By Love Cruikshank, Love Notes

Always liked that story about the young man with the hangover to end all hangovers. Well under the influence he had fallen into his bed fully clothed. It was a luxurious bedroom, carpeted in material so lush that anyone walking on it felt himself sinking in up to his ankles.

The young man, though, too miserable the next morning to appreciate the luxury of his room, regarded his cat coming to greet him and exclaimed piteously, “For God’s sake, cat, stop stamping up and down on that carpet.”

I can understand anyone being a bit nervous about cats. My last cat departed this earth several years ago at the age of 21. It was a great sadness to me, though I was grateful for his being up and coming until the last week of his life.

Because of my advanced age it didn’t seem fair to acquire another pet. Properly cared for, they bond with us just as we bond with them and miss us as we miss them.

More than once I have had a cat staring at someone or something just over my shoulder and have made a point of not turning myself to look. Both dogs and cats hear sounds inaudible to us and I haven’t the slightest doubt see that which is invisible to us.

I deplore the objection of otherwise sane and wonderful people that cats are “sneaky.” Cats are hunting animals. Why would anyone expect them to come shoed in tap dancing slippers?

I’ve heard from people who never had one how self-centered cats are. They should have met my small Siamese, Mitzi. Mitzi was terrified of lightening storms. She ran for shelter at the first rumble of thunder, the first flash of lightening. I always made a point of taking her into bed with me and cuddling and cooing to her until she relaxed.

One night, though, after a particularly hard day I almost slept through the storm. When I awoke it was to find little Mitzi facing the window next to the bed, obviously terrified, but &045; back arched, tail at the full &045; she was hissing and growling at the storm, determined to protect us.

I understand that the Chinese have a proverb that says anyone who doesn’t like cats was a rat in a former existence. I go farther, a rat in this existence, too, is my version.

I’m also fond of dogs. As I’ve written in this column before, my first dog friend, while I was still a toddler, was a Pit Bull, with a bad reputation. We were inseparable, until he bit one adult too many and had to be removed to a farm for his own protection.

His owner, a well-liked judge in our neighborhood, called at our house to explain the situation to my mother and to apologize for removing “your daughter’s dog.”

“But he’s your dog,” said my puzzled mother.

“I buy his food and pay for his license,” said the judge, “But from the time he encountered your daughter he’s been her dog. And believe me, Mrs. Cruikshank, anyone making a hostile move against your daughter, would have been a dead somebody very shortly.”

It troubles me when people abuse animals. I remember when I was still working full time at The Tribune coming in one morning to find the whole editorial staff waiting my arrival. They wanted to tell me that a farm boy who made a habit of shooting cats on the farm had this morning aimed at a cat and shot himself in the foot. Hostpitalized, the lad faced the possibility of losing the foot.

I saw nothing regrettable about that and my colleagues laughed heartily, saying that they knew exactly what I was going to say before I said it.

I was not the only cat lover in the news room, though. A fellow reporter had a female cat that gave birth to six kittens. He put an advertizement in the paper to find homes for them, giving his office number. One day we heard him telling a candidate that homes had already been found for all six.

Since homes hadn’t been found for a single one, we were inclined to question his response.

“That guy was calling from a bar,” he snarled. “Do you think I want those kittens in the home of a drunkard?”

(Love Cruikshank is an Albert Lea resident. Her column runs Thursday.)