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Wednesday, November 14, 2012
A7
The Prince George Free Press
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www.pgfreepress.com Q THIEF OF CAKES
Memories of Fats, a cat-astrophic pet
Dallas had to fish out of In reality he was just a the toilet bowl and dry off scruffy looking black cat with a big old bald spot on after an unfortunate jump his back, but to me he was (by Fats) from the bathtub rim. a lot more. And he was My always clumsy, relationLife in always falling ship with the fat off of someFats began thing. He’d on a cool lane go for that big autumn DELYNDAPILON jump onto the evening cupboard (absolutely not right here in Prince allowed, and I had the George. My brother’s squirt gun to enforce that cat had given birth to a rule), miss, skittle his litter of kittens, and we claws against the edge were in town for a science looking for grip, then fall. fair (Dallas, my boy, was I’d laugh at him. He’d six and one of the prizeglare at me, tail slinkwinning presenters) so we ing back and forth like decided to stop in and see a windshield wiper on family before we took off super high. home. He also had a taste for Dallas fell instantly in sweets, especially cake. In love with Fats, whose fact, it was darned hard birth name was Doc. He was really cute when to keep him out of the sweets, short of locking he was little, just a black them in the fridge. Not the bundle of fur and big yelcupboard, though. low eyes. But what really Fats could open cupconvinced me to take him board doors. home was his clumsiOne day I bought one of ness. Cats are supposed those pre-packaged angel to be agile, graceful, the food cakes. The plastic epitome of exquisite balance. Tell that to Fats, who those things come in is
so thick I have trouble opening it. So I figured it would be just fine to leave it on the counter overnight. Wrong. I looked for it the next morning, asking family members with growing ire which one of them sneaked off with my darned cake. All of them claimed innocence, but I had my doubts. I couldn’t even find the plastic container it came in. On about my eighth trip through the kitchen (accusing my family loudly this time), Fats slunk around the corner, eyes all innocent. He sat down, looked at me, lifted a paw for a calm licking – while I growled and cussed – and laughed. His whole black furry face was encrusted, whisker to ear, with what remained of my angel food cake. Rotten cat. As he got older, so did my dad, who lived with me for a few years following a massive heart attack.
Dad often had to use his walker to get around during the first few years. Fats, who by then didn’t much care for walking either, would use it with him. Finally, it got to the point that whenever dad pulled out the walker, Fats was on the seat, ready for a ride. My dad, being the kind of guy he is, couldn’t just leave it at that. Since getting old and cranky, Fats had kind of laid off chasing the family dog, something my big old golden Lab, Buddy, kind of appreciated. But once Fats was up on that walker, he thought he was a lion, the king of the pride. My dad would start singing (and he can’t sing – it was horribly out of tune) ‘A Huntin’ we will go, a huntin’ we will go, high ho the merry-o, a huntin’ we will go’. As soon as he broke into song, the dog would try to hide. But there would be dad, pushing it around behind the dog as fast as the old fellow could go, Fats rid-
ing shotgun, ears twisted back, mouthing a glorious hiss. Sometimes poor old Buddy would have to belly crawl underneath the walker to escape, Fats batting away at his bottom. Of course, Fats didn’t have his claws out. Even when he was a kitten, he never used his claws when he smacked you. Kind of peculiar, but that was Fats, one of a kind. Last winter was especially hard on the old cat. He worried away at the little bald spot on his back, often making it bleed. He went from having difficulty walking to having problems moving his back legs. We had begun the conversation about it being time to do the right thing by him, but spring came fast and furious, and Fats got spry. So spry in fact, my 14-year-old house cat (who was fixed for 13 and a half of those years) began clawing the window open, taking off outside, just so he could run around with female cats of
questionable morals. I worried about him being out there, often going on a search when I saw the window was open so I could haul him back indoors, but I could see how much fun he was having with the whole escaping thing. Even though he didn’t quite understand he had to run like the wind and get indoors to the litter box every time he got the urge to use the facilities. When the weather took a turn for the worse, so did Fats. This time there was no room for waiting or debate. The poor old guy couldn’t even make it to his litter box anymore, sometimes even soiling himself. I took that little kitten on his first ride 14 years ago, when my son was just a little tyke, and I took him on his last ride this weekend, trying hard not to cry and telling myself it was the right thing to do. And it was. But I am going to miss that scruffy old cat.
What’s the crime for this much pun-ishment?
try your patients with a long one, but I The pun has been described as the will beg your indulgence for a couple of lowest form of humour, to which one medium-short setups. writer replied, “Yes, because it is the A fellow in California kept basis of all humour.” bragging to his friends about As many of my friends how big the waves were that (and co-workers, not that the Allan’s he had surfed on when he two are mutually exclusive) Amblings was on holidays in Hawaii. will tell you, I love puns. I enjoy the English language, ALLANWISHART Since none of his friends had seen him surf before, they and I am not sure how anydecided to call what they considered his one can profess to enjoy the language bluff. and not appreciate a good pun. They got him a board and told him Of course, to some people, a ‘good’ pun is a ‘bad’ pun because of the groan- to give the waves on the beach a try. The fellow took the board, walked into inducing factor. Calling a psychiatrist’s the water up to his knees and stopped. new office a “change of mind” is short, His friends told him to get on with it, sharp and to the point. at which point he turned to them and But puns can also be stretched out said, “They also surf who only stand to medium or long length to get to the and wade.” point. I will not, as the legal doctor did,
This one I also can’t take credit for (even though I would love to). I found it on the Internet, and then saw it again on a different site the next day, so I don’t know who to give credit to. A frog goes into a bank and approaches the teller. He can see from her nameplate that her name is Patricia Whack. “Miss Whack, I’d like to get a $30,000 loan to take a holiday.” Patty looks at the frog in disbelief and asks his name. The frog says his name is Kermit Jagger, his dad is Mick Jagger, and that it’s OK, he knows the bank manager. Patty explains that he will need to secure the loan with some collateral. The frog says,” Sure. I have this,” and produces a tiny porcelain elephant,
about an inch tall, bright pink and perfectly formed. Very confused, Patty explains that she’ll have to consult with the bank manager and disappears into a back office. She finds the manager and says,” There’s a frog called Kermit Jagger out there who claims to know you and wants to borrow $30,000, and he wants to use this as collateral.” She holds up the tiny pink elephant. “I mean, what in the world is this?” The bank manager looks back at her and says: “It’s a knick-knack, Patty Whack. Give the frog a loan. His old man’s a Rolling Stone.” (You’re singing, aren’t you? It’s OK, so was I the first time I read it.)
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Coffee with a reporter
Stories come to reporters in a variety of ways. News releases, press conferences and phone calls are some. Sometimes you might think whatever story you have in mind isn’t worth a phone call or visit to the newspaper’s office, but is it worth a cup of coffee?
Reporter DeLynda Pilon would like the chance to hear what you have to say so every Friday at 11 a.m. she will be having a coffee break at Zoe’s Java House at 1251 Fourth Ave., and is hoping you will drop by to chat. Or just stop in and introduce yourself.
11:00 am Fridays at Zoe’s Java House at 1251 - 4th Avenue
DELYNDAPILON