The Getting of Biff
I never liked cats. They’re standoff-ish; independent; cold. They move fast in a preemptive strike and the next thing you know you’ve got a scratch across your cheek. So when my wife said she needed to go back to the pet shop because she forgot to get dog-food, the last thing I was anticipating was a plot by my wife and daughter and an ambush by a half-pound kitten. (Warning number one: she only went to the pet shop in the first place to get dog food; how come she forgot? I ignored that point, rather than question my wife’s mind. It may not have been a good call — I paid for it later.) Into the pet-shop we walked; surrounded by the smells of fish food and happy puppies, I was an innocent being brought to the slaughter. We picked up the dog food.
My daughter said, “Oh, just look at the kittens!”
I said, “They’re Tribbles, and they’re Trouble. Come on, we’ve got the dog food … Chloë’s hungry; let’s go.”
My wife said, “We have time to look at them. We’d like to see that orange one there, please.” (This last to the clerk.) Warning number two: she was too specific, but the bell going off in the back of my mind still wasn’t loud enough. Out came the kitten.
She said, “Just hold it. No, really, it’s purring. Feel how soft it is on your cheek.” She touched the loudly-rumbling kitten to my face — it didn’t lash out and scratch me. (I realize now that the cat was in on the plot as well.) She put the kitten in my hand. The whole of that tiny body lay there, purring enormously, exuding contentment as the tail hung gracefully down. I lifted it back to my face — he reached out and touched me on the nose, paw velveted. It was an amiable gesture; there was an enormous contentment in holding him so. My daughter put up her hand and gently stroked it. (Warning number three: my daughter should have wanted her own kitten to hold at the same time. Went right over my head.)
“How much is he?” my wife asked the clerk.
“Thirty five dollars.” came the reply.
“Honey?”
“No!”
“But Dad, he’s so cute, and small, and all alone!”
“Which part of ‘No’ didn’t you understand?” (But already I was weakening under the onslaught of this insidious purring.)
“Chloë will love him.”
“They’ll fight.”
“He’s a lover, not a fighter!”
“Don’t quote McCartney to me.”
“It was Michael Jackson, and it’s true.”
“Absolutely not. Your mother and I will talk about this, but the answer’s still going to be ‘No’.”
And we left. Yes, it’s true; we walked out of that pet store and drove home. And when my wife was talking, all I could hear was that purring reverberating in my ear. Promises were made about who would look after the cat, change the litter, get the food ready. But when we got to discussing who would name it, and how we’d each get a vote, I realized I had lost. A lifetime of cat-less-ness surrendered to a tiny marmalade Tribble.
We got back into the car and went back to the pet shop. As we walked through the door, somebody else was holding my cat! Thank heavens, she put him back in the cage, and walked out of the store. I went to the counter and put down my thirty-five dollars. As we walked out, the woman was coming in with her husband, saying,
“I forgot to get the dog-food; it won’t take a minute.”
Biff is not a particularly large cat, but he has a rather large presence. When he walks into the kitchen you can hear a ‘thud’ as each paw goes down on the tiles. Whenever I settle down to watch a DVD he will leave whatever corner of the house he’s sleeping in and climb onto my chest, head-butt me in the nose and then walk back and forth and generally get between my eyes and the television. When I settle down on the couch to read a book he’ll do the same – he’s an expert at getting between me and what I’m trying to look at. The only exception is when I’m eating – he never gets between me and my food – and not because he’s ever tried it and I’ve gotten annoyed, either. He’s just a sensitive fella.
Mike Killiany (Mike Roots)
fred
Frank Ramsey
