New Cat
by Ryn Gargulinski

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We need a new cat.  This became strikingly apparent when, last night while
watching the banal made-for-TV movie of the week, my boyfriend started
rhythmically patting my head and making chirping noises.  I glanced in his
direction only to find that longing look -- no, not that "I want to have sex
this minute look" -- but more like that "I wish you would curl up in a furry
ball and purr" wistful eye.

The cat yearning doesn't help when there are about 3.6 million stray cats
outside our apartment at any given moment.  They are some of the cutest
things, adorable enough to once merit a donation of half a box of McDonald's
fries (my boyfriend's fries, I might add, and he didn't even complain when he saw me hurling them over the fence, one by one, in the cats' direction).  These strays -- which I am convinced make up at least two-thirds of the homeless animal population in Brooklyn -- are always hanging out on the welcome mat as I leave the house, beckoning me to take them in.  Our landlady particularly hates them and believes they are the reason the whole block reeks like cat piss when it rains.  But we want one anyway.   Not the skittery calico that runs at the first sign of human flesh.  Not the fat tabby whose body seems to consume the whole garbage pail lid as he lounges.  Not the limping brown one, either, the one with the pussy eye.  We want the one that reminds us of our old cat, Radar.  Radar (so named after the M*A*S*H character) was my boyfriend's cat long before I even met him so the cat had some pre-existing privileges.   He was allowed to bite (breaking the skin) if you stopped petting him and he was not ready to ignored; he was particularly apt in knowing that exact millisecond you were drifting off to sleep and would percolate a high-pitched "meow" (he was part Siamese); and he was allowed to hide under the bed and simply stare at you, menacingly, especially if you were naked.  I did, however, get to break him of the sleeping on the bed and trampling on the kitchen table habits.  But the cat also knew when you were feeling down-- like any good pet does -- and he would come over and offer his undying support (plus a wad of cat hair if you stroked him too vigorously).  Those were all the good things about owning a fine feline.

Before getting too nostalgic, however, it is important to remember the
negative factors of cat ownership.  Like changing the litterbox.  Or
sweeping up the piles of litter the cat kicks out of the box, only to get
tracked through the house, down the hall, out the door and to some remote
area of Sheepshead Bay.  The smell of Fancy Feast in the morning -- complete with pureed pate consistency which globs nicely to the side of the plastic bowl.  Or cat puke in the middle of the floor, seeping through your toes during a bathroom run at two a.m. Overall, I would say we miss the good over the bad when it comes to owning a cat.   Like anything, it's easier to remember the "good ole days" rather than reminisce about torn screens and shredded couch cushions.  After all, we have been without a pet for over two years now -- unless you want to count our Beta, non-Cleo, who resides in the bowl on the kitchen table and floats like he's dead every time it gets below 60 degrees.  As far as cat ownership is concerned, the time has come.   Unless, of course, I want to wait for my boyfriend to start throwing me a ball of yarn...

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