ABOUT WOMEN
A boy and his cat ... why hasn't it been made into a movie?
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By Christie Wilson
Advertiser Staff Writer
Not too many guys will admit to being cat lovers. The only way a man can get away with publicly liking cats is if he's a curmudgeon, or at least portrays one.
I know three men who openly share their lives with cats. Two easily fit the label of curmudgeon. The other, a police lieutenant who started life as a dog man, found himself living with a half-dozen felines when he married a card-carrying cat freak.
"They're kind of funny once you get to know them. They have more personality than dogs," he says. "Of course, we do need new wallpaper now. We had that grass kind of wallpaper, and they've torn it to shreds."
(His wife reports that he's much more enamored of the little balls of fur than he lets on, particularly one named Dreamsicle.)
A survey I read said that almost 90 percent of cat owners are women. Maybe the gender disparity in cat ownership developed because felines have always been assigned feminine attributes: slinky, sassy, preening. Or, maybe it's because interaction with a cat requires a gentle touch, not the roughhousing and rump-slapping upon which dogs and men thrive.
More likely, it's because cats are a direct threat to household authority. They compete for space on the bed and for the attention of the mistress of the house, and often are more successful at getting it.
Cats refuse to allow their demands to be ignored. Unlike dogs, who avert their gaze when confronted with their lord and master, a cat will look you straight in the eye when caught in the act of evil-doing and dare you to throw that slipper.
No doubt contributing to the strained relations between men and cats is the bad rap felines have gotten in the media. Their deviousness and indolence have been exaggerated in such movies as "Cinderella," "Lady and the Tramp," "Stuart Little" and "Babe."
While there's "Old Yeller," "Shiloh" and "Big Red," how many great books have you read about a boy and his cat?
At our house, the two dogs are His and the three cats are Hers. I figure I got the better end of that deal, since the cats are courteous enough to bury their leavings. (We're still negotiating over the two children.)
My husband's only public acknowledgement of the felines is when he kicks the water dish across the kitchen floor or is summoned to remove the remains of decapitated sparrows.
The cats return the favor by clawing his rubber slippers.
The newest addition, Lucky Tiger — so named because of his elaborate striping and because we rescued him from a Dumpster — perhaps is too young to have figured out his place in the household hierarchy. Shunned by the older two female cats, he has formed a casual alliance with my husband.
Once in a while, I catch them catnapping on the couch together, the furry one snuggled in Jimmy's armpit.
Hmmm, maybe this man vs. cat thing is fueled by envy. Cats are living the life men can only dream of — food and affection on demand and long periods of sloth interrupted by short bursts of play.
And their lady owners let them get away with it.
