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| The Entrepreneur |
Someone
leaked the news to my cat Harmony that a new Cat Café is opening in Boston.[1] 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.
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