Thanksgiving With Ozzie

The incorrigible houseguest is back again

I spent Thanksgiving alone this year. My entire family scattered off in different directions like so much birdshot, leaving me in charge of Ozzie, the grumpy old family cat. Cat-sitting was not such a bad idea. The family were grateful someone would take the old boy. I was grateful to be needed. Ozzie was less grateful; he had to ride four miles in the car, poor guy, and arrived with fur standing on end. He snooped around the entire house yodeling like a deranged Bavarian, then he too was finally grateful – to find a bed under which to hide.

He came with all his essential gear. I had no idea how many possessions a cat required these days. A litter box, a 10 - pound bag of perfumed gravel, a large blue plastic scooper, a feathered mouse on a string, a favorite blanket, brush, comb, water bowl, food bowl, a jar of cat treats, a packet of Squeeze-Ups, and ten cans of Friskies in a variety of tantalizing flavors.

Ozzie is so old now, he sleeps 20 hours a day. I kept walking over and poking him to make sure he was still breathing. When he was awake, he mostly sat and stared into space as if in a trance. Occasionally he let out a shockingly loud howl for no reason whatsoever, which sent my heart into instant panic mode. It happens to the best of us when we age. I, myself, sleep a lot these days, and often sit staring out the window. Occasionally I even let out a sudden loud lament, so the two of us are on the same geriatric pathway.

He stole my rocking chair five times a day, and grumbled every time I lifted him out of it onto the floor. “I am sorry, old man. I know you are older than I am, but it is my chair, and I am bigger than you are.” He decided we could both sit in the chair together if we stacked up. He preferred to be on top. After one day he ignored his own little blanket and made a nest of my big fuzzy one. The way he drooled on it, I had the feeling he was under the delusion that maybe it was his mom.

He was fussy about his food. He rejected the Friskies “Turkey” dinner, “Meaty Bits” dinner and “White Fish” dinner. I had three bowls lined upon the floor like a cafeteria, but they all proved unworthy of his delicate palate. He, apparently, was holding out for pork chops. I tried to bribe him with the Squeeze-Ups goo, which he instantly rejected out of hand. Then he told me in very clear terms that the cat treats smelled like dog poop and to please Put. Them. Back. In. The. Jar. He sashayed off, indignant, tail in the air. He’ll come back when he is hungry, I thought. And he did, but he looked at me as if he were doing me a favor. My sister had not warned me about his advanced-age superiority complex.

So Ozzie and I kept each other company for a couple of days.  We had many many long conversations, most of them beginning with, “Now you just hold on a minute, buddy! Listen to me, you get in here and eat this.” And ending with the catly reply that could only be interpreted as, “To hell with you, old woman, I am going back to the closet and sleep on the shoes.”

Obviously, he was not very happy to be here, but I was happy to have him.  It was one of the most novel events of the past year, which is, I know, a pathetic statement of how my life has degenerated.  But though he did not appreciate the food, he ultimately seemed to tolerate the sleeping  arrangements, the fur brushing, the feathered mouse and the fuzzy blanket.  

Anyway, I have cleaned up the last traces of his visit – the litter scattered on the bathroom floor, the cat hair in the dryer lint trap from washing my blanket. I will return his jar of cat treats which I forgot to put in his suitcase. I’m thinking I might invite him back for a couple of days at Christmas. 

I will lay in a supply of pork chops just in case.