More Stupid Cat Stories
And I Do Mean Stupid
January, 1995
Yes indeed, children, it's time for yet more boring cat stories.
We'll begin our episode with the introduction of my new cat Hank. Hank was given to me as a birthday present last year by three of my classmates who were either well-meaning, or just tired of listening to me whine about Streak's passing away. (I am available for further whining on that subject, should anyone make the mistake of showing a passing interest.)
Actually, they gave me Hannah. It wasn't until we got Hannah to the vet that I was informed that my Hannah was really a Hank. (I suppose there's some irony there, but I won't go there just right now.) Some of my other smart-alec friends (the best kind of friend, as far as I'm concerned) suggested that when I got Hank fixed, I could also get him six boob jobs, and start calling him Hannah again. Financial concerns, as well as the dearth of veterinary plastic surgeons in the Storrs-Mansfield area sadly put the kibosh on that plan.
Hank is my little short-hair black and white "tuxedo cat," and approximately the most stupid cat in the entire world. It's a good thing that he also has the nicest disposition in the entire world, because I would have been tempted to send him back otherwise.
As it turns out, neither of these features is an accident. When my classmates went off in search of a new kitten for me, their primary selection criteria were that it had to be as cute and pitiful as possible. They scored direct hits on both goals.
When I got Hank, he was so hopelessly small that it was difficult to believe that he'd ever be anything other than an oversized rodent. He had such a short wheelbase, that he very nearly couldn't walk without banging his front and rear paws into each other.
This might have restricted his mobility, but for the first month, mobility wasn't the issue. He spent all his time hiding, either under the refrigerator, or in the bathtub. Later on, it was mainly the bathtub.
This provided a sense of consistency and predictability to the relationship. Every evening when I'd come home from work, I could be sure to find him in the bathtub, quivering with fear. I had meant, one day, to leave the tub full of water, to see what I'd find when I got home in the evening, but sadly, he outgrew this habit before I put my plan into action.
This behavior was at least partially explained by his origins. According to the same people who told me he was a Hannah, Hank was taken from a litter of feral cats. Apparently, he just wasn't used to the idea of being around humans. Now, a year later, he still isn't used to being around humans, largely because he keeps forgetting what they are. For that matter, he keeps forgetting who I am.
His fondness for
the bathtub was also one of the ways that I learned just how stupid he can be. At least
twice a day for the first three months I owned him, he'd jump into the shower with
me. The only problem with this was that as is customary for cats, he really hates getting
wet. So, he'd jump into the shower, make some noise indicating eternal kitty anguish,
then try to jump out of the shower.
This is where his lack of kitty intellectual horsepower would get him again. He'd try to jump out of the shower, but he'd invariably jump into the shower curtain liner, only to slide back into the tub for another try. After two or three abortive attempts, I'd pick him up and deposit him on the floor outside the tub. Five minutes later, he'd be back to repeat the process.
This is why Hank spent roughly half his first three months being soaked to the bone.
Nowadays, Hank spends most of his time stomping around the apartment on his continual kitty search and destroy mission. He swaggers around the apartment, with his tail straight up in the air, with the end flopped over, like a defiant question mark that follows him wherever he goes. Perhaps it is, because he never tires of rediscovering everything in the apartment, at least thrice a day.
I may spend a lot of time making fun of Hank, but I really should mention how insufferably cute he is. (Maybe I shouldn't, but since I am the all-time world champion cat-sap, I'm going to, anyway.)
He's also insufferably friendly, which ultimately proves to be a disadvantage, as he's fond of enthusiastically greeting strange cats, who usually return his enthusiastic greeting with outstretched claw. So, Hank got to spend today, his second Christmas day, getting the crap beat out of him by three cats with whom he'd like to be friends. And, true to an insufferably sweet cat, none of this has dampened his friendliness one whit.
All of which makes him just about the sweetest, nicest and friendliest little killer kitty kompanion I could ever dream for. Given all that, I guess his general lack of cortical capacity is something that isn't a problem at all.
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