The adventures of Booger Cat

Editor's Note: Comedienne Pam Stone writes her column for The Tryon Daily Bulletin twice each month from her office in the "Unabomber Shack" on her Gowensville farm. Want a chance to respond to this column? Go to Pam’s blog at www.tryondailybulletin.com.

Any sense of drama that I might have must come from my mother. She tends to be rather theatrical at times which can range from, "I can't find my keys!" to "My stove won't turn off and it's going to burn down the house!" The latter, of course, is deserved of a jump from 0 to 60 on the octave range, the other, surely less so but it does add a flair to normal mundane conversations. Her impeccable, English accent is simply icing.

I speak daily to my mother on the phone, usually by 8 a.m., just to check in. Usually, the conversation goes something like this:

"How are you?"

"Fine! Duke Power finally had that limb in the front yard removed that was hanging over the power line."

"That's good."

"And IGA has some lovely plums for sale,"

"Really?"

"I simply cannot believe that Rumsfeld hasn't turned in his resignation!"

So there is always a tremendous amount of information to be gleaned from each call.
Things seem to happen to my mother. This may secretly please her because it results in more dramatic stories to tell. I enjoy it because it's more original material that I get to blab about on the radio. The latest adventure involves a neighborhood thug:
a recently abandoned, calico Tom, that my mother has christened, "The Booger Cat."
Booger Cat belonged to an elderly woman who has moved from Mom's neighborhood and simply left him behind. Perhaps with good reason, although, as an animal lover, it grieved me to hear his fate. Mom disliked him intensely as he would sneak up on her own pride and joy, a tabby named Chloe, inflate himself in front of her on the other side of the living room window, spitting and hissing. Chloe, in return, would screech and attack the glass and then flee from the room and hide under the bed.

"That wicked, wicked cat!" Mom exclaimed the following morning at 8 a.m.

"Poor thing!" I said. "He's been dumped. Maybe you could feed him."

"I'm not going to feed that brute! Chloe is still under the bed and scratched me when I tried to comfort her!"

Within a week, she was feeding that brute. It began by leaving a chipped cereal bowl of whatever kibble was on sale at the IGA. It escalated to her crouching by the bowl, last week, as he was eating, and extending a gentle hand to stroke which he promptly attempted to ingest.

"I've been savaged by Booger Cat!" was the opening gambit the following morning at 8 a.m.

"Let's have Katy drive over and have a look at you." I said, referring to my sister, a nurse, who has just moved to the area.

"I already called AARP! They have a 24 hour nurse on duty and she said to get to the hospital straight away and get a tetanus shot!"

"Let me drive you then."

"I already went last night! And now they want Booger Cat."

"He's got to get a tetanus shot?"

"No! They want to put a cage out to catch him and take him away."

"But they'll kill him!" I cried, matching her octave. We were probably making nearby garage doors open an close at this point.

The plan, I later learned, was to quarantine and watch him for a few days, but I didn't buy that. I just knew they were going to put down Booger Cat. The drama increased over the next several days as each morning, a new, unwilling, captive was seen to be glaring out of the cage that had been erected on Mom's front porch.

"There's a raccoon in the cage!" I was informed at 8 a.m. on the dot.

"Can you let him out?"

No! He's messed in it and has walked off wearing it and is now in the middle of the street, turned over on its side! The entire cage is crushed and you should smell the trail he's left! It's all over the porch, up the sidewalk..."

"Mom! You can't leave him upside down in the middle of the street! Go pick up the cage!"

"I'm not touching that wretch! He's probably riddled with rabies!"

The raccoon was later released and I don't know where the cage is. But I do know when Paul and I dropped Mom home after Paul's birthday dinner last Saturday, I caught the glimmer of nocturnal eyes, dazzled by the headlights as we turned the car towards home. It was Booger Cat, in all his majesty, sitting on a rock wall opposite my mother's house, washing his face.

"You'd better scat, cat!" I said, leaning out the window. "You don't know how lucky you are!"

He paused, his damp paw held just below his mouth, and regarded me as one regards a rather limited, uninspiring, menu.

Some cats are just like that.