Cats, Brothers & Bears
Posted on May 2, 2016 by bob in OffTheBeatenPath
My three-year-old daughter was perplexed.
“Why Jack not come inside?” she said, not understanding my insistence that the cat meowing his lungs out on the other side of the door remain there.
“He has to live outside now,” I responded flatly, knowing what was coming next.
“Whyyy?” she questioned, predictably.
“Because he bit your brother and we don’t bite each other,” I said.
For the moment at least, that seemed to be enough and she went back to her dolls. I glanced over at my son, who was happily beating a toy truck with a wooden hammer, having momentarily forgotten the incident earlier that morning that left two fresh wounds on his little cherub face. At the back door the cat continued to meow incessantly. I turned toward the door and narrowed my gaze.
“You’re lucky to be alive, Jack,” I muttered under my breath, which drew an exasperated look from my wife, who had been through quite a bit herself with the whole ordeal.
After the bite had taken place and with my wife busy examining the wounds and consoling my son, I did what any father would do; I tore through the house like a madman after the cat, launching a dozen various objects his way – flip flops, a box of crayons, a plastic teacup, whatever I could grab in hot pursuit – hoping to score a hit and slow his movements. While quicker than me, I had cunning and a pretty good arm. Launching projectiles and hollering profanities, I herded him into a bedroom and slammed the door behind.
Suddenly aware his options had shrunken to nothing, he paced, head down and shoulders back, emitting that low and unmistakable feline growl, that last utterance of contempt that Hemingway and Ruark wrote of when the big cat knows the end is nigh. He tried laying low under the bed, hoping I’d give up, but a well-aimed Matchbox car persuaded him to abandon the safety of his post. Out in the open room now, he was vulnerable. We circled, each waiting for the other to make a move. He’d hiss occasionally and I’d respond in kind, for victory would require both mental and physical prowess.
Despite the tight quarters he was surprisingly nimble, darting left when I’d go right and vice versa. Finally, I wedged him into a corner, and when he made the mistake of turning his head to ascertain the possibility of escape, I pounced.
He thrashed and hissed and kicked and swatted but it was too late, he was in the iron grip. Had my aim and timing been anything but exact, he’d have made ribbons of my digits. Both hands firmly now around the cat with no way to relinquish my hold without affording him an opportunity to turn the tables, I managed to open the bedroom door with my foot and sprinted for the front door carrying a black ball of hiss and vinegar.
“Open it, open it!” I shouted, and upon seeing daylight launched the feline – who was still cursing my name in his native tongue – through the air and front door out into the grass some 20 feet away where he landed unscathed, on his feet of course. My daughter looked on in amazement, unsure whether she’d witnessed a crime or an act of heroism.
“Lock it,” I muttered, relieved and out of breath.
While neither my wife nor I had actually seen the bite take place, we figured my 18-month-old son was harassing Jack and the cat finally had enough. While absolutely unacceptable, the reasons why were unfortunately beyond the comprehension of either party. It was just simpler to move Jack outside. In reality, cats will be cats, and boys will be boys. Young boys and old cats do not mix, the latter having limited patience for the prodding, poking and pulling of little hands.
A few days after the incident, my son – who has since healed fine – picked up a stuffed animal with which my daughter had been playing but had discarded. When she realized he’d taken an interest in her temporarily cast-aside item, she would not have it. She ran to me with a request I intervene and return her property.
“He take my bear,” she said, bottom lip out, “and I was playing with it.”
“Baby, can’t you share your bear with brother?” I asked.
“I don’t want to share,” she responded, arms now crossed. “I don’t want him to play with any of my toys.”
After a few minutes I looked back up from my work. My son was still playing with the bear, and my daughter was full-on pouting, arms still crossed, lip out and glaring at her brother from the other side of the room. She looked over at me, back at her brother and then the front door. Her expression changed instantly and she ran over to me.
“Daddy, daddy, daddy!” she squealed excitedly.
“Yes?” I asked.
“Brother bite me so he need to move outside,” she said bouncing up and down, then pausing, “but bear stay with me.”
Niko Corley is a USCG-licensed charter boat captain and spends his free time on the water or in the woods. To contact him e-mail niko.corley@gmail.com.
