Apologies to T.S. Eliot for messing with his great title but, dear reader, I needed to grab your attention. This musing isn’t so much a vent as it is an expression of a growing concern for yours truly. My grandparents on the Cape have had two cats since before I even joined this family, and over the years, we’ve co-existed rather well…either by avoiding or ignoring one another. I must admit, though, there have been a few incidents where the proverbial fur has flown, usually over a crumb of food or space encroachment. We always manage to walk away with our dignity intact and a newfound respect for one another. Oliver is their oldest cat and he is a formidable British Shorthair. Just before Christmas, his younger brother, Pip, died. I know how much Grandma and Grandpa miss him and I also know that Oliver still howls for him every night at bedtime. So it is no surprise that they have been looking for a kitty to fill that void.
Which brings me to my current concern. Yesterday, Grandma found a kitten and to hear her talk about this creature, she is the greatest thing since sliced bread. As you know I am not a mean-spirited or selfish pug, but this could present some serious problems for me.
There has existed a nice balance of power, a mutual respect, and a healthy fear (on my part) of the cat’s decided advantage. Now with the arrival of a new feline, all we’ve achieved could go away. What if she decides to compete for crumbs of food, or, even worse, what if she sees herself as the new sheriff in town who needs to clean up the “pesky varmints” (us)? There is a definite potential for disaster here!
The worst part is there is nothing I can do but wait and see what happens. I also worry that lame Lizzy may decide to befriend “Chloe” or “Zoe” or whatever they decide to name her. Maybe I can enlist Oliver’s aid; maybe we can join forces against the newcomer…
I will keep you posted on this latest roadblock.