Life in a Cat House

First published July 29, 2005

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about Brenna the Dog, the big scary Doberman who is actually a giant cream puff with fuzzy ears. Now I’ve been asked to provide equal time for our cats. Ok, here goes.

First off, I’m pretty sure we have three cats. I’m not entirely sure, because you can never be entirely sure of anything when it comes to cats. I have my suspicions that one of them might be a really tiny covert CIA agent in a kitty suit, but so far Karl Rove has been uncharacteristically silent on the subject.

All three of the cats we have right now are female. Since they have all been “fixed,” this was really only important when it came to naming them: “Muffin,” a.k.a. “Muffer;” “Libby,” a.k.a. “The Phantom;” and Mindy,” a.k.a. “I’m Not Fat, I’m Just Fluffy.”

Until a year ago we also had a more-or-less-male cat named “Benny.” As near as we could tell, he was an expert in antiques and had a bit of a flair for interior design. Benny was also known as “Esmeralda.” We miss Benny a lot – last summer the little guy went to that great Versace scratching post in the sky.

Our cats divide their days into two major sections. First is the “Sleeping Time” which lasts roughly twenty-two hours per day. Through careful observation, we’ve been able to identify a number of different sleeping modes. These include “snoozing,” “napping,” “slumbering,” “just resting my eyes,” “zonked,” “dead to the world,” and “crapped out on top of the refrigerator.”

If you should happen to need a cat during the Sleeping Time (ok, nobody in history has ever actually “needed a cat,” but just play along with me here) all you have to do is fire up the can opener.

The balance of a cat’s life is the “Mostly Not Sleeping Time,” which is divided into twelve periods of around ten minutes each, scattered throughout the day and night. Typical Mostly Not Sleeping Time activities include staring at a spider on a window, stomping across your pillow at 4 AM, carrying a stuffed mouse around and yowling, staring at a window with no spider on it, and scouting for a good place to catch a little shuteye.

If you should happen to catch up with a cat during the Mostly Not Sleeping Time and scratch her belly, she will immediately punch out and head back for the Sleeping Time.

You would think that with three cats in the house, we’d be pretty much free of mice. You would be right. We had a family of mice move in earlier this summer, apparently planning a nice vacation on the lake, but it didn’t really work out for them. If you don’t mind, I’d rather not dwell on the details.

So there you have it. Despite my being, as I admitted a few weeks ago, a C.P. (Complete Pushover), my wife has managed to limit our menagerie to cats and dogs. We’ve passed on gerbils, ferrets, snakes, hamsters, toads, rabbits, tarantulas, degus, skinks, snakes, parakeets, condors, llamas, and Gila monsters.

Come to think of it, she might be out of town for a couple of days next month. Anybody know where I can adopt a nice baby otter?

Copyright © 2005 Michael Ball

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A Couple Of Old Rings

First published July 22, 2005

I have a ring that just turned thirty years old.

Thirty years.

I can remember being about seventeen and thinking that I was not real sure I even wanted to live for thirty years. I mean, think about it – thirty! How could person that old have anything left to live for?

It’s a simple gold ring, kind of medium-wide, with a pattern of leaves inscribed around it. Some of the detail in the leaves has worn away, ground down by thirty years of duty on a hand that held wrenches, and cameras, and cobbler’s nails, and ski ropes, and power saws, and guitars, and maybe an occasional beer bottle. A hand that typed hundreds of thousands of words on a portable typewriter, and later on a computer keyboard.

A hand that knew the joy of holding the hand of a little boy who always seemed to find some comfort in its size and strength.

There’s another ring around here that’s just like mine, and just as old, only this one is a little bit smaller. The hand it’s riding on is smaller too. It’s a hand that still feels like it fits as perfectly into my hand as it did thirty years ago.

Thirty years ago an engraver scratched on the inside of each of these rings, “NJB to JMB, 7/19/75.” Thirty years ago these inscriptions were a lot easier to read, with our young and hopeful eyes.

The nineteenth of July was exceptionally hot in 1975 – ninety-five degrees in the shade. We stood in a little stone chapel near the University of Michigan campus, where the only breath of air was stirred by a couple of box fans and fifty or so people waving their programs in front of their faces. We all ignored the perspiration dripping off my nose and spoke the few words that we had written for each other. The organist, on the verge of heat exhaustion, started playing the recessional in the middle of the vows. We all stood and waited patiently for her to finish so we could carry on.

