Cat's in the Cradle

It was the middle of winter on a bitterly cold Canadian night when I found her. I bundled up, and bribed her with warm milk and biscuits. Before long, she trusted me enough to let me pick her up and pet her. I remember picking her up, and grinning at my parent’s through the window. My father (notorious cat hater) was looking like he wanted to see how far into a snow bank he could punt me and the mystery cat, and my mother was alternately shaking her head and trying not to smile. As soon as she came outside with warnings and admonishing the stupidity of cuddling a stray and disease ridden cat, I asked if she could stay in the garage while it was so cold out. Knowing that a parent has not properly said “no” until it is said three times, upon the second “no” I turned to guilting her nurturing instincts. “But mum! It’s -40! And the cat will die if we don’t help her! Look, she’s missing part of her ear from frostbite already.” I could see that she was one more guilt trip away from being persuaded. “Mum,” I said with the straightest face I could muster, “Do you –really- want to be responsible for this poor animal’s death?” Her face became a hybrid of being completely pissed at me for guilting her and smiling because she knew I had played her successfully. “Only the garage, and I’m not feeding it!” Within an hour, the cat had a milk crate wrapped in dozen’s of blankets in the coziest corner of the garage we could find (our garage is not attached, and is unheated). Within an hour and a half, the milk crate featured tiny curtains so that she wouldn’t lose the body heat she produced. Within two hours she had a name. Patsy. (I’m a huge fan of film noir, and my father had lost something –glasses, I think- after I discovered the cat under the deck. “Nothing has gone right since you found that thing outside.” father dearest grumbled at me. “Sure, sure daddy. Blame the cat. Just make it a patsy.” And the name was born.)

By the end of the week, not only did Patsy have an insolated milk crate, but my mother’s best heating pad lining the thing. My mother failed miserably at keeping her threat, and within a fortnight Patsy was being fed Whiskers served with a saucer of warm milk and a side of filtered water. Oh yes, this cat has its own rags to riches story, to say the least. We had her spade (only to discover that her previous owner had taken the liberty...himself. It’s a miracle this cat is still alive) and we also shaved the hell out of her because her hair was so matted that it was tearing her skin. The cat was miserable for weeks, but earned a temporary place inside the house till she healed. Anyway, she earned her keep by keeping the mice away when the spring thaw occurred.

That was about a year and a half ago, which brings us to these pathetic yet hilarious pictures. You see, being a long-haired cat that is kept outside, Patsy’s hair became matted and tangled despite our best efforts to brush her several times a week. Again, we had her shaved down when the warm weather hit, so that she can be comfortable for the season. And here she is- Patsy the cat with a poodle style.

And man, she looks pissed.

(and yes, the vet scolded us for how fat she has become. Hey, Whiskers and milk...it's not Atkins for Animals, that's certain.)

-K