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Life in South Texas

This is a story of how cats are to blame for everything, including unusual weather. In fact, this is a story of how cats are to blame in particular for unusual weather.

My adored companion has frequently been given to the expression, "But you can't blame the kitties," at such times as when the priceless Ming vahz has been discovered in shattered pieces. (Actually, we never had a priceless Ming vahz, but I did used to have a really favorite coffee cup which met a mysterious and unfortunate end.) But I know that when these occasional household disasters occur, it's always the cats' fault, even when I don't catch them in the act of actual and total rampaging destruction.

The truth is (and this is a fact of which many people are unaware), all the troubles suffered by that Biblical fellow Job began when his herd of cats got too big, and he bacame overweeningly proud of his award-winning felines. This fact was brought out during a recent Sunday service of cat show widowers after several beers had been consumed, and I'm sure it's true.

Anyway, to get back to the story at hand, our proud and usually pristine cattery recently suffered a terrible invasion that is the inevitable lot of those who frequent cat shows, take in 'ladies' for breeding, and live in a hot, dry climate. That's right ... an infestation of the dreaded F--A! When we realized what had happened, we knew that there was only one option -- W*A*R.

Not being the kind of people who do things in half measures, we prepared to launch the REAL 'Mother Of All Wars,' and procured an awesome arsenal ... chemical weapons, bombs, and biologics. (The fact that the cost of this supply of F--A death equaled approximately half of the national debt seemed significant to me, but my dear love sweetly pointed out, "You can't blame the kitties," and of course I was mollified. And of course I assured the federal investigator who promptly showed up that none of these lethal weapons was destined for export to any unfriendly country.)

On the fateful F-Day chosen for the Great F--A Eradication, we carefully prepared. The first step was to wash each resident feline, and remove them from the premises before loosing the chemical wrath. Since we have, over our years of cat-owning and breeding, collected enough airline carriers to evacuate the entire cat population west of the Mississippi in the event of a nuclear incident, setting up the requisite numbers of carriers in the garage was no obstacle. With only a moderate loss of blood (and wounds that may not even leave scars) all the dear cats were washed and ensconced in their temporary refuge in the garage.

Knowing that we would be unable to enter our house for many hours once the F-Bombs began to fall, we prepared our patio to sustain life in any emergency. We took out food and wine, of course, and also sun block, pool toys and floats, books, work projects, music, and much more. After looking at the patio table, we added more food and wine, just in case.

As I mentioned, we live in a hot, dry climate, and the last time it rained here in July was in 1908, when a giant meteor struck Siberia and ruined the weather everywhere for weeks. (As a side note, I should mention that a number of reputable revisionist historians have discounted the meteor theory, and have instead traced that world-wide catastrophe to the migration of wild cats across the Siberian plain.) Anyway, with absolute confidence that we were in for a sunny, enjoyable afternoon of poolside lounging after setting the War On F--As in motion, we fecklessly turned our home into a cauldron of germ warfare, guaranteed to kill any living creature.

The first discordant note that impinged on our blissful state was the extremely large and black cloud which appeared to be centered over our back yard. But we laughed, and said "It never rains here in July," and directed our attention back to the food and wine. Imagine our surprise as the rain drops began to fall, quickly soaking everything that we had so thoughtfully lugged out to the patio. After a brief attempt to huddle under the sun umbrella (which is entirely unsuited for warding off a really determined rain storm) we admitted defeat, and spent the remainder of the afternoon sitting in the car, staring at the cats in the garage, who were all staring at us in the car. It was not the most pleasant afternoon in my recent memory. As I sat listening to the rain drops, I amused my dear wife with the following irrefutably logical exposition of the day's events:

• If it weren't for the cats, we wouldn't be having a F--A problem;
  
• If it weren't for the F--A problem, we wouldn't have been forced to expend a minor fortune, nor would we presently be unable to enjoy the shelter of our home against this storm;
  
• In fact, if we weren't forced out of the house by the cats and their damn F--As in the first place, it never would have rained in July for the first time in generations;
  
• Therefore, it's pretty obvious that this unusual and hostile weather is really the cats' fault.

My wife's rejoinder, "But you can't blame the kitties for the rain" sounded (even to her) pretty weak at that point.

Encouraged by her admission that there probably was some cause-and-effect relationship between our cats and the first July rain in 83 years, I took the opportunity to point out some of the other problems for which I blame the cats, including the greenhouse effect, inflation, world hunger, and fear of getting out of bed in the dark.

She rebutted with "But you can't blame the kitties." Then she hit me.

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