Then I put Nancy’s ring on her finger and she did the same with mine.

Thirty years.

These rings saw warm summer days and frosty winter nights. They saw blue skies and gray skies. And, once, they saw a storm that came perilously close to putting an end to us.

They bathed in the unconditional love of three dogs and five cats. They watched us transform one house into a home, and then another one. They were washed with tears of pain, and tears of defeat, and tears of triumph.

They saw that little boy hold his first “sippy cup,” and saw him score his first hat trick. They watched him tie his first necktie. They saw him getting his high school diploma wearing a red robe and a ridiculous flat hat. They saw him, tall and proud, packing his possessions and heading off to college. And they’ve really only seen the beginning.

Now that I think of it, the detail on the leaves surrounding those old rings hasn’t really been worn away. Those are just the spots where life, and love, and hardship, and happiness have polished them to a brilliant glow.

Thirty years.

Copyright © 2005 Michael Ball

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Modern Communication

First published July 15, 2005

I just read about a couple in India who got married by cell phone, because the groom got caught in a monsoon and couldn’t make it through the flood waters to get to the wedding.

Wow! Talk about losing that last really great excuse!


After this, those of you who thought they’d fall back on the old “Honey, I tried to make it home in time to go to the third grade clarinet recital, but a monsoon washed the road out” story may have to rework your strategy. I wonder how fifteen out-of-tune clarinets would sound over a cell phone?

Admittedly, that little device in your pocket can keep you within striking range of just about every variety of nagging and harassment. But try not to blame the technology – it also opens up a whole world of possibilities. Cell phones are invaluable safety tools. They let you immediately call for help if you’ve broken down on the highway, or for your spouse if you become separated in the Discount Club store.

And then there is my friend who uses a sound effects CD in his car to orchestrate excuses for every occasion. Through the magic of electronics, he can sit at the golf course and call his boss from a traffic jam, the emergency room, an airport ticket counter, or the examination room of a spaceship bound for the Crab Nebula.

If you do this though, be very careful when you put the tracks on your CD. My friend had a pretty hard time explaining to his wife why Gwen Stefani suddenly started singing during the “prayer service” that was going on in his Buick parked outside the tavern.

Of course, there will be times when you don’t want to be at the mercy of your cell phone. For those of you who would like to learn to live with or even get the upper hand on your little electronic pal, there are a lot of things you can do that are a little more creative than turning it off and not knowing how to retrieve your voice mail.

First, there’s the “Gosh, I must have dropped the cell or something!” gambit. This one is best used for people who just haven’t figured out that the conversation pretty much ended about ten minutes ago. The key to success here is to start a sentence; “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you about the grzzzzzznxxxxt…” And then turn off the power.

Of course there are almost endless variations you can use. The real secret is to master an assortment of “static” noises.

Then there’s the “I’ll have to call you back – I’m getting into heavy traffic – AAAAAaaaarghhhhh!” routine. Use this when you just didn’t look closely enough at the caller ID before you answered the call. Later, you can tell your caller all about the near miss you had while you were talking to them.

Come to think of it, wouldn’t a “near miss” essentially be a ”hit?”

Finally, there’s the “I have to hang up now because I’ve reached the front of the line at the bank, and the cashier just handed me a threatening note!” ploy.

Hey! How about actually hanging up when you get to the front of the line at the bank?

Nah.

Copyright © 2005 Michael Ball

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Confessions of a Doberman Dad

First published July 9, 2005

As I mentioned in this column a few weeks ago, I have a Doberman named Brenna, who happens to be the biggest baby of all dogs. Ok, I know what you’re going to say; that your little poodlie-cocka-whatever is the definition of a cute dog, and that the Doberman is big and vicious.

Yeah, right.

True enough, Dobies were originally bred for military use, police work and Disney movies. Their hair is short and their ears are cropped so they won’t get caught in barbed wire while infiltrating enemy lines. Their tails are cropped so they won’t wag them and knock over a lamp while infiltrating the living room.

The Doberman has many advantages over other dogs. They are exactly as tall as your dining table, so they are always in perfect position to snatch your pork chop or knock the mashed potatoes into the lap of your dinner guest. They are strong enough to wedge their noses under your hand and flip your glass of Chablis into the next room.

They have powerful shoulders and hind quarters, giving them speed, agility and the ability to back smoothly up onto your lap when you’re seated in an ordinary arm chair. Dobies lack the back-up “beeper” you hear on most public works vehicles, but I understand scientists are working on this by cross-breeding them with garbage trucks.

