Cats In Clover

  ***

  The ornamental cherry trees were shedding their blooms in pale pink drifts on the grass when Ben and Cal finished the carport and workshop. Ben had tilled the two acres – or, as he called it, point eight of a hectare – in the paddock and fixed up the hen house. Our miniature farm was beginning to look respectable though I complained that the vehicles lived in a better house than I did.

  "We can work on the house come fall," Ben said. "I need to do the outside work while the weather is good. The most important thing is to get that garden growing."

  George the Magnificent was still working hard on getting butler service at all three doors, his successes usually due to the Houseboy being unable to ignore his pathetic wailing. Though irritated by our slowness and stupidity, George refused to give up.

  He'd lead us to the door he'd chosen. When we opened it, he'd have a leisurely wash before strolling out, no doubt trying to look his best for his subjects, whoever they were. If it was raining, he scolded me for turning off the sun and sat, nose outside sniffing the air, rear end inside on a warm carpet, wondering whether to trust his precious body to the dampness. If the rain was too heavy, he headed for his litter box in the combination laundry and mud room. If not, he went out, gingerly stepping around puddles on those long, elegant black-striped legs and shaking rain drops off his royal robes. When he returned from inspecting his kingdom, he'd gaze at the landscape for a moment or two before condescending to enter, giving his invisible subjects a chance for one last adoring look.

  After days of being housebound by heavy rain, Ben said, "We have to find another way for George to go in and out. He doesn't like the cat door." Now a devoted houseboy, Ben was learning to understand cat language.

  Ben created the perfect access for a persnickety king. He opened the sliding window in the downstairs master bedroom one cat width and built a small wooden platform to put across the sill, just the right size for George to sit on. We put an easy chair below the sill and a block of wood outside on the ground as a convenient step. George was pleased and immediately began using it as a throne where he could sit and survey both his inside and outside kingdoms by merely turning his head.

  I was not pleased. In the next hour, I spent as much time capturing the winged wildlife that came in through the open window as I would have letting George in and out. By suppertime, I'd put glass tumblers and thin pieces of cardboard in every room for the capture and release of wasps and bumblebees. George took care of the grasshoppers and spiders himself, crunching these disgusting morsels between his teeth with as much enthusiasm as Ben ate salted peanuts.

  However, when I discovered that George took care of moths, my annoyance changed to such gratitude that I would happily have been doorman for the rest of his reign. Fluttering moths sent me into mindless panic and George, shown a moth, stalked it relentlessly. He never missed. Unfortunately, they were crunchy, too.

  When the rain quit, Ben said, "I'm going to Ellis Bay to pick up some chickens. Cal put me onto these people who said they'd sell some. Want to come?"

  Ellis Bay was reachable by some thirty miles of cow trail that passed for a graveled road. Ben had traded in his car for the typical Adriana pickup; old, battered and springless, though reputed to have an engine that would last for centuries. I had no wish to subject my body to an hour of Blue Betsy bouncing through potholes. "No thanks. I'll stay here and mull over my future role as Egg Lady."

  Ben roared through the gate in his battered blue chariot and I went back to worrying about what to give the King for his dinner. The word 'finicky' didn't begin to describe the high standards held by the Royal Mouth. The Houseboy's mantra, repeated at least once a day, was "Please be patient, my lord. The Concorde bringing your fresh lobster from Paris is a little late today."

  George was an enthusiastic diner, provided the food happened to be what he felt like eating at that precise moment. If it wasn't, he'd look at me as though I'd given him poison and try to bury the meal in the floor. If I'd wiped his place mat and scrubbed his food dish to sparkling cleanliness, opened a fresh can of Fluffytail's Incredible Edibles, and crooned to him while spooning it out, I couldn't help feeling hurt when he treated it like something he'd done in the litter box.

  Nor was it enough to serve food he liked. The dish had to be clean and if the food had been there more than thirty seconds, it was stale and therefore inedible. A lot of food was sent back to the kitchen.

  The week before, we'd spent half an hour in front of the cat food shelf in the Mora Bay supermarket.

  "Do you think he'd like this one?" Ben asked, handing me a can.

  I read the ingredients in Kitty's Divine Gourmet Sea Feast. "Sounds okay. Let's give it a try."

  A voice behind me said, "Cats don't need all that fancy stuff." It was Cal Peterson, a pitying look on his face. "Daisy catches birds and mice and only comes for dry kibbles a couple of times a day." He pushed his baseball cap back on his head and grinned. "You folks ought to get some goats. They'll eat anything."

  I was irritated by Cal's smug expression and wondered if his goats had ever considered eating him. His straggly hair and the grin were probably indigestible, though.

  At home, I opened the can, ladled food into the Royal Dish and George ate with gusto. Wonderful, he loved the stuff! The next week I bought a whole case of it.

  Now I opened the fourth expensive tin of Kitty's Divine Gourmet Sea Feast and spooned it into a clean dish. George took one sniff and walked away, ears laid back, a moué of disgust on his face.

  How dare she feed me that garbage!

  I picked him up and put him in front of his dish several times but he stalked away. After Ben left to get the chickens, I gave up. Poor old suffering George would have to starve.

  "I don't feel a bit sorry for you. Pat and prod and meow all you like, but I am not opening a different brand of food just to keep you happy. Go out and catch a mouse."

  He flicked his tail and raced through the house, up the stairs, and back down, doing his Siamese war cry. When he stopped at my feet, I was ready for him with a length of string. Our favorite game was for me to pull the string along the floor so he could pounce on it. It was certainly more fun than trying to feed him.