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Making peace with cat and mouse games

Burt's Eye View

I tried not to gag as I picked up her still-warm gift. Molly meant it as the highest order of peace offering.

It’s just that — how shall I put this? — I, unlike Molly, am not a cat.

I’m not even a cat person. I’m more a fish tank guy.

Come to think of it, so were all of our cats. The diligence of a cat guarding a fish tank is astounding. Cats I have known watched my fish tank for hours, whiskers twitching, scanning with almond-shaped eyes for anything that could possibly be amiss.

They’d hop up to the top of the tank and — quite certain that the fish were in danger of drowning — dipped their paws into the water in valiant attempts to rescue them.

We learned to keep the cover on the fish tank.

It’s not that I dislike kitties. I grew up on a small farm where the cats outnumbered the milk cows. We milked by hand, and the collection of cats who gathered to encourage me to greater speed seemed to grow by the day.

One kitten used to curl up on my shoulder and supervise. Her purring increased as the zzzzzt-zzzzzt of squirts of milk hitting an empty stainless steel pail faded into schplot-schplots as the bucket filled.

The system worked well for a few weeks. Until she grew. After a few months, she’d drape her front paws over my shoulder, her long cat body stretched down my back, and her back feet perched on the ridge of my belt.

Eventually, she gave up, joined the throng of felines perched by the barn cats’ milk pan waiting for tithes, and another kitten took over the supervisory role.

When I no longer was a kitten myself and wandered into the world, the truth baffled me: Most people have house cats, not barn cats.

This is why I am a fish tank guy. Unlike cats and dogs, fish find very little need to lick your fingers. Fish don’t stare at you while you eat. And fish don’t curl up on top of the book propped open in your lap.

When my mother-in-law passed this summer, we inherited her cat, Molly. I would have preferred the TV, or maybe her computer desk, but it was Molly who needed a home.

Predictably, Molly set about licking my fingers, staring at my plate and jumping onto the pages of my books. We worked out a compromise. I read and she sits on the arm of my easy chair like a library lion. She doesn’t lick my fingers, but she does remain vigilant, making sure I am not attacked by fish. So far, I haven’t been.

It’s been an adjustment but I think we’re both getting the hang of it. The other day, Molly discovered an errant mouse in the basement. She brought the wriggling trespasser upstairs, reporting in for inspection. I inspected.

While I sat at the dining room table, Molly let the mouse run around my feet, taking care that it didn’t stray too far from my toes.

Then she ate it. Half of it. She left me exactly 50 percent of the mouse. Plus its tail.

It was a wonderful gesture, one that made me swell with pride — while my cheeks swelled with something else.

I’m thinking of letting Molly nuzzle into my book the next time I try to read one. Maybe even lick a finger. Because I’m hoping that by making peace complete, there will be no further need for peace offerings — half or whole.

— Cole will sign copies of his humor novels from 5 to 7 p.m. Dec. 7 at the Conneaut Public Library, and from 2 to 5 p.m. Dec. 12 at Scribblers Coffee Shop, Geneva. Write him at burtseyeview@tribtoday.com or on the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook.

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