OK. I never thought I’d start a sentence this way, but …
If I was a cat … (see what I mean?) … so, if I was a cat, I would TOTALLY get my coat styled like this week’s innerview-ee, a sophisticated, cosmopolitan liddle lady named #CPK Nasto-Olsen, who, post rescue, grew up as a New York City high-rise apartment cat.
Me an my assistant rang the bell, an a frenly human opened the door. Sitting regally several feet behind him was a middle-sized cat, not moving a muscle. Or saying a word.
Even though I’ve innerviewed several pets of the feline purrsuasion in the last couple years and feel pretty comftubble with ’em, there was something about #CPK, like she had Special Powers.
An her FUR, woof! It was uh-MAZ-ing, a gold/black mix. She had a beautiful, lion-looking mane; the fur was Real Short on her tummy, sides an tail, except the tip, which was a big, black fluffball. The fur on her legs to just below the knees was cut real short like her tummy. From knees down, it looked like she was wearin’ Uggs. Four Big, Fluffy Boots. Coolest fur-styling I’ve ever seen!
I gulped. “Good afternoon. I’m Bonzo the Columnist. I read your woofmail, I mean your, um, meowmail. I’m looking forward to hearing your story, Miss #CPK.”
“Brilliant start,” I said to myself, smiling and sincerely hoping she didn’t misconstrue it as a growly face.
#CPK strolled over and looked me straight in the eyes. Hers were gold/green. “I didn’t meowmail you. My Dad Stephen did. I don’t like big dogs. You are a big dog.” She continued to stare.
“Actually,” I replied, in my smallest voice, “I’m considered medium-sized. My press hat probly makes me look bigger.”
“I suppose you’ll do. After all, you’re writing about an important subject. Me. This is my Dad, Stephen. My other Dad’s Dan. I call him Daddy. He’s working. My full name is Hashtag Cindy Pretty Kitty. You may call me Cindy. I will now tell you my story, which I like to call ‘The Story of Me.’”
“Catchy,” I mumbled, under my breath.
With catlike grace, she jumped onto the table an arranged herself. Pausing from time to time to lick her paws, she began.
“When I was about 3, I was plucked off the streets of Queens an transported to the NYC Animal Care Center. The humans were very kind. They guessed I was a Maine Coon/domestic long-hair mix. Anyway, the shelter was overflowing with kittens, and I was sick. They didn’t want all the other cats to catch whatever I had, an they couldn’t afford lots of medicine. So they put me on The List.”
“Oh, Miss Cindy,” I gasped. “Not The List.”
“Yes. I had resolved to face my fate with my whiskers up. Well, Dad was working at the shelter, and when he found out I was On The List, and scheduled for The Next Day, he adopted me and took me home: a high-rise in The City. It was like a dream. That was seven years ago.”
“From the streets to a high-rise. What was that like?”
“As you might imagine, I was somewhat stand-offish initially. I spent most of that first week under the bed. I’d only come out at night, for food and water and to Do My Duty. Nobody had ever given me my own food before. Or an Official Potty Box. Dad says it took a lot of treats to get me to come out from under the bed.
“Now I’m quite social, I love people and parties, so I was totally cool by the time we met Daddy. However, since he’d never had pets (imagine that), it took him a while to get to know me. He tolerated me at first, but now he loves me.
“When we moved down here, I sat calmly in my soft car carrier, between Dad an Daddy, for two whole days. I didn’t have a clue where we were going, but I didn’t care cuz we were together. Our new house was HUGE compared to our little high-rise, lots of closets and corners to explore. It was thrilling.”
“Miss Cindy, I haff to ask about your Totally Cool Catnip fur-cut. Where do you have it styled?”
“It is fabulous, isn’t it?” She licked her paws and stood up. “It’s called a Full Lion Cut. My groomer refreshes it every 3-4 months. EVERYbody’s doing it in New York. It’s totally On Trend. I NEVER let Dad or Daddy groom me. EVER. I like to leave it to the professionals. My groomer also does my mani-pedi. So I won’t damage the furniture, I get a full set of Soft Paws, which go on over my own nails (‘claws’ sounds so barbaric).”
“So, any favorite toys? Waddya like to eat?” I inquired.
“I don’t DO toys,” she said, leaving no room for further comment. “I do, however, go into Full Hunter Mode (cat genes, you know) conducting Squirrel Surveillance from the screen porch.
“Probably my favorite thing to do is reclining on my couch, or perhaps the front window sill, and gazing out at The World. Or napping.”
“As far as food. Boring old kibbles mostly. But I do have a thing about chiggen. I’m crazy-catnip about it. I’ve been known to grab it off the table. And, if the humans are having chiggen for dinner, I shamelessly stare them down until they relent. We have a Passover dinner every year, and always set a place for a Very Important Human called Elijah. I’ve never met him, I guess he’s busy elsewhere, but Dad an Daddy don’t mind. So I sit in his chair, very politely.”
Heading home, I was tryin’ to pickshur myself in a Full Lion Cut. I think I could pull it off. Now I just have to convince Grandma and Grandpa.
Till next time,
The Bonz
