ROGUE WANDERER: Hello from Cricket and Eddie, the tabby boys
Published 6:00 am Thursday, October 5, 2023
- Peggy Dover
King Edward the First, a tabby of some renown in our household, insinuated the other day that I’m running around too much. He didn’t come right out and say it, but I could tell by the stink-eye he hurled my way on a few occasions that he thought I should stay home and fawn over him and not the other one (Cricket).
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I don’t run around that much. It seems like I do because I write about my adventures, but I enjoy being home. You wouldn’t want me writing about paying my bills or descaling the coffeemaker, would you? Anyway, Eddie, as I call him when he’s not looking, got me pondering how much I appreciate the fur buddies and wondering how I could show my appreciation beyond slavery.
You know how each year I say I’m going to start my Christmas shopping early? Well, I do say that. Then the big-box stores climb on board as if they’ve been eavesdropping, and lend hardy approval to a fine goal. They fire holidays at us so rapidly, I expect to see Santa riding a broomstick or his reindeer pulling a sleigh full of candy corn.
Yes, it’s too soon for me to be talking about Christmas. However, I’m somewhat excited because I know what I’m going to get my two fuzzy children this year. I’m ahead of the game for once.
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I’m going to buy them gifts that do service for me, as well. You know how you buy a gift certificate to a nice restaurant for a friend, then count on being asked to join them when they spend it or you’ll hold it over them? Well, this year I’m giving each of the boys a wristwatch. I know it may be difficult finding watches small enough to stay on their little wrists, but if I start searching now … I mean Amazon surely has something — maybe with mice for hands.
I realize this sounds nutsy, but my reasoning is that maybe with a nice-looking timepiece, they’ll begin to give two rips about the concept of time and how it’s supposed to work, rather than breezing through life like clueless animals and waking me all hours of the night in hope of nibbles.
Some people have roosters. I have tabbies. To Cricket, the wild and mighty cicada hunter, who now sometimes joins King Edward and me in the royal bedchamber, 1:30 and 6:30 are no different. If he’s awake, it’s feeding time somewhere. He’s learning that a 1:30 wake-up garners him a swift escort out the back door, whereas 6:30 will earn him a good breakfast and pets, though sleeping later wouldn’t hurt my feelings.
Meanwhile, Edward has taken up chirping as his default method of showing disapproval. I’m not sure if it stems from watching the birds in the birdbath, but he chirps repetitively and annoyingly, and mostly at Cricket when he’s encroaching on imperial territory. I have yet to figure out whether they feign tolerance for one another but really have a subtle love brewing — or they hate one another’s cat guts and make rude gestures behind my back.
Sometimes they chase each other around the house with Eddie squealing like a greased pig when Cricket so much as swipes the air around him. Not all monarchs are as brave as they let on.
Despite my efforts at regulated feeding, they have put on weight. The other day, Cricket asked me if a particular stalking posture made him look fat. What could I say? I said it made him look amply capable of taking down the lizard or cicada upon which he was drawing a bead.
I adore large cats. I like to pat their rotund bellies and haunches, and rub their big heads while watching their eyes wink in contentment. I love looking at their little toe beans and watching them twitch in their sleep, perchance to dream. Giving them a repertoire of nicknames happens involuntarily. Edward, Eddie Haskell, Butters. Cricket, Mr. Big, Kicky. These dudes chose me, remember.
Am I strange? Cat lovers get it.