The name “Brenna” is Gaelic for “I’m a huge pansy and I have no clue how scary I look.” She “grins” when she greets people, baring her teeth and shaking her head from side to side. She is not aware that this makes her look a little like the Alien licking his chops over Sigourney Weaver in a tank top.

We adopted Brenna from Doberman Rescue as a two-year-old – which is, along with the Humane Society, the very best way to get a dog of any breed.

The first weekend we had Brenna living with us, a female friend wandered into the kitchen in search of peanut butter, unaware that the house was now protected against just that sort of dangerous intrusion. My friend and my dog met and surprised each other somewhere between the blender and the microwave.

Did you know that many females, both human and canine, have bladder-control problems when they’re surprised?

Not long after what is now known throughout these parts as the Tandem-Tinkle Incident, Brenna surrounded and captured a juvenile duck down by the lake. I was horrified speechless at the sight of the poor little duck, its neck swinging limp as Brenna trotted proudly toward us. Fortunately, my wife had the presence of mind to say, “Brenna! Spit that out,” to which Brenna replied, “Ptui!”

As Brenna and the rest of us watched, the duck hopped up and strolled away without a scratch, doubtless to tell his duck buddies all about his brush with those grinning Jaws of Death.

So there you have it – the Doberman’s terrifying reputation is not really deserved. I have to admit, though, that it’s sometimes kind of fun to have a dog who can take that thirty-year-old guy, standing at the front door wearing a grimy name badge and selling magazine subscriptions to win the Teen Entrepreneurs’ Trip to Europe, and make him reevaluate his career choice.

Copyright © 2005 Michael Ball

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The Fourth of July

First published July 2, 2005

Well, here it is – the Fourth of July Weekend! All across the United States something like 286 million bags of crushed ice are heading for coolers, and a similar number of Americans are heading for any place featuring sunshine and other Americans. We’re going to celebrate our nation’s independence.

Most of us know about how our country was founded on the inalienable right to eat brats and play Frisbee on a weekday in July. In the interest of our long-term success as a lawn-party nation, I thought we would take a few minutes and go over some of the finer points of the Big Day.

Hamburgers: These are an essential part of any Fourth of July celebration. The perfect burgers should be cooked over a charcoal fire that is just slightly cooler than the surface of the sun, so that they themselves resemble little flat lumps of charcoal.

Hot Dogs: These get cooked over the same fire as the hamburgers, but not for quite as long. Hot dogs have no nutritional value at all, but they team up with their buns to serve as pretty good delivery vehicles for horseradish and mustard. They are also around to make the hamburgers seem like food by comparison.

Watermelon: I can’t think of anything better on a hot day. Cut it nice and thick, so you can’t eat it without getting juice all over your shirt and up your nose. If you’re over the age of about twelve, you should probably avoid seed-spitting contests.

Potato Salad: Of course it’s good for you. Why else would they call it “salad?”

Sun Screen: Be sure you slather on plenty of sunscreen. This is especially important when your son waits until you fall asleep in the sun, then writes “Loser” on your back with SPF 30.

Aloe: For any spots you missed with the sun screen. If you overlooked the note above, that’s everything except the word “Loser” on your back.

Fireworks: I love watching fireworks, but I leave the actual detonation of them to professionals and self-destructive pyromaniacs.

I once purchased one of those huge bundles of “Legal Fireworks” at the grocery store, judging from the packaging that I would have enough “Safe, Legal” firepower to put on a thirty minute show over the Statue of Liberty.

When I opened it up at home, my arsenal consisted mostly of a variety of plastic gizmos that made puffs of smoke and little farting sounds. The most exciting pyrotechnics we got were sparklers.

I burned my foot stepping on a sparkler.

The Parade: You can’t celebrate the Fourth without watching your friends and neighbors line up and march down Main Street. Better yet, march along with them. Just try not to follow the horses.

The Flag: The American flag is unique in the world. Contrary to the assertions of some folks these days, our flag does not stand for any one political party or point of view. It stands for the rich diversity of opinions, religions, races, and cultural backgrounds that have been forged into an alloy of liberty that is stronger than any metal. And it stands for the countless valiant people who since July 4, 1776 have fought and died to preserve that diversity.

God really does bless America.

Copyright © 2005 Michael Ball

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