Column: House still bears marks of odd pair of cats from the past
Published 12:00 am Thursday, June 5, 2003
Perhaps no one should be allowed to walk through my house without one of those little brochures often offered at the entrance of historical buildings. The little write-ups explaining the features that might otherwise puzzle the visitor.
For instance, to the right of the upstairs bathroom door is a floor-to-ceiling post covered with carpeting. We used to spray it with liquid catnip. It’s there to have encouraged the cats that lived with us from time to time to use it. The bathroom door itself is partially framed, not with wood, but with sheet metal, because the cats, without exception, preferred the door frame to the scratching post.
It’s remarkable how deep a hollow, even a declawed cat can dig in a wooden frame. My last cat live-ins were a couple of beautiful long-haired cats, one a pure-bred Persian, the other a long-haired domestic. I had hesitated to take them because even at that time, I was well past the first, or even the second or third, blush of youth.
They were at the animal pound, however, and I was afraid they might not be adopted. So I adopted both of them. I wanted to name them both lovely and poetic names, such as &uot;Macushla&uot; and &uot;Macree.&uot; At first glance, though, they didn’t seem to be particularly affectionate beasties, at least not with each other.
The Persian, a soft-grey colored female, could be heard uttering loud cries of anguish every time I left the room. I thought the male, a beautiful peach and white cat, was beating her. Once, though, the female screamed at the top of her voice when I was present and the other cat was clear across the room from her. It was then I learned that she was a cat with a gift for drama and a leaning toward excitement.
It was at that moment I re-named them. The male I named Sodom and the female, Gomorrah. They answered to &uot;Sod&uot; and &uot;Morrah.&uot;
I learned a great deal from them. I did not become a woman liberationist when the movement picked up new followers in the 60s or thereabout. The conviction that women were in no way inferior to men and deserved the same privileges was accepted in my family, on both sides, as far back as the Civil War, if not earlier.
That women had feminine characteristics and men masculine ones through education was something I was born doubting. After all, at the age of three I gave up the fun of sliding down the cement banisters along side our front steps because I was only allowed to if I wore blue jeans while doing so and the judge down the street seeing me in the jeans adressed me as &uot;little boy.&uot; An insult if I ever heard one!
Anyway, no one ever educated the cats to play their masculine/feminine roles. They just did. Cats love to crawl into grocery sacks. I frequently picked up nice big new ones for them.
I remember once carrying a new grocery sack to each of them, still flattened out. Sod immediately tucked his nose in the open end of his, opened the sack, crawled to the end of the sack, turned, crawled back to the opening, lay down, head on his paws, and surveyed the room with great contentment.
Morrah was not quite as agile. She put her nose inside the sack and pushed. The sack didn’t open. She pushed and pushed. She pushed the unopened sack to the opposite wall, and uttered a demanding meow when it still didn’t open.
With a look of scorn, Sod left his sack, strode across the room, inserted his nose in the other sack, opened it with one thrust, walked to the end, turned and walked out of the sack. He stood by while Morrha happily entered the sack. Then just as her tail was disappearing into its depths, he bit it. Not hard, just enough to remind her how much smarter he considered himself.
I had to remember to keep the shower screen drawn around the bath tub because the cats loved to jump into the tub and I was afraid they might get hurt.
On one occasion Morrah was too quick for me. She leaped and then went into a hysterical panic when a nasty little silverfish joined her. As I was lifting her out, Sod went past me into the tub, ate the silverfish in one gulp and then leaped out to receive our thanks.
Receive them he did. It was positively sickening the way Morrah cuddled up to him, purring, &uot;My hero, my hero,&uot; in at least three octaves.
Love Cruikshank is an Albert Lea resident. Her column appears Thursdays.