Harmony’s Cat Café and Spa
Someone leaked the news to my cat Harmony that a new Cat Café is opening in Boston. This put an idea into her little cat brain. Instead of opening a café where humans can come to have coffee or tea and play with adoptable kitties, she would open a café and spa for cats. It would be the ultimate feline luxury experience.
I told her not to even think of doing that. I forgot that she never listens to me.
She didn’t waste any time. I went out the other day to run some errands and came home to find that my living room had been turned into a cattery. Every stray and outdoor cat in the neighborhood was there. Somehow, my cupboard had been raided and all my bowls and small plates were now on the living room floor, filled with milk, water, dry cat food or catnip. Two tabbies sitting by themselves in a corner were drinking cream from my Rosenthal porcelain teacups.
The kitties nearest the catnip-filled bowls were either running in circles or sprawled on the floor, stoned out of their pint-sized heads.
Harmony saw me standing at the door with my mouth open and came over to me. She bumped her nose on my leg and rubbed herself against me. She always does this when she’s trying to butter me up.
“What in this entire universe and beyond have you done?” I asked, when I could finally speak.
“Isn’t it great?” said Harmony. “They each paid me one treat to get in, and I have a two-drink minimum at two treats per drink. Spa treatments cost extra.”
“How did you get my things down from the cupboard?” I asked.
“I paid the Great Dane across the street to take them down. He’s clumsy and his breath smells like five-day-old farts, but he’s tall and strong.”
“Get those little hairballs out of here!”
“I can’t do that. I took payment from them and promised them a complete experience. If they don’t get what they paid for they’re going to shred every piece of furniture in the apartment.”
I rolled my eyes. “How long do they plan to stay?” I asked.
“Uh, well,” said Harmony, “These are the ones who wanted spa treatment. That’s where you come in. You have to be the one to give the treatments. We couldn’t get any other human to do it.”
“Oh no!” I said. “Count me out. I’m not going to take a chance on getting my arms and face shredded!”
“They won’t scratch you,” said Harmony. “They want the treatments. They said so themselves, and I made them hold up their right paws and swear they wouldn’t attack my workers.”
I agreed to become a kitty manicurist/bath attendant/masseuse for the afternoon, until we could get all the clients to leave. I was sorry I made this agreement. Harmony had lied. Even though they had all asked for their treatments, they reacted to being massaged, bathed and manicured the same way almost every cat reacts. By the time the last cat left the apartment, my arms looked like they had been put into a bread slicer and there was blood all over the bathroom.
I put alcohol and bandages on my arms, then proceeded to clean up the mess in the living room. Harmony gave me some nose nudges and leg rubs, but I ignored her. I was pissed.
After I cleaned up the living room and washed the dishes, I found Harmony in the living room. Cats can’t smile, but, if they could, she would have given me the biggest fake smile she could manage.
“If you ever do anything like that again,” I said. “I’m having cat for breakfast!”
“Ah, you know you love me,” she said. “I’m little and cute and funny.”
She walked away, slipped into the closet and lay down for a nap.