I’d like to know who put the cat in charge

I've never been fond of cats. Oh, there have always been a couple around the house, owned either by the kids or the former Lovely Mrs. Taylor, but we never had much to say to each other (the cats and me, I mean).

The cats did what cats do: eat, sleep, and slink around like they’ve been up to no good and are worried their probation officers might find out. Cats are the nickel and dime criminals of the animal world. If animals used money, cats would be in charge of under-the-counter, high interest loans and the occasional arson job.

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t actively dislike cats; I just don’t have much use for ‘em. It’s always been an uneasy truce between me and the house’s feline populace; they use the litter box, I try not to step on anyone’s tail.

So when the Siamese left last spring with the former Mrs. T, I didn’t miss him. I missed the dog, but he was my friend. The cat was just, well, a cat. I missed him no more than I would one of the squirrels that take up residence in the attic every winter.

Which is why my answer was “Not interested” when, a few weeks ago, Rose called to say she’d found a kitten in the woods behind her home.

“She’s so cute,” Rose said.

“Not interested,” I said.

“She needs a home,” Rose said. “She’s so tiny, just a few weeks old.”

“Not interested,” I said.

“I can’t keep her,” Rose said. “The dogs would eat her.”

“That’s what dogs do,” I said.

“Listen,” Rose said. “Can you hear her meow?”

I could. It was annoying, even over the phone.

“She’s so cute,” Rose said again. “You’re all alone there at your house.”

“I like being all alone.” This is a lie, but Rose doesn’t know that. “I do not want a cat. I won’t take it, Sam I Am.”

I have a will of granite in such matters and made up my mind then and there that there was no way I was getting suckered into taking that kitten.

Rose delivered the singularly unattractive ball of fuzz the next day, along with a litter box, several cans of food, and an eye dropper. She was too young to be without a mama cat, so I was forced to feed her “kitty formula” by hand, using the eye dropper – six times a day, or she would meow her fool head off and make me crazy.

I kept her warm. I kept her fed. By way of thanks, she clawed my legs, my arms, my face; she peed on my hardwood floors.

The vet said she was only about four weeks old. That was three weeks ago. She’s now eating canned food and using the litter box in the manner for which it was intended. But she’s still a cat, and takes even greater delight – if that is possible – in clawing me up every chance she gets.

It’s all in fun, the vet says. It’s what kitties do. It’s the way they play.

Meanwhile, I look like a cube steak that’s been run through the tenderizer one time too many.

But somehow, Sofa King (my grandson suggested the name) has won my heart, the little rat. She sits on my lap while I’m reading at night, content to purr and snuggle, occasionally taking a swipe at my wrist, just to remind me who’s in charge.

I never thought I could care for a cat – as anything other than a possible emergency food source – but look at me now; whipped into submission by a 13-ounce fuzz ball. It’s unmanly.

But like most kinds of love, when it happens, it happens. We all need to be needed, I guess, and some things we just don’t control.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, somebody’s out of kibble.

Missed a week? More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.