Cat Tales: Meatloaf & Ozzie

I have a history with cats.

First, there was Meatloaf. We got Meatloaf when I was 12 or 13 and my brother was 9 or 10. Both of us, for reasons that I cannot even begin to now comprehend, desperately wanted a cat (a cat!), my mom didn't object too much, and my dad agreed on the condition we name the little rascal Meatloaf, as in "Paradise by the Dashboard Light." My dad seemed to think he could stop this train wreck before it started by agreeing to the demand for the cat (thus looking reasonable) while countering with his own demand that we would surely refuse (after all, what self-respecting kids would want to name their cat after Marvin Lee Aday?). We didn't refuse, and Meatloaf became part of the family. I think we all had an image of a lethargic fuzzball to pet and cry into on stressful days, a dopey fool to join the suburban circus.

Turns out, Meatloaf, while, yes, lethargic, doesn't like being pet much and "crying into him" only works if you're also interested in losing an eye. About two weeks into Meatloaf's tenure as a Schaefer, the cat starts throwing up. We're not talking a little spit up here or there. Big chunks, OK? Solid chunks. The thing can barely walk.

The vet is called, Meatloaf is ambulanced over in the Honda, and the verdict is handed down: He's swallowed something, it's wrapped around his small intestine, and Marvin Lee has only one chance of surviving. "We have to operate," the vet tells my mom over the phone. The upside, we learn, is that Meatloaf has some small chance of living through the surgery. (After school, tears in my eyes, mom tells me "he might just make it"). The downside, Meatloaf is one of the millions (read: all) of uninsured cats, scraping by without an HMO. In other words, saving M.L. will cost about forty times what we paid for him.

My brother and I are adamant about the surgery, though having spent 10 days or so with biting, scratching, cranky Meatloaf, I admit I may have been sub-consciously gunning for early termination. Mom is firmly in our court, and Dad puts up a fight for about a second, partially tongue-in-cheek, fully aware that killing off the creature won't go over well with the troops on the ground, even if it's the obvious course of action.

It's a tough night. By morning, the Schaefers reek of anxiety. Will we ever touch his soft fur or pet his racoon tail or feel his teeth biting through our flesh again?

Well, yes, as a matter of fact. Yes, we will. Meatloaf, we learn, had swallowed a foot and a half of carpet. How? Unclear. Why? Hard to say. All we know is that the docs performed admirably, the cat performed admirably, he'd be home by 5 o'clock. Where the carpet came from is anyone's guess.

Over the years, Meatloaf, now 10 or 11, has continued on this course, dominating our lives. A near drowning led to mandatory closed toilet seats. An unfortunate incident involving our long-haired feline, his feces, and a pair of scissors trying to cut said feces off said long-haired feline's ass resulted in bi-monthly trips to the vet for butt-shaving. Yes, a professional is paid to cut the hair off the area around our cat's anus.

I say all of this because a couple of weeks ago, my roommate, Mary, comes home to tell me I've just got to see the cute little character at the shelter across the street. She'll be adopted any second, the vet at the shelter tell us. If you want to act, act now.

Needless to say, Ozzie has been with us for just over 2 weeks. She runs full-speed up and down the hallway for hours at a time. Her claws are sharp. The other day I saw a cockroach on the floor and thought, "At least we have her for this." I pointed to the roach. She ignored it and bit my hand. If the PATRIOT Act is good for anything, maybe it can be used to detain this terrorist for the rest of her life.

For a few days I tried to gently suggest to Mary that maybe Ozzie isn't the right fit for us at this point. "If Ozzie lives to her full life expectancy, she'll be dead when we're FORTY." It wasn't received well. Ozzie, it seems, is now a member of our Brooklyn family. I'm going home next weekend to see the parents, and I'm strangely eager to see old Loaf. He's older now, still dumb but mellow, and while he doesn't kill bugs either, at least he has a little perspective on life. He's been through a few things, and, I have a feeling, Ozzie will follow in his footsteps.