The Cat’s Meow, Part II

The Russian Blue doesn’t say much. By nature these cats are quiet and sullen, preferring to shoot baleful glances at the kids and mutter guttural curses at the dog under their breath. They hold a grudge forever. The icy cold of Archangelsk and the Steppes of Siberia has sunk into their souls and they are sure that the rest of the world has conspired to deprive them of their God-given rights.

Yesterday I trod on the Blue’s tail, which resulted in an unearthly tirade that seemed to consist of a lot of consonants strung together at improbable intervals. Loosely translated I think he said, “Prepare to die, capitalist pig” but I’m a little rusty.

My Blue, however, loves me and follows me around. Tiny and slight, he sometimes appears in my lap before I realize he is even there. (The kids swear he can teleport, but haven’t been able to prove this yet.) Suddenly a pair of glowing green eyes is gazing at me intensely, and a soft head butts my hand for attention. We share a moment, with the theme from Dr. Zhivago playing in the background, and then he’s off – either to fillet the Labrador’s face or to plot the overthrow of the free world, I’m not sure which. Possibly both.

The other night my husband woke at 1:00 AM to find the Blue sitting on my chest and staring at him. An hour later he glanced over his shoulder again to see the Blue in the exact same position, still eye-balling him menacingly. “It was really creepy,” the hubby reported the next morning over coffee. “I think he was plotting on me…”

Silly man. Of course he was!

The Blue makes his feelings known in a low voice that speaks of cheap Russian cigarettes and vodka. Mine actually utters one Human word: MOM. And he speaks it. A LOT.

One day the plumber was at my house. The visit lasted a few hours and I pitched all three pets down to the basement to keep them out of the way. The Lab and the Tabby were good with this. The Blue, on the other hand was mortally offended. “Mom! Mom!”

At first Joe was friendly and cheerful. He and I chatted in between the trips I made up and downstairs with the laundry. When I came down after one trip, however, he looked at me rather oddly.

“Are your kids home today?” he asked.

“No, they’re both at school.”

“Oh.” He went back to work.

The Blue continued to express himself vigorously. “Mom! Moowwwm!!”

“Shut up!” I told him. “You can come out when Joe’s gone!”

A half hour later, the Blue was still yowling and had started banging his head against the door.

Finally, Joe couldn’t stand it anymore. “Aren’t you going to answer him?” he shouted. “Who is down there anyway? I thought your kids were in school!”

Baffled, I stared at him. “Huh?”

“There’s someone down there screaming ‘Mom!’” His hand was on his cell phone and I was pretty sure a call to Child Protective Services was coming next.

Just then, the Blue let out a howl. “That? That’s not a kid. That is a cat. And an obnoxious one at that!”

“A cat?”

I went over to the basement door and opened it. Out shot a smoky blue streak. I barely caught a glimpse of neon green eyes and a veiled threat as he bolted for the living room. Neatly catching him, I held him out at Joe. “Mom! Mowwwowwm!” the Blue screamed, wriggling wildly.

Joe sat down limply. “I never would have believed it. I have never heard anything like that before. That cat speaks English!” The Blue hissed and spat wildly in his direction. Meanwhile, the Labrador and Tabby came up the stairs and added their voices to the fray. I dropped the Blue who tried to run, spitting Cossack epithets that sounded something like, “Son of a Romanian whorehound!” The Lab gleefully bounded after him, knocking Joe and his tool kit over in the process. I haven’t seen Joe since.

As I write this, the Tabby is sleeping on one side of me and the Blue is sitting on the arm of the chair blocking my access to my tea. The Lab is napping in the armchair.

Once again, détente reigns in the land.

The Russian Prince on his usual throne

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