Something Tells Me It's all Happening At the Zoo


Wherein Our Heroine Contemplates Her Responsibility.
We have been accused of running a zoo. Indeed, a dog and three cats are more than we really intended, but until yesterday, there was an easygoing dynamic within the animal kingdom here. Simon, going on eight years old, is wise, calm and even-tempered: the Obi-Wan of the household. Dash, the baby, is the brash, cute, dumb-but-means-well Luke. For the cats, the large, furry dog is undoubtedly Chewbacca, roaring and growling in a different language, but game to enter into their adventures all the same.

And Ben, at six, is Darth Vader.

Before last night, Ben was simply a pain. When Simon was two and I started traveling quite a bit, I gave in to the "cat needs a companion" argument and got Ben. From the outset, Ben proved to be antisocial to humans and Simon hid from him in my tiny house for two weeks. I had hoped that a loving environment would penetrate Ben's armor at some point, but it never has. My husband John refers to Ben as "Catzilla," partly because of his personality (which resembles a warthog with a particularly bad case of piles) and partly because of his breath. We have both tried to rehabilitate Ben - it's not hard to try, as Ben is a beautiful-looking cat, but it is easy to finally give up, as Ben has never shown a marked affection for anything except his dinner.

Ben's irritating habits (yowling early in the morning for breakfast, swatting at the hand that feeds him, etc.) have caused us to try and find another home for him - preferably on a hobby farm where he's the only cat and doesn't have to interact much with any other critters - but so far we have had no luck. The local 'no-kill" shelter also has a waiting list that is months long. The natural ebb and flow of Ben's demanding nature made relocating him less urgent in recent weeks, but last night everything changed.

We had just come in from dinner out when I heard the blood-freezing sound of cats fighting in the basement. I launched off the couch and raced toward the noise, reminding myself as I pelted down the stairs not to do anything stupid - like put my hand in a cat fight. I found Simon hiding under the couch, and Ben in a hostile posture a few feet away. After I coaxed Simon out, he spent the next hour on my lap, growling and muttering to himself until he finally fell into an exhausted sleep. John found tufts of Simon's fur all over the ground floor, and while there was no blood, he had definite sore spots and had almost certainly been bitten. Dash, normally the most adaptable and affectionate of cats, had a bottle-brush tail all evening and would not allow himself to be held. Simon, having spent the night safely in our room (generally off-limits to felines), still starts and growls when the other cats go by.

I don't know what finally set Ben off, and if we can't find another home for him I really don't know what we're going to do. I feel as if we - as if I - have failed the zoo, either by not figuring out and giving Ben what he needs to be a gentle cat, or by not removing him from the house soon enough. If Ben were a human, I doubt he would be found competent to stand his trial, but there are no state homes for lunatic cats.

Somehow, I don't think The Force is going to help me with this one....
Posted: Friday - February 20, 2004 at 07:37 AM         | |

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