Mascots, or Why I Should Not Be Permitted to Roam Unattended
Sharon April 17th, 2009
I don’t mind the ferret, I do like the bee
All witches familiars’ are friendly to me
I’d share my last crust with a pigeon-toed rat
and some of my closest relations are cats
- Nancy Willard _Pish, Posh, said Hieronymus Bosch
So the other day, we visited a local animal shelter to meet a dog we thought might be a good match for our family. The dog turned out to not to be what we need, but we started in chatting with the shelter workers about the financial situation and the state of animals in general. While Eric and I were chatting, the three younger boys were looking at the new kittens, and I was absently petting a grey and white older cat, hearing about the number of dogs and cats being abandoned.
The shelter employees are wonderful, animal loving people who ummm…know suckers when they see them. So out came the adorable long haired kittens, and each boy got to hold one. Out came the sad story of the kitten’s abandonment, and of the reduced number of people coming to adopt. Out came the children’s big eyes, promises to be angelic and the word “please” transformed into a six syllable song. And well, we had planned on a kitten, eventually…to keep company with our two year old cat, who is a little bored by our two older cats now in their teens.
Eric’s job in these situations is to say no to things, and he tried, although there was a visible lack of firmness. My job as mother, of course, is to support my husband, but there’s a problem - I’m cat people, and well…I’m a sucker. My husband found himself without a backup singer.
The shelter worker and I had been chatting about cats, and we’d both found ourselves agreeing that our own favorite cats were big, older cats, the kind with lots of personality and a sense of humor. That’s when the woman spotted a superb opportunity. It turns out that “Prince Albert,” the grey and white cat I’d happened to be petting was an older guy, who loves attention. Oh, and they can’t keep him much longer - he’s been kind of a shelter mascot, but they are experiencing increased pressure to transition either to homes or euthanizing. At 9 years old, Prince Albert wasn’t nearly as attractive to most people as the kittens - if she waived the adoption fee, and gave us a “twoforone” on the cat, wouldn’t we want to take him home?
Eric rolled his eyes. I said no, but it lacked conviction. The shelter worker ignored me and scooped the cat up and put him in my arms, confiding that he was a personal favorite, she’d take him home, except she’s already got 6… And of course, I didn’t want to see him euthanized. The cat was placed in Eric’s arms, and my husband (who is actually at least as big a sucker as I am) was losing resistance fast. And now I was making puppy eyes and stretching out “please” as long as I could. The outcome was no big surprise.
In the car, we decided that “Prince Albert” would be renamed “Culpepper” (since cats don’t care about their names, mostly), and would be the official mascot of the new seedling and herb business I’m starting on the farm. After all, that justifies everything - everyone needs a mascot, ideally one for each insane new venture. Zucchini, our two year old cat is already the official mascot of the vegetable garden, while Minnie, our 15 year old grande dame is the official sponsor and mascot of naps, long novels and sitting around on your butt not doing anything (our household’s favorite sporting event). So we’ve got a theme going.
In a fit of completely fake pique, Eric decided hte kitten would be named “Dayenu” - which means “It is enough.” It is his hope that this will max out our cat ownership for a while, and it probably will - I have no real desire to hit “crazy cat lady” status until I’m at least in my forties . And this is a real danger - I’ve written more about our dogs recently, but my husband and I both have long histories with cats, and if it is possible, are even bigger cat devotees than dog. The very first act of my adult life, when living independently, was to get a pair of cats, and I simply can’t imagine living without them - a terrible fate that I’m clearly in no danger whatsoever of facing.
I sometimes wonder whether all my work on food and farming isn’t really just a complicated way of getting to play in the dirt and with animals all day long, the way I wanted to do when I was eight. This is a lowering reflection, but probably true - and it is definitely true that the eight year old in me is awfully close to the surface sometimes. Ah well.
Sharon