When I'm reincarnated, I want to come back as a fluffy cat in the
house of a childless couple. That is the true definition of
having it made.
The saga of Fuzzy Britches begins by looking
back about six months ago: I had stopped to visit my son, Scooter
(*Ahem* -- We are supposed to refer to him as Dr. Scott Snedeker,
nowadays) up in Greensboro, NC. Scooter, as alas, he will always
remain to me and the neighborhood folks here in Coral Springs where
he grew up, had just rescued a miserable ball of fluff from an untimely
end.
It was a clear, chilly day--the kind that makes you
feel good to be alive; unfortunately, I never feel either when it's
chilly. The unnamed miserable ball of fluff was extremely fortunate
that a genuine physician found him. Scooter had found him two
days previously, staggering in circles in the middle of the road,
having obviously just been hit by a car. He was bleeding, concussed,
wet, chilled, and tiny. Scooter treated him with doses of medications
cut to about one two-hundredth proportions.
The little sucker
probably had used up about six-and-a-half lives, but was beginning
to recover. He was about six weeks old, which is the age that
causes crusty old curmudgeons (like yours truly) to hold the little
brutes gently while standing around grinning like somebody with a
fresh lobotomy.
Scooter's house is not really a good place
for a twelve-ounce kitten. I say this without reservation: He had been forced to lock the kitten in his bedroom, so that his
Great Dane, Krog, wouldn't eat it. Twice, the little stupid
had escaped, and twice Scooter had literally snatched him from the
jaws of death. That, by my calculation, brought him about to
the eight-and-a-half lives mark. Besides, MTV was on, playing
the rock version of the Battle Of Stalingrad, all of which seemed
to me to be putting the last half life of the little mite in jeopardy.
I know the above arguments for stealing... I mean adopting the
kitten from Scooter are so stale that you could use them for croutons,
but I couldn't help it. I guess the real proof of my state of
mind was the fact that I didn't call home to Coral Springs to discuss
that action with the Fabled PC, my noble and patient bride of these
many years. Discuss? Heck, I didn't even tell her! But what could I do? Here was this six-inch long golden-colored
fluffball buzzing in the palm of my hand, tiny pink tongue busily
scraping my index finger.
I never had a chance. I was as mixed up as a soup sandwich. I had some serious qualms
about the Fabled PC's reaction; as an archetypal redhead, when she's
angry she can intimidate Internal Revenue agents. Nevertheless,
looking at the stubby little brute, I was suddenly prepared to sacrifice
a few acres of skin for him.
That was the moment he rolled over
in my hand to thump my thumb with his baby hind feet.
And
his name was born: Fuzzy Britches.
With a large cardboard
box half-full of cat litter on the passenger's side floor, (I can't
imagine what I was expecting, but I was taking no chances) Fuzzy Britches
and me began our epic trek back home. He immediately decided
that the only place to ride in a car was on my right shoulder, all
the while purring furiously. Of course I hated that. He
was warm, smelled good, cuddly--all the things that make kittens so
loathed. We were towing a U-Haul trailer full of copies of my
latest book (the picking up of which was the real reason for the trip),
and making marvelous time.
Normally, when I travel, PC
is along. Under those circumstances, we must check out the facilities
at every rest stop, gas station, or diner visible from the road. Not so when I'm alone. Only when the car itself begins to sputter
do we pause for fuel and whatever. I have to confess to a breach
of the above procedure, due solely to the presence of Fuzzy Britches: he was so cute riding on my shoulder that from time to time I would
stop at one of those stores that sell food with a 10-year shelf-life. He'd ride in, little golden eyes bright with wonder, ears twitching,
all the time holding on like he was Velcroed, while I purchased some
canned sardines and crackers. Folks just cooed and oohed. I knew that at least I wasn't alone (so far) in being charmed by the
little furball.
When I got home, it was dark, and raining fit
to frighten Noah. I gently stuffed Fuzzy Britches in my jacket
pocket and ran into the house. Well, it seems I needn't have
been so concerned about my darling PC's reaction, because Fuzzy Britches,
the sneaky little charmer, took over at this point.
As I was
receiving a very welcome kissy-hello, the little brute let out a mournful
meow, and poked his head out of my pocket. He saw that PC was
looking at him in astonishment, so he fixed her with a golden-eyed
double-o, and brrrppp?'d a kitty-hello. And began to purr like
a small diesel. From that second on, it would have been easier
to put socks on an octopus than to take Fuzzy Britches away from her.
Well,
His Golden Majesty, FB has gotten nearly full-grown, now. And
he has become a more-than-privileged family member. When I hear
PC talking baby-talk while fussing over him, I sometimes get just
a tad jealous. But then, I've got my plan of action: just
wait until I'm reincarnated.
