mtpolitics.net

Pussy Magnet

August 10th, 2005 | by Craig |

It’s been a while since I’ve regaled you with stories about neighbors or pets, and I know from all zero emails that you’ve sent me that you are just itching for more.

Long-time readers will know that our neighbors across the street have vexed me for some time. For some reason, kids will never learn their friends’ good habits; only the bad, and our daughter was picking up some doozies.

I could scarcely contain my glee when, one beautiful July afternoon, I came home to find a Century 21 sign in front of their home. Their youngest had told us they were “moving to Disneyland” some time before, which we promptly dismissed as a fabrication.

We more or less decided that they had outgrown the home and were upgrading, but I managed to catch the father one day and asked him if they were upgrading and where they were going.

“Florida,” he replied.

How I managed to not pump my fist in the air and scream, “Yes!” I’ll never know.

In my best-case scenario, I had them moving out of town, where we might see them from time to time for birthday parties for a while, then we would slowly fall out of contact. Our eldest child would be sad, but we would console her and let her learn a life lesson.

Florida, though? I offered to help them pack, which they declined.

While the house was still for sale, they were making arrangements for their pets. They asked us if we would like to take their cat, an un-neutered tom.

Our answer was, of course, “Not only ‘No,’ but ‘Hell no!’”

(You see where this is heading already, don’t you?)

So, moving day came and went, (they didn’t even stop over to say “goodbye”) and we got new (and vastly improved) neighbors. They’re a young family with a two-year old and one on the way. I’m especially fond of the bride’s parents, and can rarely pass up the chance to visit with them.

One day, I notice that my daughter is playing with a little siamese cat that looks awfully familiar. The cat is following her around, almost like a little puppy.

“Whose cat is that?” I ask, knowing the answer.

“It’s Solay (pronounced SO-lay), Karen’s (fake name for ex-neighbors’ daughter) kitten.”

Great.

I already know what the next question is.

And the answer was: No.

Was.

The next question was, “Can we let him in the house so he can sleep with me?”

At this point, the cat liked everyone but me, so I said, “No. He can be in the house during the day, but he has to stay out.”

If you haven’t figured out how this turned out, I must be pretty bad at foreshadowing.

The cat now has the run of the house, and sleeps with the kids at night.

He still needs to get his nuts cut off, which I’ve offered to do with a rubber band, like sheep, but I’ve been overruled.

Part of me wants to send the ex-neighbors the bill, but another part of me figures that it’s a pretty small price to pay to be shut of them.

So now we have 2 crabby old dogs, 3 cats, all of whom hate each other at random intervals, 1 guinea pig who couldn’t care less, and 3 children who manage to annoy, frustrate and drive all the animals to distraction.

I’m pretty sure this is why God invented beer.

When the next stray animal comes along, though, I’m putting my foot down.

Seriously.

Don’t look at me like that.

I mean it this time.

Really, I do.

At least I think so.