Snacks

The most unfortunate phrase I have ever uttered went something along the lines of "I am thinking about getting a cat." Unfortunate not because I said it, but because someone was listening, which is rare when I'm muttering things.

For all of the cheesy cat calendars and cat books out there you would think people really love the sneaky little creatures. Yet for every person who loves cats there are 12 people trying to give one away. The day after I mentioned the mere consideration of getting a cat I was presented with a box full of kittens. I hardly had a choice in the matter.

Naming pets is an interesting exercise in decision making. Naming a child is easy, if it's a boy you just name him Bill or Chuck or Larry. If it's a girl you name her Samantha, Jenny or Susanne and move on with your day. Naming a child takes 20 minutes, 30 minutes tops if you have a finicky wife. Naming a pet, on the other hand, is difficult. You can name a cat anything knowing that it won't emotionally scar her, which leaves your options wide open. Choices are good, but having too many of them will lead to almost certain self destruction. This is why you see so many ugly people in great relationships. They know they're not going to do any better, and they certainly know their just as ugly if not uglier significant other can't either, so they lead a life of quiet content.

Men have a tendency to give tough man names to things; Bulldozer, Fistfight, or Clint Eastwood. This are all masculine names. Women have a tendency to give names they think are pretty but nobody else does. Martini, Boots, or something Spanish. None of these seemed fitting for my ladycat so I named her Snugglesnacks - later shortened to Snacks as most people gave me confused looks and my Father showed outright disappointment.

After the initial fun of naming her I realized I am not a "cat person". I don't see anything interesting about their cold indifference and complete Independence. I prefer dogs. Dumb, happy, slobbering dogs who are so happy to see you every time you get home you fear they might knock over a lamp or fall over dead from pure joy. The kind of dogs who spend their days chasing squirrels and rolling in the mud. There is something to be said for an animal who knows how to wipe his butt on the carpet. There is also something to be said for the fact that I have more in common with dogs than cats. Yet I have a cat. An intelligent and slightly judgemental cat, who perches herself on the highest surface she can find and assumes things about me that may or may not be true.

Needless to say our personalities clash. I arrive home late on Friday evenings (Snacks rarely ever goes out) and blare Led Zepplin albums until 4 in the morning. There is something about Led Zepplin that makes a lot of sense when you're drunk at 4 am. Much more so than when you're sober, at least. Led Zepplin is the Taco Bell of music, phenomenal when drunk, questionable when sober.



Snacks is not a fan of Led Zepplin, drunk or sober, and when I stumble into my apartment she sits there with a look of acid in here eyes, swirling her glass of wine before gracefully jumping off the bookcase and disappearing into one of many hiding place,. showing me her perky little tail as she walks away. I always try to be friendly and invite her to participate in my revelries.



"Snacks! You should play the air drums while I rock out the air guitar!" I say, tying a bandanna around my head in order to better look the part for the imaginary concert I put on every Friday night in my apartment*.

She is never interested and that hurts me. I have to swallow a lot of pride inviting her to play the air drums. During my imaginary concert I play every instrument in the band, as well as lead vocals, and it would be a great help if I had someone to back me up, as drum solo's, even when fake, can be extremely exhausting. Each time she leaps from the bookcase and struts by me with that haughty little tail perked up in the air I hope she spills her glass of wine. Even though it would ruin my couch it would be worth it to see her lose her poise, if only for a moment. I'll be damned if she has ever spilled so much as a drop, though. Unless you count the times when she knocks my glass of orange juice off the table while I am eating breakfast, which is every time I'm not looking.

So late one summer evening, when you leave your windows open at night and the breeze is blowing just so, you might hear a few chords from Led Zepplin's "Babe, I'm Gonna Leave You". On that night you'll know there is a man somewhere who has to play all of the parts himself, with no help whatsoever from his drunk little cat.

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*Don't judge