It’s time I told you about Smoothy. He’s part Ragdoll, Main Coon, and another breed I have forgotten. A genetic blend concocted by a madman breeder who lives 100 miles from here. He is a friend of the breeder my wife bought her dog, Ellie, from. Ellie’s a Soft Hair Wheaton Terrier with a long and focused linage, and papers. You can see the potential for sibling rivalry, but there was never a problem—between them, a friendly détente at first.
Ellie & Smoothy Meet For The First Time
The cat was to be my pet, sort of. I was still missing Amber. Damn, I loved that cat for ten years. I wanted another female cat, but we decided on the only one of a litter with different color fur, a kind of silvery black, a sort of sheen. Fifty shades of grey, he likes to call it. We didn’t know his sex when we signed up for a cat in his litter. I had already determined its name, Smoothy—assuming it would be a girl. I worry the name bothers him . . . sounds sort of fey. Could lead to problems. Remember that old Johnny Cash song, “My Name is Sue.”
He was a cute kitten and as now, as limber as a rubber band—Rag Doll genetics. It’s the Main Coon blood that’s has been a problem.
Pure bred Main Coon – A Very Serious cat.
MCs are big cats—tough and strong . . . and agile—fast. Smothy’s broken nine nice flower pots, my wife’s beloved orchids. He spilled a large pot of soup off the kitchen counter. There were other spellings. Curtin brackets pulled out of our bedroom wall – a climbing expedition. Nothing is safe.
He loves my wife, goes to sleep in her lap, no problem—wouldn’t think of doing that with me. Comes around when he thinks I might give him a snack, or play puppeteer with a cat toy. He allows five or six strokes on his back, then moves on. I’ve thought of trading him in for another model.
These last two weeks have been a period of adjustment for Smoothy and me. My wife and Ellie were visiting friends in Stockholm for two days. Smoothy and me were alone in the house. No mama for the cat— Mono e mono. And I was in charge of food, and interesting advantage. But I offered him a bonus. He’s been wanting to get up to my loft since he arrived—unknown territory. The stairway door has always been closed. So many breakable things up here, irreplaceable things. I decided to give him a chance, with me cat-sitting him. It’s been pretty good so far. He knocked over a brass elephant, part of a set of very old set of brass opium weights I brought home from Thailand—no damage. He tries to get into his snack jar, but it’s cat proof.
He ends up on my desk, beside my keyboard, snoozing, as close has he can get to my keyboard. All cat people know this one I’m sure. But it’s all right. It’s nice, and maybe what I wanted/needed—not really a lap cat. A cat that likes to stay up at 2 a.m. Content to sleep beside me one the desk, or watch letters appear on the monitor. An occasional swat at the icon as I write these late night words.