My Oldest Enemy

His coat is worn and shabby. His weight has dropped precipitously. His food absorption has taken a wretched turn. He continues to claim, as his own, his rightful place every night at the head of the bed on the pillow about one micrometer from my head. During the day he routinely resides on my mouse pad. He “talks” incessantly but his purr is about worn out. (Ed.—His main source of water is from the faucet in the bathroom, from which he drinks in spite of whatever else is going on at the sink. He doesn't mind toothpaste in his hair.)

Has it been only sixteen years since he scared me half to death? One doesn’t forget absolute terror easily. As I trimmed a large, dense Christmas tree, placing bulbs, balls, and tinsel, he (all twelve ounces of him) emerged hissing from within the highest branches to protest my activity. Nearly every event in life has had a certain measure of predictability—that came as a complete surprise. (Ed.—LITID—laugh, I thought I'd die.)

Our marriage of twenty five years can be neatly divided into four quarterly periods: the Louisiana/Coloradoan, the Wisconsonian, the Nevadan and the Missourian. During this ever-lengthening time of our union we have had the association with “Boss” for nearly all. It was in Wisconsin that we picked him from a litter of kittens where he had demonstrated the aggressive, domineering tendencies which earned him his name. Throughout his entire life he has lived up to it on a daily basis.

His destructive capacity has become legend. He has successfully demonstrated that no manufacturer has ever made a “cat-proof” screen. Typically, he is on the wrong side of every door. His happiest days were when we lived in a home equipped with a pet door. He could then fully implement the rank independence which has marked his existence. Over the course of his life he has endured the presence of six different dogs and regardless of size or threat, educated each one to be tolerant. He has never run from any encounter.

He has always been “my” cat. In our life of wedded bliss, we strangely find that the male dogs have been “Hers” but the females have been labeled “His.” In the feline world it is just the opposite. If there is some deep-seated psychological explanation for this; please advise. It probably has to do with my early toilet training.

As happens in pet filled families, our conversations turn to discussions of “what are we going to do about Boss?” My response generally runs to something about how God has managed it pretty well so far so why interfere. Hers is concern about the possibility he is unbearably uncomfortable and may need relief. We are both agreed that the situation is approaching an unknown endpoint of some consequence. Playing God at any level only points to the agonizing decisions which He must face every moment and has throughout eternity.

Life is not all posies and bon-bons. Somehow, I feel the final decision is in his hands. After all; He is the Boss.

In His abiding love,

Cecil Moon