Laughing Matters

The “Meowing at the Moon” Edition
by Ryan G. Van Cleave |  Illustrations by Darcy Kelly-Laviolette

Let me preface this month’s column by sharing a few things. I secretly growl at squirrels. I bark at bad TV. I often sleep with my paws in the air.

Why? Because I’m a dog person. In a totally woof-tastic way.

Now that we’re clear about that, you’ll understand the significance of the following story. I’ve been talked into agreeing to cat sit for a week. We’re on day three as of today. And after watching this little furball of feline wonder in action for some 72 hours, I confess that I have questions. Perhaps cat people out there might be willing to explain these feline conundrums?

Here are just a few:

• Do cats really think that everything on the ground is a cat toy?
• Is there some biological imperative for cats to run full-tilt from one side of the house to the other every single night at 4:30 a.m.?
• What is the lure of a potted plant to a cat? (Oh, my poor ficus. . .)
• Do all cats feel compelled to . . . you know . . . WATCH  when it’s human potty time?

I suppose I should thank my friend for inflicting this cat upon me since it came with some unique experiences. I now fully understand what true rejection feels like. Plus, even though this cat will be gone from my house long before this column runs, the memory will last and last, thanks to the “final touch” my cat guest left upon my new pair of Doc Martens.

Perhaps most important—I now appreciate why my friend strongly urged me to only feed Mittens [name changed to protect the guilty!] things that matched my carpet.

Now I’m not the type of person to sit here in my cat-hair-infested office, taking pot shots at all felines left and right via this column. While that would be endlessly entertaining to dog fans everywhere (and equally infuriating to cat lovers, I suspect), that’s not at all what the plan is this month.

Instead, I want to share the terrifying near-death experience I had two days ago. So there I was, living large on a Thursday night. Feet up on a metal folding chair. A Tervis tumbler full of strawberry milk on a little tray beside me. Three pepperoni Hot Pockets waiting to be gobbled. Me binge-watching Game of Thrones so I’m fully prepared for season 8 whenever it finally comes out. Let’s call it what it was: a perfect evening at home alone. The kids and wife were “out on the town” (a.k.a. shopping for school supplies).

Then CRASH! BOOM! SMASH! came from the garage.

I hit pause on Netflix, certain that one of three things had happened.

1) One or more of Daenerys Targaryen’s monstrous dragons had torn the roof of my garage clean off and was preparing to roast my homestead for dragon grins and pure saurian malice.

2) My house was ground zero for an alien invasion—probably those nasty ones from Independence Day. Or maybe one from those truly awesome early season episodes of The X-Files.

3) Burglar ninjas.

I grabbed the Deion Sanders game-used, signed Louisville Slugger off its revered place on the mantel and I crept through the kitchen. I’m mentally working the math—is it worth damaging the pricey collectible just to fend off a few intruders? I mean, c’mon. There’s almost nothing worth taking from the garage. But the idea of being crispified by dragons, kidnapped by aliens, or burglarized by katana-wielding thieves didn’t hold any appeal. So my collectible bat held before me like King Arthur surely wielded Excalibur, I entered the garage, ready to bring some home-run-swinging vengeance to the situation, if needed. cat-sitting

The door creeeeeeeeeaked open . . .

I flipped on the light . . .

And then Mittens sprang claws-first onto my face, hissing and spitting and stinking of garbage and motor oil and whatever that stuff is that my wife sprays on the windows in December so we can pretend that it’s snowing in Florida and the windows are covered with frost. cat-sitting

I howled. Mittens howled. I spun and swung the bat. Mittens dug in and choked me with his surprisingly furry tail. cat-sitting

Somehow—and let’s be clear, I blame Mittens 100% for this (how did he get in the garage, for one thing?)—the bat went winging off and took out the garage door motor with a KABOOM! that also included the exploding of two overhead light banks. Plastic and light bulb glass rained down. Thankfully, I was now on the ground in the fetal position, effectively protecting my cat-guest from any harm. cat-sitting

That was day one of the weeklong cat-visiting experience. cat-sitting

Look, the idea of a cat being domestic? That’s a total oxymoron. Mittens’ favorite pastime is testing to see if toilet paper rolls are as endless as the universe. Paper towel rolls too! Wheee! And Mittens’ favorite spot to cat-sprawl? The most inconvenient place possible—often 1.5 seconds before someone is about to sit there. cat-sitting

He’s a tiny terror, plain and simple. cat-sitting

Before long, my friend will be picking up Mittens after she returns from vacation (from Mittens, I suspect!). Everyone said that after spending some quality time with a cat, I’d be a cat fan convert. Hasn’t happened. cat-sitting

Dog people do NOT become cat people. Especially not after being nearly murdered in the dark of one’s garage during a Game of Thrones marathon. cat-sitting

But they do purr better than dogs. And nothing quite says “I love you!” like a cat bopping your nose with a paw. And maybe . . .

Hey, Mittens! Get down! Get off the keyboa . . .

#PAjfapofda%

Well said, Mittens. Well said, indeed.

Want to write to Ryan to say how this ridiculous story left a tiny little motor-oil-smudged paw print on your heart? Got a hankering to share your own pawtastic cat story? Want to share the lead-up to the punchline “Because he’s in a bad mewd”? Zip those goodies to ryan@scenesarasota.com today!

Ryan G. Van Cleave is the author of 20 books, and he runs the creative writing program at the Ringling College of Art and Design in Sarasota, Florida. Web: ryangvancleave.com