My small beast has turned into the Incredible Velcro Cat this week, ever since I got back from Costa Rica. (Oops, I guess I’m supposed to say “hook and loop” instead of the brand name, but I don’t care).
- He follows me everywhere, ignoring his usual activities of knocking things off my dresser to hear the satisfying crash and sleeping on my bath rug.
- I sit down to look something up on my phone. He tries to lie on my neck.
- I’m trying to drink my coffee in the morning. He tries to lie on my neck.
- I’m lying down, trying to sleep. He lies on my neck, so his long fur is tickling my nose.
- I push him down so he’s not suffocating me.
- He climbs back up and lies on my neck. He’s shedding, so more of his fur goes up my nose when I attempt to breathe.
- I push him off my neck again, so now we’re spooning.
- He gets up and lies back down on my neck.
I could keep on going, but you get the idea. My cat, Boris, is not a quitter. Nor is he going to follow my rules. Sort of like my children.
If Boris had been running things during the Third Reich, we’d all be speaking German right now and “Hogan’s Heroes” would never have been on TV.
Which would be a shame, because that’s where I learned my meager store of German words. I can say “dummkopf” and “jawohl, herr kommandant,” neither of which come in handy much these days, at least around my house. And, apropos of nothing, did you know that “Hogan’s Heroes” ran on German television for years? Isn’t that crazy? Never have I seen more insulting stereotyping of an entire nation. And it was a hit there? But, I digress.
Boris is a beautiful long-haired Russian Blue cat that I adopted after he’d been abandoned. Someone noticed him meowing piteously for days in his apartment complex’s outdoor laundry room,and finally took pity and brought him inside.
The kitty draped himself all over his rescuer’s neck like a living fox stole. The rescuer and his roommate both fell in love, but they weren’t allowed to have pets in their apartment. He reached out to a mutual friend who’s an absolute sucker for animals in trouble, and she reached out to me.
Now I’d previously adopted a Siamese cat that I named Cairo, but he’d disappeared a week before all this happened. I felt pretty sure he’d become some coyote’s lunch.
My 29-year-old son Cheetah Boy was distraught at Cairo’s disappearance and we tried to find him, but no dice. He was chipped, so if he’d been picked up and taken to the animal shelter, someone would have called us. No one did.
Perhaps you’ll think I’m heartless, but I never really bonded with Cairo. He was a gorgeous but misogynist feline who only liked men. He mostly ignored me, even though I was the one who fed him, brushed him and kept his water bowl full. Ungrateful little beast.
I felt bad that he was gone, but I wasn’t exactly going to grief support groups, if you know what I mean. So when my friend asked me if I’d consider taking this abandoned Russian Blue, I said … maybe. I always loved Russian Blue cats with their soft, striking silver-blue coats, but I’d never owned one.
I called the guy who’d taken him in, and in two shakes of a cat’s tail, he was in his car with the cat, driving to my house from Downey. I hadn’t even agreed to take the cat yet. But when I saw him, I fell in love and agreed to get another cat.
“But what if Cairo comes back?” my animal-loving friend inquired.
“Well, I guess then I’ll have two cats,” I replied.
Unfortunately, Cairo never did come back. I named the new feline “Boris” after Eastern Bloc Boris Badenov character on the “Rocky and Bullwinkle” TV show that was a hit during the Cold War. Remember the spies, Boris and Natasha? Sometimes I think this was a mistake, because he’s never once responded to his name, and Boris Badenov was an unrepentant villian, inappropriate for a cat who’s really more of a snuggle bunny. Maybe he hates his name and that’s why he never comes when he’s called.
But I wanted something reasonably short, yet Russian. No way I was picking “Vladimir.” Do you think it’s too late to change his name now?
When he arrived from Downey, Boris weighed 4.9 pounds and was the skinniest cat I’d ever seen, though his luxuriant fur covered up the ribs. He has no problem eating, though, and now I have to fight to keep him from getting chunky. I’m the only one who’s chunky in our house, and I want to keep it that way.
I felt horrible last week when I arrived home and realized that Boris was apparently afraid that he’d be abandoned again, even though Cheetah Boy was here to feed him. Poor guy. He didn’t even do that cat trick of sulking and ignoring you when you come home from a trip. He just stuck to me like he’d been superglued. Only now, a week later, does he occasionally leave me to check out his usual haunts.
Hopefully, he’ll feel more secure soon, or I’ll have to get a barbed wire necklace to wear to bed. I’m open to all suggestions, except putting him in the microwave. He keeps me warm.