The Misappropriation of Binks

My eight-year-old son, Max, came home from school clearly itching to ask an important question. "Mom? Are you in a REALLY good mood?" (I knew this couldn't be good.)

Suspiciously, "Well, yes, as a matter of fact I am. Thanks for asking."

"Can I have a kitten?"
Ah, the blind optimism of an eight-year-old.

I should point out up front that we already have two perfectly good pets. In fact, given the size of the two combined, I'd hazard a guess that we have more pet, by mass, than anybody else in the neighborhood. We have our primary pet: Ralph, a dog of such impressive proportion, we may be forced to move to Birdwell Island with that "Clifford" family. And we have our emergency backup pet: Binks, a fat lazy feline of singularly sour disposition, who has yet to make a single significant contribution to our family unit (outside of hairballs), and who in eight years has never once even NOTICED that he shares a home with superior beings.

Max (coincidentally) in eight years has never once noticed that we have pets in the house. Yet, on the strength of the argument, "But I WANT one…"  naively expects us to up our pet population by 50%, effective immediately.

In a word: No.

Never mind the cost issues, the responsibility ticket, the veterinary considerations, nails, poo, dead moles and hairball duty. Just NO.

Oh, he cried, and he pleaded, and he begged with Broadway abandon. But I was steeled to his powers. (I now consider myself a professional parent.)

At dinnertime, as we were discussing how mean and unreasonable I had become in my old age, an idea occurred.

I announced: "Max, I have reconsidered." No, you may NOT have a kitten. But in case you haven't noticed, we have a perfectly serviceable cat around here someplace. And we have decided to give him to YOU. Godspeed."

To my utter shock, he was elated. To have a cat, all his own! To hold, and pet, and feed, and care for! Kids can be unpredictable that way.

His first priority of pet ownership: choosing a new name. Which is fine, because Binks has never, to my knowledge, answered to any name whatsoever (and I've tried everything.) Who knows, maybe Max will have more luck. Binks became Shadow. And then Scooter. And then Zippy. Then back to Shadow again. (In pencil!)

Second on Max's pet priority list: taking the cat for a walk.

Well, exercise is important. And the cat is a little overweight. But I was thinking that the only way this particular cat was going to submit to such an indignity as "walking" in a direction and at a speed not of his choosing, would be to kill him outright, and have him stuffed with wheels nailed to his feet.

But sometimes you have to let your kids learn things the hard way, so I spotted him half of the harness cost. Even drove him to the store to pick it out. I figure movies these days cost $8 per ticket, and watching Max try to get DevilKitty into a harness was going to be WAY more entertaining than anything Hollywood could think up.

An interesting tidbit: when cats are stressed, they tend to lose fur at a rapid pace. They don't completely defoliate, but create sort of an airborne octopus ink cloud, which often allows them to sprint away unseen. Put a kid in the cloud, and some cat hair static cling is bound to occur. Within 12 seconds of initial pounce, Max was effectively tarred and feathered. But Binks, or Shadow, or Zippy, or Fluffy, or whatever his name was at that particular juncture, had been unable to squirm away.

It didn't help, either, that the dog had his head in the thick of things, clearly enjoying the spectacle. And if there's anything worse for a cat than having a harness placed on his person, it's suffering the indignity in front of a DOG, whom he'd spend years training to properly respect him.

After much struggling, the harness had been (technically) applied. But it looked rather odd. Max cleverly deduced that harnesses have a "front" and a "back". Whereupon he embarked on an even more hazardous mission: removing the backward harness. Which took roughly 20 minutes, caused the cat to "deflate" a number of times (an explanation that might account for the pronounced hissing noises) and caused some serious bodily injury. Not to the cat, I might add.

Reapplication of said harness wasn't as difficult, since by then, Max was wearing ace bandages up to the elbows on both arms, and a hockey helmet with a faceguard: A trick he'd learned after watching me bathe SamuraiKitty last Christmas.

Once said harness had been properly wrestled into place, the ambulatory adventure began. This was when SuctionKitty "became one with the floor". Impersonating a large wad of flattened gum, somehow morphing clumps of fur into rubberized suction cups.

The "walk" itself lasted 8 inches, and to the cat's credit, was by no means propelled by any feline muscles, not even by accident.

Once the leash had been unclipped, RubberBandKitty sprung to life, took off upstairs (harness still in place - you have to cut your losses) and has yet to be found.

"Did you see that?!?! I took him for a WALK! I have the BEST cat in the world!"

Ah, the blind optimism of an eight-year-old.