stones, but I wasn’t about to argue.

Tonight, as I cried my way through Heroes of Iwo Jima, I glanced over at Brewsky and was startled to discover that he was watching me with an expression of consternation unlike any I had ever seen in him, and I knew it was because he didn’t understand my tears. I very much wanted to tell him what was going on for me, but how does one describe feelings about war to a cat? Not very well, I shouldn’t think. When the war films were over, I watched another documentary, The Cruise, which was about a NYC tour bus guide. This guy had depth, honesty, creativity, sensitivity, eloquence, and a unique world-view, which is to say that he was everything I would like to be when I’m around people but am not. Of course, it’s a lot harder to be all those things given that I mostly avoid people. Like this morning, I got to feeling lonely, what with Peggy being gone, so, it being Sunday, I thought about either visiting the new Unitarian Church or calling someone about getting together, but I decided against either because they seemed like too much work. That decision being out of the way, my friend Cliff called to ask if he could come over, but I didn't answer the phone. About an hour later, I called him back, and we took a walk. It was good, but there’s such a wide gap between myself and others that I sometimes think about seeing people in the same way I think about taking medicine. I know it’s good for me, but it’s not altogether pleasant, although it can sometimes be very pleasant indeed, which is another parallel between people and drugs.

I think my cat is defective

Brewsky will sometimes stare right into my eyes for minutes on end. I’ll stare back for awhile, grateful for the attention, wondering what he’s thinking, and admiring his beauty, but will turn away in disgust when I realize that I’m continuing to stare beyond the point of enjoying it because I think he should be the one to look away first. My attempt to out-macho a neutered housecat who doesn’t know he’s being out-machoed makes me think I might be neurotic, and I blame him for making me think I’m neurotic when he knows I’m not.

When I scold Brewsky, he bites Peggy if she’s home. If she’s not home, he waits for her to come home, and then he bites her. He doesn’t dare bite me so, the dog being dead, he turns to the only target left, the one that can’t chastise him without worrying about hurting his feelings.

Since Bonnie died (a week ago, almost to the minute), Brewsky has wanted a lot of attention. I don’t know why since he wasn’t close to Bonnie, who disliked all four-legged creatures, and whose blindness made her fearful of Brewsky because she was forever stumbling into him as he lay stretched-out in the middle of the floor, making it necessary for him to slap her face. Maybe he thinks we murdered her, and he’s turning into a suck-up so we won’t murder him.

I don’t know why he likes to watch me dance, but he’s really into it, and I always wonder, “What are you thinking that you watch me so studiously?” Maybe he’s wondering, “What are you thinking that you dance so peculiarly?”

Sometimes at night for no apparent reason, he starts yowling and racing through the house at full speed, sometimes running over the tops of the furniture. When he does that, I say, “If I had lived during the Bubonic Plague, I too might have thrown your kind on a bonfire because your behavior is mighty suspicious.”

Most of the time, he sits around looking like the deity of dignity, but as soon as he gets hungry, or imagines that a treat might be forthcoming, or thinks it’s high time for a meal; he becomes a beggar. I ask, “Where’s your pride, man?” but he just begs louder.

I thought cats were supposed to be dainty eaters, but Brewsky eats like a German Shepherd who’s afraid that someone might take his food away (not that he would fight for it if they did). It’s disgusting. He gets three squares a day, frequent treats, and a midnight snack, yet he wants more.

If I hide a treat, and he doesn’t know where it is, he will go right to it if I point. Maybe some dogs can learn to do that, but I haven’t had any luck teaching them. When this usually poker-faced creature who sleeps all day does something smart, I find myself wondering how smart he really is. I mean, what does he know that I don’t? Contemplating this gives me the willies, and I blame him for it.

Brewsky doesn’t just come when he’s called; he runs so hard that it sounds like a stampede. He can be asleep at the other end of the house, but as soon as I call him, he starts running. Give a cat some cheese or canned meat every time you say his name, and that’s what you get.

I thought cats were delicate creatures who hated a firm touch, but I’ve never massaged a dog more firmly than I massage this cat, and he loves it. The only trouble is that he only loves it when he’s on the floor, it being distasteful to him to be rubbed in any location that’s convenient for me.

Brewsky is my first 21^st century pet (circa 2010), and this makes him seem newfangled on one level, yet he still looks and acts like cats that I knew in the 1950s, and this makes me wonder if the pound let him go for half price because he’s a beta version. Maybe the newer versions come with a remote.

The Bed Wars

Everyday when I got ready to make the bed, Brewsky would be in it. I would pick him up, set him on the floor, and proceed with my work. He resented this and would jump back into bed before I could even pull the covers off. I would put him on the floor again, and he would jump back into bed again. I’m a fast bed-maker, but some days, he would jump back into bed as many as eight times. I didn’t know what to do. For six months, I was tortured. For six months, I lay awake worrying. Finally, I realized that I only had two choices: quit making the bed or kill the cat. These choices were so grim that I decided to devote six more months to thinking about the problem. 

One day as I watched him gobble down his supper (he eats like a dog), I thought that maybe I could use food to bribe him to get out of bed, so I tried it. It worked, splendidly. I would throw a few kibbles down the hallway, and off he would go. Sometimes, I would either be too hurried or simply not in the mood to do this, and so it was that I gradually went back to setting him on the floor. To my surprise, he no longer became angry. Most days, he’s even downright patient, and will observe me stoically until I pull the spread over the pillows, which is his cue that he can jump back in and not be taken out again. Ever now and I then, I will put him back into the bed myself, pet him a little, and wish him happy dreams. He seems to appreciate this. He’s hardly an unreasonable cat, and I’m happy that I was clever enough to think of an alternative to murder.