Life with a not-so-domesticated pet
Audrey is lying in my lap, purring, as I write this. But do not
be fooled. She is a violent, reprehensible creature and a detriment
to the environment.
Life with a not-so-domesticated pet
Audrey is lying in my lap, purring, as I write this. But do not be fooled. She is a violent, reprehensible creature and a detriment to the environment.
 At any moment she is liable to paw the keyboard. If I don’t pet her at regular intervals, she will attack my hands. This morning, she walked on the kitchen table with wet paws.
 “That’s it, you’re outta here,” I told her. “I’m putting you on a bus to Prunedale. You can be their problem.”
 She told me to put some food in her dish or she’d be putting a claw in my shin.
 I don’t know how it came to this – me living with a cat. I drive a pickup truck with dents. I wear jeans and baseball hats. I should own a dog. The dog and I would go to the beach, where I would throw tennis balls to be retrieved with enthusiasm. The dog would welcome me home. We would watch baseball together. It would gaze upon me with affectionate dog eyes.
 I tell Audrey this.
 “You wouldn’t like a dog,” she says. “You have to clean their poo with a shovel, walk them, and reassure them constantly. They eat vomit. I’m going outside.”
 I tell Audrey that I read a newspaper article stating that cats should be kept inside because they kill approximately 100 creatures a year. Cats are cruel to others and bad for the environment.
 She tells me cats are not responsible for global warming, Paris Hilton, or conflict in the Middle East.
 Also, we live in the Rural Transition Zone. This means we live three miles from a highway, but are surrounded by open land. Audrey can walk around without getting run over. It is a good place for a cat.
 To her credit, she has stopped with the lizards. She binged on them. She brought them home. One morning I woke to a lizard on my pillow. It was clinging to the side.
 “Please don’t give me to the cat,” said the lizard. I put it outside.
 I woke to a lizard in bed. One on the screen door. One at the top of the curtains. In my boot. In the bathroom. In a shirt. One lizard was back three days in a row. I know it was the same lizard because it had only three legs. I placed it in a different location each day.
 “For god’s sake, move,” I told the three-legged lizard. “Arizona. Behind the shed. You’ve got to relocate.”
 Next day, it was back in my bedroom. Change does not come easy for a lizard.
Most days, Audrey pays her way. She watches basketball with me, entertains my friends and relatives, and keeps the house free from mice.
 She alerted me to a tarantula. In the Rural Transition Zone, unusual things show up in your bedroom. The other night I woke and sensed Audrey was up to something. I turned on the reading lamp by the bed and looked down to see her sitting before a large, gray tarantula. It is mating season and he probably went to a bar and got lost on the way home.
 The tarantula was afraid of Audrey. I wrapped it in a towel and took it outside.
 “Thanks,” I told her. “I’d hate to step on that going to the bathroom at 3 a.m.”
 “It’s good you came along,” she said. “I don’t know what I would have done with that thing.”
Then we went back to bed. Audrey may be a killer, but she’s good at curling up at my feet for a good night’s sleep.
