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It was a rather boring late summer Saturday night, here in the Summer household. I was half-watching some television rerun or another, as my DH wandered into the kitchen to get himself another cup of water. Half-snoozing, I suddenly bolted upright.
What a bizarre noise was coming from the kitchen! Some indescribable, demonic growl was emanating from that room. I was sure my husband had not been possessed by the devil. What else could it be?
Ack! It had to be Brando. Now, Brando is our former feral kitty, who has only realized the delights of being a loving housecat for about eight months. I named him thinking of Brando in "On the Waterfront", or "The Wild One". Very quickly, he began to look like Brando in "The Godfather" or "Apocalypse Now". Saturday, I had been working out in my garden, finally getting around to getting rid of the rainforest-like overgrowth. Brando was inside complaining, as he is wont to do on occasion. He knows he has it good being a housecat, but there are occasions where he sighs and meows "Darn it, I wish I could just go outside for a little bit and get a little bit of fresh air." Saturday was one of those days. As I pulled weeds, I heard a "Whomp! Scratch!" and looked up to see eighteen pounds of cat hanging from a screen door. After a few seconds, of course, he realized that gravity existed, and allowed himself to detach from the screen. Ah, but I digress. That demonic growling from the kitchen later that night woke me out of my lethargy to see what in the world could possibly be going on. As I head to the kitchen, in addition to Brando's trademarked demonic low growl, I hear Wolfie's dog-whistle-pitched soprano screech. What in the? There must be an outdoor cat that came a little too close to that screen door Brando climbed earlier in the day. What I can't understand is why I can't hear a word or a sound from my husband. In our kitchen, next to the door, is a portable dishwasher the cats enjoy sitting on to sniff the air and see the view. But instead of a cat sitting up there, making odd noises, what do I see, but my DH, feet up, cowering at a safe distance from some very freaked-out cats. Okay, so he says he wasn't cowering. Uh-huh. Brando's fur along his spine is standing up, like a spiked hairdo on a punk-rocker. Wolfie's ears are pinned back. Their chorus is sounding like a bad opera, and Trill is starting to get into the middle of it, with his otherwordly sounds. Cosmo and Internet are simply watching the soap opera, while Sabra has said "Nope, I'm not having any of this", and is still on the back of the couch in the living room. Like I want to get into the middle of this, either. Maybe my hubby is the smart one, but I go about distracting the mongrel hordes by getting in between the soprano and the bass, blocking their view of each other, and herding the beastie boys in separate directions. Peace was restored in the Summer household, but the picture of my DH sitting crouched on top of the dishwasher is something that will never be forgotten.
Editor's note:
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