I write these words with Cargo the cat in my lap chewing on a headphone cord. Nearby is a weathered dog toy smuggled into my home office by Katniss Poundcake, our other cat.
My wife, Amy, is in another room on a work call. The cats and I are relegated to my office because, if they were free to roam, they would rip, chew and spew paper, yowling for attention as if they were being lowered into a caldron.
The CSI remains of magazines litter the floor. No pulp product is safe from the Schlenker cats. They know the sound of shredding launches us out of our seats; they stop only when we get up and rush the counter like pro wrestlers in Spandex.
“STOP! It is not dinnertime. I will sell you to science, I swear I will,” I bellow often. This sets off Rigby Floyd, our pony-sized golden doodle, who lives for the chase.
It’s a scene straight out of The Benny Hill Show, a silly circus of chaos. Rigby loves this, running though the magazine wreckage barking and pouncing clumsily. Only two things stop this madness: attention and cat kibble served in my home office.
Now and then, however, I must use my home office. Amy works from home, so my job is to lure the cats—dinnertime or not—into my office and foolishly think I can get some work done since it is MY office.
I love my office. It is a sanctuary with books, antique cameras, a UCF totem pole and a photo of my grandparents fishing in the 1960s. I grouse about sharing it with unruly cats, yet there is a reason they are here: They adore me. I am second only to kibble.
I did not want these cats, but they wanted us.
Daughter Katie claimed Katniss at an adoption event I was photographing. Holding a purring Katniss, she asked, I said no, and then my wife called: “Katie said we’re getting a cat.” Years later, a tiny kitten crawled into the undercarriage of our car. It took three hours to extricate her. When she was free, clean and curled up in laps, there was no way our daughters would let Cargo go.
Now both daughters are grown and out of the house. The misbehaving cats they begged us to adopt stick to me link Velcro. Often, I threaten to mail the cats to our daughters. They know it is an empty threat because (1) they don’t want those cats; they’re horrible, and (2) they know I love them.
And it’s true. Kinda.
I finish this column with Katniss in my lap; she is purring like a thunderstorm and ramming my typing arms for attention. Katniss is looking at me like no woman has ever looked at me. Blissful. Content.
Still, I am being held hostage in my sanctuary until Amy’s calls are complete. But as I look into those green adoring eyes, I sigh and think, “You need to live with Katie. And take Cargo with you.” OS
