ROGUE WANDERER: The literate cat and one doomed tomato plant

Published 6:00 am Thursday, May 25, 2023

Edward the tabby has become increasingly entitled. He told me to let my readers know about it in writing. In all fairness, cats are the only living creatures who can assert that they’re born with the e-gene. It’s a dominant trait handed down from their Egyptian ancestors.

Eddie has been honing his Godzilla shriek (which he heard on TCM recently while watching crowds fleeing in fear) when he wants something: an outside romp, a resupplied food bowl, scratching his face so he can give love nibbles (that’s what he calls them), to inform me that time for sleep has passed, etc. Actually, he does this with a soft paw to my face first, resorting to Godzilla volume only when I remain swaddled.

The blame for this ramped-up behavior can’t be laid at his door entirely. First, I’m a willing serf — a patsy, if you will. But a couple of weeks ago, I carelessly left the laptop open to Robert Galvin’s “Thinking Out Loud” column about his entitled feline, his Head of Household. Though Eddie pretends he can’t read, he studied the words, his head moving left to right. He can’t fool me all the time. He was taking in every word and getting an eyeful. Now he’s demanding things like memory foam cat beds in every room; a catio; living mice instead of the insulting fake things that require self-motivation; and salmon — no more small, brown, hard balls, even if they do cost as much.

Edward shows good taste in music. He seems to approve of my bass playing. Either that or he’s trying to distract me from playing at all. The other day, as I practiced arpeggios, he hopped on the sofa and began pawing at the tuning keys, inferring something was off. Then he walked over and pointed to the power button on the amp. OK, that was going too far.

Seriously, Eddie is a cozy and affectionate companion when it suits him. Twenty-four-hour servitude is a small price to pay for his agreeing to live with me.

Cricket the under-deck kitty has become a feline Huck Finn now that temperatures have warmed. He smokes a corncob pipe and thumbs his nose at Eddie through the screen door (when he’s not climbing it), because he has the advantage of real mice and rats to chase, though I am trying to encourage more civilized behavior. Cricket’s waistline grows daily. I suspect he’s made a buffet round of neighbor feeding bowls. He is large and intimidating. But when he opens his mouth to talk, he has a deceptively cute mew — like a sweet little girl kitten. I do not mention this, but Godzilla Eddie has a field day with it.

Cricket is an actor. He even puts a lilt at the end when he really wants something — usually food. I don’t tell him I let him meow so I can enjoy his escalating range of dramatics. At night we watch “Murder She Wrote.” He recalls who done it, so he sleeps on my stomach like a sack of Quikcrete.

In other news, it’s gardening season. Some longtime readers, if they’re still awake, will recall that I am a quack gardener. My farming ancestors used up all the genetic Miracle-Gro. However, at this auspicious time of year, I can’t seem to resist a tomato plant — dooming it to an untimely demise. I don’t even look at nursery stock for this reason, but one inevitably finds me.

Last Sunday I helped the Eagle Point History Museum with their booth at the historical Wood House Farm Festival. A grand time was had by all, except when Shari Lawson offered me a small, helpless tomato plant. I took one look at the poor thing shaking in her hands — my reputation is renowned — and couldn’t help myself. I pictured the fat, juicy orbs it could produce in more capable hands. It’s now sitting on my kitchen counter awaiting interment.

I’m going to have a go at fostering a crop. I’ll let you know, or not.