Tales of Pyrmont Road & Other Stories

Diary of a Siamese House Cat
by MaryAnn Brook

I used it recently when a certain offspring, not mine, I’m happy to say, grabbed my tail in his mouth. That wouldn’t have been too bad if said tail had just done what tails usually do, slide through his teeth. But I happen to have a hook on the end of mine and it stopped him dead; for about ten seconds. This, he decided as he took a firmer grip, was a totally different ball game with me as the anchor and him as the guy on the end of a wildly swishing kind of rope.

About the third time round, I managed to nab him and with both paws holding him down I put my nose right up against his and hissed the dreaded words.

“Do that again and you’ll end up in THE POUND.”

Probably stunted his growth by several weeks but hey! kids gotta learn.

So! Come the time for me to be considered to head up the next production line – Pedigree Guaranteed Purebreds is the name of this company – I was taken for the usual medical. Everything checked out fine until someone found the hook. And, horror of horrors, the leaf.

By now my hook wasn’t exactly a secret but my leaf? That was another matter. It was tucked down in a rather private place and the pattern changed as I washed. Fascinating.

They declared it a throwback from something with stripes, struck my name from the records and declared me personna non grata, or something like that.

Personally I liked my leaf, though I preferred to think of it as my secret weapon. After all, what female of choice, or choice female, whichever, would refuse an invitation to see my leaf?

But back to my pink slip; any which way you looked at it, my future was shattered. No production line for me. No female of choice, or choice female, whatever. No nothing.

What followed shouldn’t have happened to a dog. But then it didn’t, it happened to me. A cat. I was dumped off in THAT PLACE like a piece of unwanted garbage, put in a cage and given a cut off date sharper than a guillotine.

That was about a week ago and I’m more or less getting used to the situation. The company is congenial, even if it does change on a semi regular basis. The food is barely edible but I’m not about to send it back as what you get is what you get and if you don’t like it, you’ve got a long wait on an empty stomach until next time.

As a matter of record, the menu doesn’t change.

This room, or whatever it is I’m in, is quite large and though I can only see the cages across the aisle and one on each side of me, the noise level indicates there must be a lot more.

Space limits physical activity and one can only sit and scratch for so long, so we converse. Sometimes intelligently. Sometimes not. But it passes the time. I talk a lot with Blackie across the aisle.

He’s a black cat, with that name what else would he be, except for one white paw on which he spends a lot of time, and, according to him, with good reason. When it’s visiting time and prospective new owners come to check us out, he’ll wait until a likely one comes by then hold his paw up and give out with a rather cute mreeoow.

I’ve told him not to waste his time but he says just you wait and see. One of these days he, or she, he’s not particular, will come along, see him do his thing and that will be it; he’ll be out of here.”

At least he’s had some attention. Me? Humans either want a Siamese, or they don’t. Right now they don’t.

Oh didn’t I tell you? That’s what I am. Pure, well almost pure, Siamese of the chocolate brown nose and ears variety with suitable markings to match. All of which did me no good whatever at the most crucial time in my life.

The Calico next to me takes a bit of understanding but I’m getting there. She’s all colors of the rainbow but on her the colors are well separated and there’s a lot of sparkling white in between, a desirable feature so I’m told. She also has a great body. But everything must have gone into producing that great body because they forgot to add the brain. We call her Fancy. Like in fancy anyone wanting a dumb cat like that?

I’m not really sure what’s on my other side. I’m not even sure it’s a cat. Looks more like a gorilla with a bad hair day. But he keeps to himself, turning just once in a while to give me the evil eye. I get the distinct impression he wouldn’t mind me for dinner. With or without a plate.

There are six cages on the other side of the aisle. Five occupied; one vacated the day after I arrived when Ginger number two went through that OTHER DOOR.

For some reason ginger cats don’t do too well. Word has it they develop an exagerated temperament, among other things, as they mature. We are a fairly noisy group but on that occasion we gave old Ginger the Second a full two minute silence after that OTHER DOOR clanged shut. It was the least we could do.

So! From left to right on the other side, we have Al, black with a fine white shirtfront, then Snowy, a white female; not a speck of anything else from tip to tail. Then Ms Katie, a rather pretty gray tabby except she’s definitely past the first flush of youth. To be honest she looks positively matronly but someone, we hope, is going to come in looking for a nice comfortable looking cat. Blackie is next to Ms Katie and next to him is a good looking yellow cat with a kind of mushy pattern mixed in with the yellow; we call him Henry. I recently found out from a conversation I accidentally on purpose overheard, that the correct term for one like him is marmalade.

Blackie across the way says people spread marmalade on toast. Then they eat it. Now who’d want to squash a cat just to spread it on toast? Humans are weird. But they aren’t that weird. Or are they?

Yesterday was Sunday and the busiest day of the week. Everyone who wanted a cat, or thought they wanted a cat, came here and about half went out with something even if it wasn’t what they were looking for when they came in. Take the old lady who had just lost her Fluffy.

She wanted another pussy cat just like dear Fluffy and declared she’d take nothing, and I say nothing, else. And of course a duplicate of dear Fluffy could not be found. Back and forth she went, she really was trying but she finished up in tears because she couldn’t find another Fluffy.

