Curiosity killed the cat idea

Bob Morrissey

First some sad news: On Dec. 2, my sweet little five-pound Shih Tzu, Katie, died. She passed away overnight in her sleep, lying at the foot of my bed, her nose by my feet. Two little barks and she was gone.

Katie was 12 and I’ll miss her forever — which at my age (82), won’t be long — maybe five or six years. I want another dog, but who am I kidding?

And that’s what hurts the most: the prospect of not having a dog after having one for 48 of the last 50 years. The fact that physically I’m just not up to it. Friends say “get a rescue dog,” but at this stage I probably need rescuing more than the dog. The only thing we’d have in common is our little “accidents” on my rug.

Now, after three months in my eerily quiet condo where everything reminds me of Katie, I’m considering getting a cat. I’ve never been much of a “cat person” but I like them — and often “like” turns into “love.” At least, that’s what I hope happens. With that in mind, I started dropping in at a nearby pet store, where they have cats up for adoption.

Last time I was there I discussed my situation with the female employee who looks after the cats. As we chatted away, we watched the cats play in a small area outside their cages. All were kittens, all about a year old.

“I’m thinking of getting a cat,” I told her. “But I need to know one thing before I do. I’m 82. If something happens to me, if I die or I’m hospitalized, would you take the cat back? That way I’ll know the cat will be well cared for.”

She said yes and added: “There might be a week or two wait if we’re full. But it’s not often that we are. Like today.”  We were staring at three unoccupied cages.

“What kind of cat do you have in mind?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “But because of my age, I don’t want a kitten. Maybe an older cat.”

“How old?” she asked.

Just for fun, I almost said 15; instead, I said “around eight.”

She asked about my other preferences.

“He should be small and thoroughly house-trained. And friendly … not a biter.” In other words, the cat’s meow.

While we talked, we watched four rambunctious furballs behind a glass partition relentlessly chase each other, darting in and out around water bowls and toys.

Suddenly, one of the cats cautiously approached the glass to look us over.

“Seems like you’ve made a friend,” the employee said, smiling and sounding like a kindergarten teacher talking to one of her young charges.

With that, I gently tapped the glass with my finger. To my surprise, the cat started hissing angrily and baring razor-sharp fangs.

The cat’s unexpected behaviour left us both speechless. Finally, the employee said, “Well, I’ll leave you to it.” Then: “Before you go, leave me your phone number, and I’ll call you If we receive a mature cat that suits your needs.”

I gave her my number and left. I should have been happy, but all I could think about were those fangs.

So I did a little research and found that, on average, every year in the United States 400,000 people report being bitten by a cat. Half end up in hospital emergency rooms because of infection. (God only knows how many bites go unreported.) And cats have claws, not paws, so scratches are also a problem.

But here’s the thing: Although most attacks are provoked, it’s difficult to say what those provocations are. For example, some cats bite immediately after being petted. Why? Who knows. But it just shows that it’s almost impossible to tell what a cat’s thinking.

It’s also what makes cats so fascinating. But they’re not for everyone. Seniors and those with compromised immune systems beware: Cats’ teeth and claws can cause serious infection.

My son Dan recently recently warned me about the challenges of cat ownership during a conversation on FaceTime — me in Montreal, Dan in Brooklyn, N.Y. While talking, Dan’s adult cat jumped up and joined him on the bed. In the middle of petting her, Dan said, “Can you hear that, dad? She’s purring.”

Very nice, I thought.

That’s when I told him I was thinking of getting a cat.

After a moment’s pause, Dan said, “That’s great … just make sure you get one that’s over three years old … and find out as much as you can about him. Ask if he’s ever bitten anybody.”

Then he looked down at his cat, which he got several years ago as a kitten, primarily for his son, Harvey.

“See where I’m petting her? An inch or two either way and she’ll bite me.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding.”

“I’m not. She’s bitten everyone who’s ever been in my apartment. All my friends think she’s a monster. We’ve had two groomers who won’t take her any more. They’re afraid of her.”

I started this piece wanting a cat. After doing a little research midway through, I decided I probably didn’t. Then I remembered my recent conversation with Dan, and it was kitty bar the door. That cemented it.

Do I want a cat?

Not one litter bit.

Will I keep going to the pet store?

You betcha. There’s a parrot there I’ve grown extremely fond of.