Cats In Clover

  ***

  George continued training us. When he tired of being petted, he'd pick up my hand with his sharp little teeth, gently but firmly, and put it away from him. If I persisted in reading when he wanted petting, he nibbled my fingers, just hard enough to imply that if I went on ignoring him I might end up like shredded tuna.

  Ben and I learned that if we did the same thing at the same time three days running, it became, for George, an unbreakable tradition. He had a remarkable sense of time and we found ourselves retiring to bed with books and cups of tea at ten p.m. because George started herding us in that direction at nine fifty-five. Once there, he snuggled up for long sessions of petting and purring. When we turned the lights off, he slept curled around the top of my head, lecturing me if I moved. I sometimes woke to find him stretched across my throat, blissfully asleep. Much as I enjoyed having a warm, soft cat to sleep with, I wished he would spend more time lying on the bed than on me.

  One evening I was alone. Ben had gone to Victoria on business and I didn't expect him back until the last ferry so I watched a movie that ran until midnight. George paced, his tail a flag of disapproval. He spoke to me sharply. He sat on the coffee table and nibbled my bare toes. For two hours he did everything he could to make me shut off the television but I held out. It was a good movie.

  At midnight I plugged in the kettle and went upstairs to change into pyjamas. George raced ahead and sat on the bed to supervise. When I headed for the door, he tried to stop me by hooking his claws into my dressing gown.

  "George, I'm only going to fetch the tea."

  As I reached the bedroom door, two furry legs gripped my ankle and sharp teeth nipped it. Startled, I dislodged him and took two more steps. This time the other ankle got it. Apprehensive now, I picked him up at arm's length, lugged him downstairs and put him outside to cool off.

  When he came back in, through the cat door for a change, he was gracious and charming, apparently writing off my revolt as a temporary aberration. I never knew for sure; the tea-making and my leap into bed had been at top speed, achieved before his return.

  But George had another grievance. He did not approve of Ben's absence and told me so repeatedly while I drank tea. He continued to complain until Ben arrived at one a.m., then paced back and forth, lecturing, while Ben undressed and got into bed.

  "What's the matter with him?" Ben asked.

  "He missed you." This was a blatant lie. Actually, George was annoyed because his male slave hadn't come to bed at the proper time but, if Ben thought George was fond of him, he might be won over.

  Ben gave George an appraising glance, said, "Hmph," and fell asleep at once. I lay awake trying to think of more ways to prove to Ben that George liked him.

  Next day, Ben and I were both exhausted. George was as energetic and urbane as ever.

  A week later we returned from a movie in Mora Bay to find His Majesty pacing at the bedroom door with a look of grim anticipation, ears back and that black and brown striped tail lashing from side to side. I flipped on the bedroom light.

  The Royal Avenger had pooped on Ben's pillow.

  Ben looked shocked, then angry. "Why would he do such a thing? You said cats were fastidious."

  Through my laughter I managed to gasp, "What on earth did you do to him?"

  Defensively, "I didn't do anything."

  "You must have," I said. "Using your pillow as a toilet is a statement that he's really mad at you."

  "Are you sure? Do cats actually do that?"

  "I'm positive. Look at him; he's waiting for you to figure it out and apologize."

  While he cleaned up the mess and changed the pillow slip, grumbling to himself, Ben tried to think what sins he'd committed against cathood.

  "I think I know what it was," he said. "I unwrapped a new shirt this morning and snapped it hard to get out some of the stiffness. George was right at my feet. He jumped as though he'd been shot and ran out of the bedroom."

  "He believes you did it on purpose. Cats hate loud, sudden noises."

  Ben looked thoughtfully at George, who was now trying to round us up and put us to bed. "I'm ready to capitulate on two points. One, George is very intelligent. Two, cats do have personalities and this one has entirely too much."

  Next morning Ben brought a load of clean laundry upstairs and dumped it on the bed. He picked up a pillow case to snap the wrinkles out of it, then noticed George watching him from the doorway.

  Ben spread the pillow case on the bed and smoothed the wrinkles out of it with his hands. "All right, George, I give in. I am your slave, the lowest of the low, a mere insignificant houseboy."

