Reflections on the Fifth Week of Winter – Enticing Cats to Party 

                                                          Photo by Anita

     For the past thirteen years on January 16, I’ve told our cats “Happy Birthday,” patted their heads, and mentally added one to their age for the inevitable question, “How old are they?” This year I wanted to make George and Emma’s shared birthday special.

    My sister Anita inspired this change. She’d thrown a party for her Tibetan Terrier Lexi’s eighth birthday in August. With butterfly wings strapped to Lexi’s back and a silver party hat on her head, Lexi munched a dog cookie shaped like a bone and decorated with “Happy Birthday” in white frosting. Anita’s other five dogs chomped cupcake shaped cookies at the party.

    Treats would work for the cats, but forget the costume. If I tied wings on George’s back, he’d gouge bloody rivulets in my hand then sulk under the table. Planning ahead, I stowed the treats and two of the many toys Anita sent the cats for Christmas.

    When I woke January 16, Spence reported he’d already started the celebrations.

    Whispering so he wouldn’t wake me, he’d sung “Happy Birthday.” George opened one eye to check if Spence was okay, yawned, and went back to sleep. Emma never woke.

    A less than inspiring start.

    When the cats lounged in the great room mid morning, I fetched Anita’s party items and opened the treat package. Emma wiggled her nose, evidently detecting chicken aroma. Since the treats were smaller than cat food nuggets, I gave her two. She gulped both and rose on her hind legs to beg for more. George gobbled his then pushed in front of Emma to see if she’d left any. I gave them seconds, thirds, and fourths.

    Too much celebration.

    Not wanting to ruin their vet prescribed diet, I put the treats away and offered Anita’s straw catnip balls. Emma sniffed hers. George glanced at his then focused his eyes on my treat-empty hands. I rolled the balls. The cats left to nap in the bedroom.

    Without the food, my party flopped. But I had other ideas.

    Early afternoon, I unplugged my new laptop and called, “George.”

    He looked up from the food bowl.

    I walked to the stairs and called again.

    He followed.

    In the loft, I settled on the bed beside napping Emma.

    She merrowed a complaint.

    I had two plans in mind. I’d sit between the cats and pet both like I had when they were kittens. At the same time, I’d celebrate Martin Luther King, Jr. Day by watching a YouTube video of Dr. King’s “I Have a Dream” speech. I put the laptop on the bed by my feet.

    Emma merrowed a second complaint and waddled behind the computer.

    I picked her up and put her by my left side. Her third complaint dissolved into purrs when I stroked her from head to tail.

    She set her chin on the edge of the computer and waited for another pet.

    I picked George off the floor and set him on my right side.

    He didn’t complain. He just jumped off the bed.

    I picked him up four more times with equal success.

    Dr. King spoke in his vibrato voice. “When will you be satisfied? We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of police brutality.”

    “That hasn’t changed,” I said and scratched Emma’s chin.

    She stretched her legs.

    George clomped downstairs.

    Dr. King continued. “We can never be satisfied, as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities.”

    “That has changed,” I told Emma.

    Her purrs increased to coffee-grinder loud.

    Partial success.

    Later, determined to involve George in birthday fun, I opened the bubble solution jar, dipped the wand, and blew.

Emma’s eyes followed the first group of bubbles from the tip of the wand to splashdown on the kitchen tiles. Unimpressed, she left.

    I said, “George look” and blew five more times before he noticed the floating bubbles. His head moved with one bubble’s flight till it splatted. He sniffed the soap residue then walked to the food bowl.

    I cleaned the sticky tiles with wet rags.

    Emma returned and watched each swipe.

    I should have scrubbed the bathroom for her.

    How could we engage George?

    By slicing white cheddar, Spence did. George followed Spence and the cheese plate to the sofa. Spence gave George three nibbles. George gobbled the cheese and promptly vomited.

    Not a celebration.

    Sporting his you-guys-are-crazy frown, George sat by the front door until we let him onto the porch. Twenty minutes later, he hadn’t scratched the door to come back. Why would George stay out so long in thirty degree weather?

    Spence stepped out to check.

    Beside the workbench, George pointed his taut body at the fat field mouse he’d cornered. George twitched his tail and waited for his birthday entertainment to move.

    The mouse shivered in place.

    Spence grabbed George around the middle and carried him inside.

    Next January 16, I’ll bake cookies in cat shapes and eat them by myself.