I grew up in a household that collected cats.
Every so often, my mother would come home with a stray, or as word got out in the Feline Nation, they would wander up to our house and camp outside, knowing suckers lived inside.
Thus, I’m used to cats, know cats, and have developed a healthy respect for them as a species. They simply live their lives the way I would if given the opportunity: Do nothing, lay around, seek interaction only when I want to, and eat and drink to my stomach’s content. And occasionally bathe using my tongue.
Currently, we have two “outside” cats - Jackie and Sadie - who decided to join our family about 10 years ago. I rarely notice them, they occasionally kill pests/varmints, and they only notice me when they’re hungry - a comfortable arrangement for all parties.
But our first “family” cat caused a little more of a stir.
My wife found a kitten in the middle of a highway, bloodied and scrambling for life. She pulled over, with our (then) young daughter in tow, and darted between traffic to save the kitten. By the time I got home that evening, my daughter had already narrowed the choices for her first pet’s name: Yo-Yo or Uncle Gary.
Slighting her Uncle Gary, she chose Yo-Yo. After an animal is named, you are legally obligated to keep it - or so I was told.
We soon found out that Yo-Yo, like most cats I’ve known, was psychotic. Yo-Yo found great joy back then from jumping on unsuspecting people while hiding in the oddest of places - like my pants pocket.
Shortly after Yo-Yo came to our home, I received a frantic phone call from home.
“Len, you have to come home now! It’s the cat,” my wife told me while I was at work.
“What’s wrong with the cat?” I asked with visions of something horrible, like him being run over or eating the pork loin I was planning to eat at lunch.
“Just come - now! Hurry!” Then I heard some commotion in the background, my daughter screaming something, and my wife hanging up the phone.
“Wow, this must be serious,” I thought to myself. “I better get home quick.”
I did, after I scanned the Internet for a while, then went by the local convenience store to peruse their new inventory of hats.
Once home, I was led to the office area, where some work had been done on the floor. My wife then pointed to an open air-conditioning vent. The vent, about four inches wide, went down into the floor and didn’t have a cover because of the work that was in progress.
“He’s in there,” my wife gushed, wrought with worry. “Yo-Yo’s in the vent and he won’t come out. You need to go get him out.”
I looked down in the vent. My wife, or daughter, or both, have scattered some kitty litter and cat food in the vent in an attempt to lure Yo-Yo from his hiding place.
Knowing cats and their wily ways, I wasn’t too concerned.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said assuredly. “He’ll come out after a while.”
My carefree attitude toward this “emergency” didn’t seem to comfort the female feline neophytes of the house, who said they feared Yo-Yo “would die in there.”
They then proceeded to walk around the house, yelling into the other vents, hoping Yo-Yo would hear them as he explored the inner workings of our HVAC system.
While they were wandering around the house fretting and hollering, I looked back at the vent. There was Yo-Yo, calmly licking his coat, not a care in the world.
I then went back to work. Yes, indeed, suckers live inside.
• Len Robbins is the editor of The Clinch County News. He can be reached at lrobbins@ clinchcounty news
