My brother’s family has a Bengal cat, just a few months old. Her name is Kitty because they can’t agree on a name. My sister-in-law researched the breed and drove hours to pick her up in another town when she was ready to be weaned. They brought this cat with them to Idaho for Christmas, wrapped in a pink silk blanket inside a carrier that they stowed under their seat on the flight. Kitty yowled once, loudly, and my nephew said to his mother, “Quick Mom, give her the drops!” They had some kind of natural kitty downers in case she became agitated. My other sister-in-law, who conveniently happens to be a vet, recommended these drops because apparently Kitty was too young for the generic cat Prozac and there was something about altitude having a dangerous effect. I believe several lengthy conversations occurred between my sisters-in-law in which they discussed how to get Kitty safely from one state to another. My brother was driving over with their two dogs and all the Christmas presents, luggage, and ski gear, but he refused to take the cat. I doubt he would have managed an Exotic Cat’s necessities very well at Rest Areas throughout Washington, Oregon and Idaho. First of all she would stick out like a sore thumb. I’ve been to most of those stops along the way, and my purebred dogs get funny looks. Kitty would be completely out of her element. My brother is six foot three, and the image of him walking a dainty exotic cat on a rhinestone leash at a gas station in the middle of nowhere is difficult to imagine. But it was probably more the hassle factor that prevented her from going in the car. I would guess my brother didn’t want to have to listen to her yowl, or let her loose in the car where she would probably get under the gas or brake pedals, or deal with drugging her for the ten hour drive. Kitty did arrive safely (although drowsy) by plane, and I finally got to meet her on Christmas Eve.
My kids went straight to Kitty when we arrived at my brother and sister-in-law’s house. They had begged and begged me the last few years to bring our cat Sugar with us over Christmas break, but Shug is an outside cat and she wouldn’t be safe from wild animals in Idaho, even just outside our house. There are foxes, coyotes, wolves, and even big cats occasionally prowling around. So the kids were jealous of their cousins and desperate to hold Kitty, arguing over whose turn it was and trying to pry her out of my neice’s arms all at once. Kitty did not mind the attention, gazing down at all of them with a queenly expression, her slanted eyes and exotic air matching her elegant appearance. She looks like a miniature Cheetah, butterscotch colored with tigerish stripes, and she lets you hold her like a baby, content to curl up in your arms and sleep. My youngest sat on a hardback chair for over and hour with Kitty in her lap. When I asked why she hadn’t moved to a more comfortable chair she said, “I don’t want to wake up Kitty.” That seems to be the theme in the house. Whoever is holding Kitty can demand favors otherwise not granted. “Can you hand me the wine bottle?” my brother asked of my sister-in-law, “I can’t disturb Kitty.” The kids pull the cat back and forth in tugs-of-war, fighting over who gets to hold her. She tolerates the phsyical attention like a dog (one of the perks of the breed), but when she’s finally had enough she leaps away to pursue cat-like activities such as climbing curtains and batting at water trickling from the faucet.
My neice is nine, the youngest of my brother’s three children. On Christmas Eve she asked me how to spell “ticket” and “lion” as she scribbled on pieces of paper. After dinner she handed these slips of paper out to everybody. Mine read: One Tikect to the Loin Cat Show! Clearly my spelling help was superfluous. My neice had lined up all the dining room chairs in two rows and corraled all ten of us into them. She had moved an ottoman from the living room to use as a prop. When we were all seated she brought Kitty down the stairs for a grand entrance on her leash. “Welcome to the Lion Cat Show,” she said shyly. She held a toy on a string in one hand, and the leash in her other. She jiggled the toy, teasing Kitty into jumping on the ottoman, at which point we all oohed and aaahed and clapped. Then she shook the toy on the ground and Kitty pounced down on it. From there my neice tried to get her to jump up on the hall table, but she was moving the string too fast and Kitty wouldn’t commit. My middle daughter, having lots of experience playing cat and mouse with Sugar, called to her cousin, “Hold it still for a sec!” She stopped moving the string and Kitty leapt up to the table for the grand finale. My neice picked up Kitty in one arm and took a bow. The cat was folded in half over her elbow, all four limbs dangling but her expression unperturbed, as we all burst into applause.
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