Wouldn’t mind having her, Blackie said after she’d gone by the third time. I said was he out of his mind? An old lady? What if she insisted on calling him Fluffy?

He reckoned he could live with that. He also reckoned that with the right training, she’d soon be buying the fish of his choice and keeping his milk fresh. Yep, she’d be alright. With a bit of training.

Bet you can’t do it, I said and he said done. We would have sealed the bet with a traditional paw shake but that was impossible so we just waved at each other. Now we had to wait until she came by, which she’d have to do to get to the exit.

She was almost to his cage when he lifted a paw, the white one, and kind of waved it at her. His mreeoow really plucked at the heart strings, it was that beautiful; couldn’t have done better if I tried.

She paused, wet hankie in hand and looked at him. Nice cat the attendant said and she said maybe but he wasn’t at all like her dear Fluffy. But she did move closer which was when he knew she was interested. He reached out a bit further, did a kind of royal wave then produced a mreeoow with a catch at the end that sounded almost but not quite a sob. Blackie boy, I said to myself, you’re a genius.

The last I saw of him he was on his way out, hanging over the shoulder of the attendant while she walked along behind talking to him. Just as they turned the corner he caught my eye. And winked. Hmm, I thought, there’s a lesson there somewhere.

People with kids get kittens, sometimes two or three to spread out among the kids. Couples and folks who come in alone, usually look for an adult cat.

Fancy went to a glamorous young thing who wanted something to go with her decor. Wow, I thought, if the decor matched Fancy, that must be some kind of house. Or condo. Whichever.

I found out something else of interest; men like dogs around but not while they are, to put it politely, playing the field. Dogs have to be walked and a man is not about to have his tete a tete interrupted because the dog’s got to be walked. Dogs also have a tendency to slobber and slobber on a girl’s dress is death to a date.

A cat is different. It will take itself off and do whatever it does in private. It doesn’t hang around whenever and even if it does it just sits there looking interested. Girl friends empathize with cats and even if they don’t it’s easy enough to toss a cat into the closet for the evening. Try doing that with a dog.

Al went out with a man who thought a cat in a dinner suit would be a great gimmick. Hope he didn’t have any other ideas, like turning him into a four legged waiter. Good luck Al.

Ms Katie also went out, and with a man. Seems he’d bought a house and a house had to have a cat, so mother said. Ms Katie, as far as he was concerned, was perfect; mother would definitely approve. One wonders what kind of wife he’ll finish up with. One past the first flush of youth, with a matronly figure? Mother approved?

Now there’s always an exception to the rules about who chooses what and it came in a wheelchair. A young woman, a long time expert with the thing from the way she handled it, came whizzing by and slammed on the brakes when she saw Snowy. Snowy behaved like the pretty, petite little thing she was and before you could say the cat equivalent of Jack Robinson, she was off and away at a fast rate of speed, snuggled down for the duration.

The only family man who came in alone was in a hurry. They’d just moved into their new home and so had all the neighborhood mice, it seemed. He wanted a cat. He didn’t care what it looked like as long as it could catch mice. Guess who got lucky? Old gray beard the gorilla and was he lucky. He only had a couple of days left. Hope there’re no small dogs in his new neighborhood.

So, it’s now Friday and we are all looking forward to the weekend. For several it’s now or never. Me? I got a new card with a new cut off date. Appears us purebreds, or nearly purebreds, are given longer than the norm as sooner or later, they’ll go. So there’s hope for me yet. But I miss the old crowd. And I’d as soon not have to go to the bother of introducing myself around all over again.

Sunday came and went and so did all my neighbors. Even Henry. The couple he went with looked alright but I couldn’t help but worry. I’ll keep my paws crossed he doesn’t end up on toast.

Monday morning bright and early, they loaded a new batch into the cages but it wasn’t the same. I did unbend enough to say hello to the tabby next door who said hello back. In the conversation that followed, he said he was Welsh and that was easy to believe, he had an incredible voice; a near perfect tenor.

I’m a baritone myself, and until now haven’t had any particular reason to try out the acoustics in this place. But with two of us? We tuned up, he began, then I joined in; we’d planned a rendering of a mutually beloved duet.

I didn’t hear him stop singing but I was well into my aria and with eyes closed and mouth wide open, one tends to miss things like that. There was a significant rattle on the front of the cage and I opened my eyes to see the attendant glaring at me with that “we are not amused” expression on his face.

“Nice voice,” said someone and I looked and there beside him was the kind of owner anyone would be proud to have. Not too young; young adults have young kids. Not too old; old adults have young grandkids. This one looked like the in between kind. Kids old enough to leave you alone and young enough to be interesting.

No way could I let her go so I did the Blackie bit and waved a paw at her. I even added an extra mreeoow. When she laughed, I repeated the process. It wasn’t often I got the opportunity to converse with a human.

She thought a bit. And thought a bit.

Get on with it, I urged silently, I can’t stand the suspense. Either I’m yours or I’m not. Finally she said the magic words. “I’ll take him.”

I didn’t object when the attendant grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and my rear quarters. I didn’t object when he carried me past all the other gawkers with bits of me showing that I’d rather keep private. And I certainly didn’t object when he deposited me in a huge shiny black car. Without a cage.

I sat on the front seat all the way.

Without a seat belt.

Now that’s traveling in style.