  George soared onto the bed, stretched out on the pillow case and gazed up at Ben, who hesitated, then petted George's head. The King purred and rolled on his back, letting Ben rub his tummy. From the sappy look on Ben's face, I knew my worries about him wanting to send George back to Karen were over. The King had finally succeeded in transforming Ben into a devoted houseboy and, if George was as clever as I thought, Ben would be a loyal slave forever.

  IV - The Royal Mouth

  Three weeks after George came to live with us, I took him to the new veterinarian in Mora Bay. George hadn't had shots during his time with Karen and I wasn't about to risk losing my precious King to rabies, distemper or feline leukemia. The April sunshine was mellow and the air fresh, but George took no notice. The yells of rage from the cat carrier kept me company all the way to town. I tried to soothe him by talking, but for all the good that did, I might as well have saved my breath.

  Jerry Parker was tall and slim with brown curly hair. Cal had said he was young and would be up to date on animal medicine, but I didn't expect someone who looked as if he'd graduated from high school only yesterday.

  "Well, who do we have here?" he said, lifting George from the carrier.

  "George the Magnificent, monarch of all he surveys."

  "I can see he's part Siamese," Jerry said. "Naturally he thinks he's royalty."

  George suffered the examination and shots with bad grace and, when Jerry and I let go of him, leapt off the table and tried to crawl behind the fridge. I grabbed him and put him in the carrier, where he was so happy to be in a familiar spot, even a hateful one, that he settled down and actually kept quiet.

  "He seems in fine shape," Jerry said. "Have you been having any problems with him?"

  I related George's history and mentioned that the Royal mouth was not only talkative and fussy about what it ate, but also had the habit of vomiting frequently.

  "He might be looking for attention. Some cats will do that." Jerry asked me several questions about George's diet, then shook his head. "I wouldn't worry about it. Cats aren't like humans; they vomit as quickly and easily as they use the litter box."

  Jerry finished his paperwork. "Are you a long-time resident?"

  "No, we moved here from Victoria a few weeks ago."

  "Beautiful island, isn't it? Cindy and I came here a year ago because it seemed like a safe place to bring up kids. Ours are ten and twelve now." Obviously Jerry had been out of high school for several years.

  "Ben and I are supposed to be retired, but we're working harder than ever, trying to develop a market garden over on Macklin Road." I was tempted to tell him that I hoped it would fail so I could go back to city life, but refrained in case he was offended. Besides, I didn't really want the garden to fail because that would hurt Ben. It would be enough, when the time came, if I simply said I couldn't stand island life.

  "Have you met many of the locals yet?" Jerry asked.

  "No. Just our eccentric next-door neighbor."

  "A lot of those around." Jerry grinned. "One great thing about the island is that people accept you for what you are. Nobody cares if you're unconventional."

  "I've heard that eccentrics tend to gravitate to islands. I'm sure some people would consider us eccentric because we're living on a small island with one movie theater and no Cablevision." I couldn't resist a final shot. "And I'm not
so sure they wouldn't be right."

  Jerry lugged the cat carrier to the door. "Tell me; are you conventional enough to play bridge?"

  "Absolutely!" The possibility of a bridge game brightened my day. "Do you and Cindy play?"

  "We love the game but so far we haven't found another couple to make up a foursome."

  "Well, count me in as a single if you want to get a game together. Ben doesn't play, unfortunately."

  "I'll find a fourth," he promised.

  I dropped my latest short story in the mail box, crossing my fingers for luck. I'd spent far more time on it than any of the others; surely this time I'd score. When I pulled into our driveway, George was still grousing in the carrier. "Shut up, my lord, your castle is at hand."

  I released him in the kitchen and he scooted into the living room and hid behind the couch. I put the carrier away, worried that he might be so upset about his visit to the vet that he'd never forgive me.

  Twenty minutes later he was winding himself around my ankles, purring. I picked him up and settled on the couch for a snuggling session. "See, George? You've still got your home and me. Every now and then we'll have to go see the vet, but I'll always bring you back again."

  I thought about the people who'd abandoned him and wished I could wring their necks. A stray kitten with no mother to teach it how to hunt is almost always doomed. George and Duffy had been lucky to survive.

  I bent my head toward him and he butted my forehead with his and licked the end of my nose.