Servant pays for fishing fever

Cats bustin’ outta here

When the grass starts greening and the daffodils popping, it’s fishing time across the land.

That is, unless your house is falling down. Then it’s home improvement time, as it has been lately around the shack-ri-la.

Every project needs a supervisor, someone to crack the whip. That’s when I, Boat Dock, step in to be sure my cat butler doesn’t cut any corners. He’s in frantic fix-up mode so he can get out after those crappie.

You’ve sang the tune, “Fixing a hole where the rain gets in.” My manservant is fixing a hole where the cats get out. It’s his own fault, and here’s why.

The furless one takes off on one of his little junkets and leaves my sister and me overnight without a fillin butler. He figures we’ll be OK with the food dish overflowing and a full water bowl. There’s a problem. Who’s going to let us in and out 50 times a day?

Two days of maximum security, cooped up indoors, is not acceptable. My sister, T.C., has a plan. She hops up on the kitchen windowsill where our missing human has left a window open. My sis starts to work on a corner of the screen with a sharp claw. We don’t need a hacksaw to break out of this jail.

In two minutes she’s torn open a new cat door. We hop out of the hovel and into the yard. Ah, free at last.

When our butler returns, he sees the screen and throws one of his tantrums. “Boat Dock!”

It figures. My sister does the dirty work. I get the blame.

So on Saturday, Mr. Thinks He’s Bob Vila comes home from the hardware store waving a receipt in my face for the stuff to fix the screen. Right. Like there’s a pocket in this fur where I carry my billfold. Actually, I bank online.

The repair takes a precious 30 minutes of his fishing time. Whoop-de-doo. There’s one more chore to do before he can go chase those crappie.

Now we’re outside where I supervise the cat butler as he paints some wood siding on the shack-ri-la. He dips a brush into red paint and starts to work. I move in for an up-close inspection. He’s missed a spot.

As I point this out, my fine orange fur rubs against the wet paint. Great. Just great. Now there’s a big red stripe down my left side like I’m a work of tom cat art. Just put me in a frame and haul me over to Crystal Bridges.

It gets worse. The CB comes after me with a bucket and a sponge. Water sloshes over the rim as he lunges and grabs the base of my tail. There’s no escape, and I get

Every project needs a supervisor, someone to crack the whip.

half a bath.

I’m soaked to the skin, and he gets busy scrubbing me with the rough side of the sponge. It’s like sandpaper and I’m a 2-by-4. Does he bring a towel? Negatory. I run under the porch to hide my wet, matted fur.

This is the thanks I get for quality control. I’m packing my hard hat and going where my supervision is appreciated, out at the big highway widening project on I-49.

Boat Dock is feline outdoors columnist for the Northwest Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. His column appears when he feels like writing one. Write to Boat Dock on his Facebook page.