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Section: Life & Leisure

GRANDPARENTS VIEW
Who Let the Cats Out?
By Susan Hannen

Who can we get to watch the cats? Who will love and coddle them the way we do? When Zoë stretches out on the kitchen floor, her signal that she wants our unadulterated adoration, who will know to scratch her belly and coo, “Who’s the most beeee-u-tifullll kitty in the world? Zoeeee is! Yes she is!” You can’t exactly leave this in a set of simple feeding instructions for the cat-sitter. Pet-watchers are inclined to skim directions for the highlights: one half can in morning, one half can at night. I know. I’ve been there.

Most people look forward to vacations, get excited at the prospect of escaping humdrum routines. Not I. Since we brought Moe and Zoë home from the shelter I pretty much dread leaving the five to ten mile perimeter that I usually travel. My husband and I both start fretting about the cats’ state of mental health should we have to leave them for more than eight hours.

There is so much wrong with this picture that I don’t even know where to begin. We have become our own worst nightmares: old people who dote on their cats. Beyond the fretting and handwringing over leaving them alone; we tell cat stories—at dinner parties. This is a new low. “You should see what Moe’s new trick is.” My husband says this as he spears a broccoli floret and pauses with the cockiness of a wildly popular talk show host who knows he has the audience eating out of his hand. I watch for telltale signs that our friends have been whispering behind our backs: “The Hannens are crazy, have you noticed how they can’t talk about anything but their cats?”

My husband continues like a man sinking in quicksand, stubbornly refusing to grab hold of the end of the stick that will save him, “Now Moe knocks all of our wine glasses over in the middle of the night. And they smash to the floor. And we have to keep buying more!” “Ha, ha,” the companions titter politely. “How are your children?” One guest prods the sinking man again with the stick. (“For God’s sake, man, save yourself! Have you no shred of self-preservation left? If not for yourself, then what of your poor wife?”)

But the saddest thing is—I want to hear more Moe stories. I know all the Moe stories. I myself tell Moe stories. My husband and I sit on the couch at night and recount darling Moe stories, the same ones, over and over again. I know it’s maniacal but I can’t get enough of The Adventures of Moe. Horrified, I hear myself saying, “Oh Honey, tell everybody what he did the other night—how he opened the front door while we were sleeping and let all his cat friends in.” Which he did. Even now I can’t help telling Moe stories. He really is a remarkable cat. Truly.

Back to the problem at hand. Who will watch the cats while we selfishly go on vacation to Florida? Who will be loving, and caring, and responsible enough to take care of our babies? Who will know that Moe will stop clawing the ottoman only when he is addressed by his full name—Kevin Moe Guinness? You have to say it this way: “Kevin Moe Guinness! You stop scratching that furniture this minute!” And he stops—just like that. But who on God’s green earth would actually listen to, much less act on such overwrought, old fussbudget instructions for the care of cats. For the sake of heaven they’re just cats. Aren’t they? By the way, if you have any crazy cat-lover stories you’d like to share with Moe please email him at: kevinmoeguinness@adelphia.net. He loves a good bedtime story.


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