Now Playing: Dancing Days, by Led Zeppelin. “I told your mamma I’d get you home but I didn’t tell her I had no car. I saw a lion he was standing alone with a tadpole in a jar.” (And someday I’ll tell the story of that first line.)
No, I’m not talking about the gifts I got, which were much appreciated – and what I asked for (OK, I didn’t ask for the shirt, but I loved it). And no, I’m not talking about the Father’s Day Feast – the ribs, corn, baked beans, slaw and raspberry-blueberry cobbler, all of which were fantastic.
I’m talking about my favorite of our three cats, Squeaker, and what he did to amuse and amaze me last night at the table.
I’ve written about Squeaker before, particularly about his attempt to establish Take a Cat to Work Day at the magazine. He’s a very needy orange tabby, friendly but sometimes annoying – so we share those qualities. Anyway he’s my buddy, by far my favorite of our three cats.
It happened while Karen, the boys and I were eating supper. Let me say here that I don’t endorse allowing the animals to eat people food. I don’t think it’s good for them, and I know. I’m the one who scoops the poops at this house. And cleans the hairballs. And the … well, you get the point. I pay the consequences for upset cat stomachs in this casa. So I try to talk the other folks who inhabit this house to follow this policy. (And here I must also add that the cats, Squeaker in particular, can be aggressive about trying stuff. Squeaker has had bites of doughnut (he prefers Krispy Kreme, as do I) and likes to share fruit popsicles with me. (It freaks the kids out that I’ll lick after him.) Socks likes eggs. They will all eat chicken if they can get it.
But for the most part, they only eat cat food. Anyway, last night, as we were nearing the end of the FDF, Karen dropped a kernel of corn on the floor by accident. We didn’t think much of it. Surely the cats wouldn’t touch it. (We’ve often wished that, for meal times only, they were dogs and would eat anything dropped on the floor.)
We were wrong. Squeaker gobbled it like it was coated in catnip.
Which gave Karen an idea. She held her cob down to the floor. And I swear I’m not making this up. Squeaker started eating corn on the cob. Smokey came over and checked it out, but I’m not sure he ever took a bite.
Full as I was of ribs, corn, beans and slaw, I couldn’t help but laugh at my cat children.
Which was pretty much the cherry of a great Father’s Day.
“Fathers are biological necessities but social accidents.” _ Margaret Mead