Ernie the monstrocat

There is undoubtedly a period in my life where I was not owned by a cat. I just don’t remember it.

With Rajah’s death, however, I’m presently catless, and likely to remain that way for quite some time, for reasons I won’t go into. Well-meaning and much-appreciated friends ring up with news of kitties needing a home, and I patiently explain why this isn’t possible.

So when my new buddy Leslie asked if I had room for a cat, I started the “I’m sorry…” spiel but she interrupted: “I know, Kat told me. But this would only be for a month and we’re really in a bind.”

And so Ernie the monstrocat has moved in.

Ernie is a silvery grey plushy cat with big gold eyes, roughly the size of a small bear and quite likely the biggest cat I’ve ever seen. He’s as round as he is tall, purrs like a race car and absolutely has a mind of his own. His real owner had to rush to Wyoming or some place on a family emergency; she won’t be back until December and the cat sitter can’t take Ernie until next month. So I’m his temporary lodgings.

Leslie and I picked him up from a well-meaning kennel by the airport, full of barking dogs, foul odors and two nice if overworked girls. We packed him into his carrier–the handle bent under his weight–and got the heck out of there. Ernie didn’t like the noisy, smelly place any better than I; he chattered happily all the way across town, stepped regally into my garage, and made himself at home.

Too much at home. I left him in the garage for the night to acclimate. Next morning: No Ernie.

I called kitty-kitty, rattled his food bowl, made cat noises and appealed to his better nature for 30 increasingly desperate minutes: Nothing. He wasn’t behind or under or inside anything I could see. The garage has no windows and–aside from the big car doors–the only door leads into the house and it had been locked tight. Yet he’d disappeared. Or–uh-oh–maybe his heart got tired of pushing blood through all that Ernie-ness and he–ulp–croaked…

Ohmigod. I panicked and called Mom. We were debating how best to break the news to Ernie’s owner–I mean, in less than 12 hours I’ve obliterated a cat from the face of the earth, that’s gonna take some explaining–when Ernie digs out from a pile of rags in the garage broom closet and saunters over to ask about breakfast.

We had a nice petting session, I brushed him thoroughly (garnering enough fur to knit an afghan) and gave him a rather one-sided lecture on why kitties must respond when called. I think he’s taking it under advisement.

He’s a sweet cat, almost desperate for petting, and he’ll obligingly roll over on his back to expose his belly for brushing. Get within five feet of him with anything resembling a petting implement, i.e., hand, and he lunges for a cuddle. This makes photographing him almost impossible. I have a lot of shots of Ernie that look like this:

He closely watches me and the strange noisemakers in the house, but all in all he’s a pretty laid-back feline. After 15 minutes or so of pet-time he’ll grab a couple mouthfuls of food, drink some water, and come back over to flop beside me. And left alone, he’s managed to retrieve half the contents of the cupboards and scatter them across the floor, so I think he’s enjoying himself.

Tonight he’ll sleep in the laundry room–from the banging noises he’s already rearranging the cupboards–and I’ll slowly let him into the rest of the house over the weekend. I figure he could probably find his way back to food, water and the litter box now, but after this morning’s adventures I think I want to cat-proof the house a tad more and put the more precious stuff out of catreach before I turn him loose.

This oughta be interesting.

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