I am owned by my cats, Bruce and Samantha. They live in royal splendor: gourmet meals, cradle-to-grave medical care, and bodily functions lovingly cleaned up after. While cockroaches eat their young and antelope struggle to find grazing grounds, Bruce and Samantha feast on Meow Mix and enjoy an afternoon Swedish Massage.
Imagine a domesticated cat exhibit at the zoo. You’ve just seen a polar bear and the giant slug, now behold the splendid urban cat, nature’s smartest creature. In front of you is a life-size replica of my studio apartment, one wall cut-away like a television stage. There are all the typical possessions of a cat: television set, personal computer, couch (for claw sharpening), and a kitchen sink (for drinking). I, the human being who’s been duped into this living arrangement, move around the apartment robotically, while the cats prance and strutt for the crowds. Nobody ever takes a picture of me.
The cat-human relationship is like that between a water buffalo and the birds that sit on its back. The birds eat bugs they find on the buffalo, and the buffalo gets parasite-free skin. Bruce and Samantha go shopping on 5th Avenue, and Trevor signs the check.Good deal.
Even though they can be a real pain in the ass, it’s the cats that bring to life my wild, urban garden kingdom. In their mouths they carry inside the booty from the daily hunt (moths, flies, and earthworms); Daddy (me) is always so proud. Furthermore, each cat is capable of producing three-hundred pounds of cat hair per year. Who needs carpet? Sit down on the couch after a real hot day of shedding; you’ll send clouds of loose fur upward into the air, obscuring visibility for minutes.
It’s no problem getting the cats to go outside, into the garden. Open the back door and out they tear out like actors in a Mountain Dew commercial. They smell the dirt for a few seconds, then get busy eating the neighbor’s grass. It is their king-sized, walk-in salad. Convincing them to come back inside is not as easy. As you can imagine, herding cats is kinda pointless. Remember, I live in the city, and have bored neighbors who watch me, like it’s wild kingdom viewing hour on channel 7. My first priority is to not look stupid, to look like I’m in charge. Cat rancher.
At first, I tried to corral the cats, cowboy-style. “Yahhh!” That didn’t work. Pig farmer: “Sooo-eeee!” Nope. I tried a direct approach – just grabbing them – but the cats got really nimble and evasive, making me feel like a bozo, chasing them and cursing and trying not to trample the flowers. Trial and error finally revealed a good technique: stare at the ground like it’s actually interesting. This confuses the cats. They want to see what’s up with the dirt. One of them – usually Bruce – will take the bait and walk over. I spring! With Bruce in my arms like a baby, I herd Samantha back inside by kicking my sandaled feet up the air. Witness the birth of Clutching Kitty-Style Tae Kwon Do. This technique always works, and I don’t look stupid, but boy I sure end up with a huge appetite.
Bruce and Samantha Cat lord over this city garden of Eden like lions napping under a Banyan Tree. In their spare time, they use their sharp claws to tear apart my furniture, just to show how much they appreciate me.