Man down: the cat version
Things are getting a little stroppy here in Catville.
When Ari, 23, returned home recently, he brought Frankie with him. Frankie is now about 10 months old, a delightful little marmalade beast I have renamed Frankie Potato. I have no idea why, but it suits him. Even Ari calls him that now. Frankie, who had no vote, seems unperturbed by the christening.
For the other resident felines, there has been an adjustment. Frankie Potato and Sweet Pea get along famously; she is a shyer personality than Mark and Cairo, who are basically as unpredictable as North Korean nuclear warheads. Those two get locked in the basement at night, a time Frankie and Pea refer to as “our time.” After 9 each evening, the two little ones tear around, unafraid.
Too unafraid, as it turns out. There is a cat scratching post that sits in the living room window, because you can have interior design or cats but not both. Frankie loves the top bunk, but as in any other hierarchy in the animal kingdom, the surliest male gets to choose. Mark usually sits up top, and the others arrange themselves on the perches below. Until now, when Frankie has assumed he is the top male. I expected warfare, but Mark has accepted the rascal upstart and usually shrugs and curls up on a lesser deck, no doubt feeding the ego of Frankie Potato.
It was this kind gesture that backfired recently. Not content to let sleeping cats lie, Frankie began reaching down with one arm and smacking a sleeping Mark. Mark is huge; Frankie is not. Nonetheless, there was the little brat, reaching, reaching, reaching with an extended paw,
doing a little general ear batting on a cat who could slap him across the room with one swipe.
Cairo is the most aggressive with Frankie, but he can escape her by bolting under a big cabinet. She can’t get her fat butt under there to get at him, but she tries. For the most part, they sleep around the house in their various favourite spots (which usually involves beds and sunbeams), with a few random scrambles when someone decides
to mix things up.
A few days ago Ari brought Frankie to me, scowling.
“He has a nasty cut on his ear. I think Cairo got him,” he said. Ari is not a Cairo fan.
“You know he gives as good as he gets, right?” I asked.
My son has fallen prey to Not My Little Angel Syndrome, usually reserved for parents of the most annoying children you know. Ari decided a trip to the vet would be prudent, and I agreed. It’s easy to agree when I don’t have to pay for it.
“Put some peroxide on it, and some oinkment,” I told him. Yes, we call it oinkment. “No! That’ll sting!”
“It does not sting. It’ll help keep it clean until you get to the vet.”
It was a little while later when Ari realized that Frankie Potato had likely reached down to taunt Mark once too often, and received the cut behind his ear for his trouble. Later that night, I heard cat thunder and glanced at Ari.
“The terrorists are in the basement. That must be Frankie and Pea,” I said.
A flash of fur went past, Frankie bearing down on Sweet Pea. Ari went after them.
“I put Frank on timeout,” he said when he returned. “He was beating up on Pea, so I locked him in my room. I want him to reflect on his bad behaviour.”
Well, that never worked for the boys, but maybe it will work for Frankie Potato.