When Boo was born, Red and I lived in a one bedroom, 700 square foot second floor apartment that we shared with my ginormous tomcat, Mr. Kitty. While I was still in the hospital recovering from the shock of delivering a child with a 13 inch head, my mother informed me that there was no way in the seven circles of Hell that we were going to bring Boo home until His Royal Highness had been boxed up and sent to stay elsewhere.
Unfortunately for her, elsewhere turned out to be her house.
My mom is a cat person. She just doesn’t like my cat. My dad, on the other hand, loves my cat. Kitty is like his fourth child–and this child has gotten used to all the indulgences my dad has piled on him. Indulgences like pre-chewed meat (not even joking there), unlimited amounts of undivided attention, and milk every single morning.
A normal cat would go soft under all that attention. But Kitty is… well, I wouldn’t call him normal. Before I rescued him, he had lived for at least two years in the dumpster of my then-boyfriend’s apartment complex. For at least two years, he made his living whoring himself out for the random can of tuna and dinner scraps. Before I
captured adopted him, it wasn’t uncommon to see him chasing off other feral cats around the property. If you imagine these apartments as a street corner in New York, then Mr. Kitty would be the same dirty homeless guy you passed by every day, begging for change and making vulgar passes at women in short skirts. Those apartments were his territory, and no one else was going to panhandle on his watch.
Despite all this, Kitty is the ultimate kid-cat. Boo loves him (a little too hard sometimes) but when the cat has had enough, he gets up and walks away, tail held high in a jaunty half-c shape that always reminds me of pictures I’ve seen of wild lions on the savannah. Every time we visit my parents, we have to make a special trip outside to track down Kitty–which is never really hard because he’s often found very near his food dish–so that Boo can thwack him about the head and neck a few times.
So today when we got to my parents house for dinner, my dad warned me to stay off the grass near the front door. When I asked him why, he pointed to the lawn, where little tufts of greyish fuzz were scattered around a five foot radius. “Your cat killed a rabbit today. He, um, ate its head and legs.”
My immediate reaction was GAK! BLOOD AND GORE! RABBIT VAGINA FEVER! but then I came to my senses and realized I probably shouldn’t let Boo too near the resident bunny murderer until I had time to make sure there was no, ahem, evidence around his mouth. Because I really didn’t want to revisit the time that I made the mistake of letting him watch an episode of Planet Earth where a snowshoe hare gets chased down and eaten by a fox. For days afterward, every other sentence out of Boo’s mouth was, “Da bun DIED, Mama!”
But I guess Boo overheard my dad telling me about the rabbit, because he sauntered right up to Mr. Kitty and thumped him a few times on the head saying, “Mistah? You ate a wabbit? (thump, thump) Good kitty.” And then he walked away.
So much for over-protective parenting.