KIND OF BLUE

The assiduous reader of this or either of my other two blogs will have noted that I have spent more or less no time discussing the role of pets in my life. The simple explanation behind this lack of ____ blogging is that I have had no pets since I began blogging. However.

I once had a cat.

Scott and Dawn and I lived together, back inna day. In 1992 the three of us went to get a kitty from the Hattiesburg "pound". The kitty we got we named Miles Davis on the way home because she was a "crazy cat" (she seemed to enjoy crawling under the pedals of Scott's Honda Prelude, as I recall).

Miles was very small when we got her. She fell asleep in my hand, once (and I have a small hand for a man of my size). She also fell asleep in a baseball cap.

Living, as we did, on the second floor of a house, we were little concerned about Miles escaping. She had free access to the roof via our windows. One day a bird got trapped in the sun room. I put Miles in the room with the bird. Nature took over. I feel guilty to this day.

Miles once brought a bird in from the roof as a gift. I eschewed it.

One night I was sitting in my room and heard Scott shout and scream from his room. It seems that Miles had taken an interest in Scott's electrical outlet. Scott lost his computer work. He learned to Save.

One night I was laying in my bed and Miles took an interest in my feet. I found the sensation oddly erotic. I have since told Birgit about it, and she harasses me for being a cat fetishist. In reality I am a foot fetishist, if anything. More likely I just dug it.

One night Scott and Dawn were out of the house. It was just Miles and I. I was in my bed. I heard Miles yelp and run up the stairs. She ran into my room and sat next to my bed, panting. I went downstairs to check, but noticed nothing amiss. Our house was rumored to be haunted.

Dawn moved out of our first house and was replaced by Bob. Bob had a cat called Puddin'. Puddin' was the most loathsome cat you can imagine (big, mangy, stinky, greyish, mean, old, etc). Puddin' harassed Miles. I once put Puddin' out by kicking it out the door. I forgot that I was wearing steel-toed shoes. I shouldn't have kicked him anyway, but my actions were in defense of Miles.

In the spring of 1993 we had a snowstorm in the South. Matt Hull and I drove from Hattiesburg to Bessemer. At one point we were stuck in the snow on the Interstate. I mooted the possibility of killing and eating Miles (who was with me). This was struck down.

I left and came back. I moved back in with Scott and Dawn. Scott and I went away one time and left Dawn in charge. We returned to find that Miles had grown picky. We asked what she had been fed. Tuna was the answer.

I like to think that I taught Miles to fight. I used to harass her. It made her tough. It gave her the strength to face Shelley's bird.

In general, however, my approach to catting is summed up here:

Data: May I ask a personal favor?
Worf: Yes?
Data: Will you take care of Spot for me?
Worf: Your animal?
Data: I am concerned that if I have another waking dream, I may injure him.
Worf: Of course. Spot, come here.
Data: Unlike a canine, Spot will not respond to verbal commands.
[Data picks up Spot and hands him to Worf, who is not quite sure how to handle the cat.]
Data: Goodbye, Spot. He will need to be fed once a day. He prefers feline supplement one-twenty-five.
Worf: I understand.
Data: And he will require water. And you must also provide him with a sand box. And you must talk to him. Tell him he is a pretty cat, and a good cat, and—
Worf: I will FEED him.
Data: Perhaps that will be enough.

It was not enough. I left Miles. She was a pretty cat, and a good cat.