James

King James

There is no doubt that James found us. We were taking Fritz and Purrsia to a kennel for summer vacation, ours not theirs, when we first saw James locked up in an outdoor cage in the midst of a pack of yappy, unhappy dogs.

He was a magnificent specimen of feline beauty and I knew we had to have him. I just didn't want the kids to think that it was my idea. I let them humbug me all weekend about giving the poor, poor Kitty a home. Of course, I let them think that there was no way on God's green earth that we could accomodate another cat. But of course, as everyone knew would happen, I relented about supper time on Monday and suggested that perhaps we should drive back to the kennel to see if the kitty cat was still there.

He knew we'd be back. He jumped out of his little cardboard box the minute he saw us and there was no turning back, for any of us.

He was the cat from Hell, if ever there was one. The people who had abandoned hima at the kennel had obviously lived in an apartment because James freaked out at the sight of the stairs. He would lie on the landing and threaten any living thing that ventured either up or down with hiss, snarl, swat and outright attack.

When the state of seige was three weeks old, I'd had enough. I was tired of living in fear, wondering if my next step would be my last. Adrenalin, when it pumps 24 hours a

day, is hard on the body and I saw that my future would not be a long one unless ether James or I left.

As though he had read my mind, that very week James relinquished his fortress on the landing and retreated to the family room, even daring to avail himself of an lap when such was available.

We let him outdoors for the first time on a fine evening in May. He sniffed the air for dogs and finding none, ventured behind the mock orange bushes. He peeped back at us to make sure we hadn't abandoned him and then sallied towards the hydrangea. It was rather large so we lost sight of him momentarily. After a few minutes, we realized that he was not where we had last seen him and momentary panic set in with all hands running this way and that, calling to James to please come home. We didn't have long to worry. He was spotted initiating the flower bed along the neighbour's house. I realized that he was laying down a long one and knowing that our new neighbour was not particularly fond of cats, I shrieked "James, stop it."

James, startled beyond belief, leaped out of the flower bed before he was ready, whipping the ripe turd through the air and smack against the neighbour's house. We were able to persuade John to edge himself through the hedge and remove the offending mess from the house while the rest of us doubled over in gales of laughter. James regained his composure and completed his interrupted toilet on our deck.

Fast forward to 2003. Update. James has been an 'only cat' for almost two years now. It is best this way, methinks. He no longer has to bow down to Fritz, Chief cat. He no longer has to tolerate the very presence of Purrsia. He has settled in to a very decadent lifestyle. If he goes out, he gets treats when he comes home. He has the run of the house, and can sleep wherever he darn well pleases - mostly on a dining room chair beneath the overhanging table cloth or on the little stool in the front hall where the sun shines through the sidelight. Misbehaviour is almost a thing of the past. He did arrive home with a tiny bunny in his jaws last summer. A stern admonission from me and he ran around the corner of the house where I think (hope is probably the better word) the little thing managed to escape. Most people think he has mellowed. Maybe he has. Certainly he is not as curmudgeonly as he used to be and even lets you hold him when the moon is full and the tide is high.