Last
Saturday morning, we adopted a cat. A kitten from our local shelter.
A teeny male tabby that meows incessantly and purrs even more.
Affection-starved from spending his life in a cage, this cat wants
constant attention. This works well for us, Roz, our other cat, isn't
all that interested in affection. She loves petting, head-scratching
– for about twenty seconds. Then she gets up and walks away. How
does Roz like the new cat? She's pissed. Lots of hissing. Paw up,
claws out, ready to take a swipe.
I
keep writing the "cat." I'm not certain he has a name yet.
When we met him last week, we started calling him Moxie. He has
plenty. Bold and playful. Spunky and fun. It was the perfect name.
But at the time, the cat was a female. Or so everyone thought. On the
intake form at the shelter, he was tagged as a female, and no one
checked since, including us. We went to the shelter looking for a
female cat. I've only had one male cat in my 51 years of life, and he
was a bit of a let-down. Not very affectionate, mean to our other
cat. I assumed all male cats were like this.
Eli
and I talked about the word moxie about a week ago. His cousins from
Maine had just concluded their annual visit. Ben, a high-school
student, loves to drink Moxie soda. He wears a Moxie t-shirt almost
every day. Moxie must be an acquired taste. Or something Mainers
tolerate to be different from everyone else. It's terrible. During
their visit, the family took Eli with them to the Air and Space
Museum at Dulles Airport in Virginia. The Amelia Earhart exhibit
included the word "moxie" several times. Apparently, in
conjunction with Ms. Earhart is the only place in modern lexicon that
the word can be found. The coincidence was notable to Eli, and we
looked up the etymology of the word Moxie. It appears that the word
derived from the brand – how American.
We're
all in agreement that Moxie is too feminine a name. Possibly because
of its association with Amelia. Maybe because it ends in "ie"
– I can't say. Regardless, when we tried to call the cat Moxie, we
kept referring to him as "she."
*****************************
Five
days have passed. The cat now has the name Tommy. We toyed around
with several names. Moxie, Mojo – really "Mr. Mojo" shortening the name "Mr. Mojo Risin’" from the Doors' L.A. Woman –
and Bob. The name Bob is a huge joke with my kids. For some reason
Sophie and Eli think that Bob is the funniest name a person or an
animal can have. Every time the name comes up, they dissolve into
fits of tear-inducing laughter. I cringe at the eventuality that they
meet an adult Bob in real life. It isn't going to be pretty.
While
Moxie/Mr. Mojo/Bob was still being confused by all the names we threw
at him, Susan had made a veterinary appointment for the obligatory
parasite check that shelter cats need. The appointment was scheduled
for the next day and we needed to settle on a name. Tommy Ramone, the
last of the four original Ramones had just died, and his name had
been thrown into the mix. A true outlier. Not really something any of
were talking about, considering. But suddenly, it all gelled. Eli and
Sophie simultaneously said they preferred Tommy and we were done.
It's a nice name. It fits him. We now all refer to him as "he."
I think he has started to respond to the name. He meows a bit less
now but still purrs all the time.
*****************************
All
this purring. I never question where I stand with my cats. Their
emotions are on display. Tommy, climbing all over me, poking me with
his head. Roz, she sits a few feet away, other side of the couch. A
satisfied smile on her face. Allowing twenty-second pet-fests. And as
soon as she gets enough, she walks away. Or twitches her tail. Or
bites me (gently). I was getting a massage the other day. Susan, my
wife, is a massage therapist. And since I'm an aging fitness freak,
this works out well – at least in my opinion. It occurred to me
that the nicest compliment I could pay to Susan during the massage
would be to start purring. So primal, so spontaneous, so honest.
Purring
humans would make the world simpler, better. Even when animals don't
like me, I prefer their honesty. I ride my bike to work. This is
something that our neighborhood dogs hate. They go nuts when I zip by. Barking, growling, lunging at the end of their rope. Our
relationship is clear. It's never like this with people. We are
allegedly the intelligent animal, and therefore more complex,
nuanced. People get along for myriad reasons. Of course there's
friendship and amiability, but then the deception starts. People
strive for harmony, for reciprocation, for advancement, to simply be
polite. But many of us aren't very good at this. And some of us suck.
Purring with a twitchy tail. Smiling with claws out. Mixed signals.
Party small-talk is often like this. Are we getting to know one
another or just doing time, a societal duty. Those of us prone to
anxiety get anxious. I'd rather the person hissed at me and walked
away.
There
is a joke within my group of friends about niceness, who's nice,
who's not. "Nice" – it's such a weak, insipid word. This
is intentional. In this joke, nice is an insult. An implication that the person is tepid and bland
like the word. A few months ago, chatting with my boss, I mentioned
something about my friend Doug. She knows who Doug is, but doesn't
know him at all. But she knows Doug's wife, Annie, well. And she
pretty much hates Annie. They have clashed in the past, claws out and
in this case, not much pretense of amiability. Their relationship
often causes me discomfort at work. So mentioning Doug was a stupid
move on my part.
Me:
Blah blah blah, Doug, blah blah.
Boss:
Oh, Is Doug nice?
Me:
<Pause> I think he is the smartest person I've ever met.
Boss:
I asked if he was nice, not smart.
Me:
Hmmm.
And
so this five second exchange started a huge analytical round of what
motivates me to be friends with people. Niceness isn't on my list.
Doug actually is a pretty nice guy. He is genuinely interested in
what I have to say. Caring. Remembers when there is something big
going on in my life. He's like this with everybody. But many of my friends aren't all that nice.
They are smart, witty, driven, interesting, honest, but not
necessarily nice. I'm not that nice either. If you want real feedback
on your new haircut, the outfit you just bought, I'm the guy to ask.
And
this probably gets to the heart of my aversion to polite,
societally-accepted human interaction. I'm not looking for fake
smiles and uninspired chit-chat. It leaves me feeling disingenuous and
dirty. Like I just told a lie. My friends, although many of them
fantastic at the small-talk game, share my sentiments. Our
conversations are much deeper, wittier, intelligent, sarcastic and
rewarding. I spend an evening with them and I know nothing about how
their job is going, what they think of the weather, their opinion of
the last Pirates game.
*****************************
As
time has passed, Tommy and Roz are getting along better. I won't call
it friendship, but certainly a relationship. They fight. In the sort
of way that only cats can fight. Hissing, batting,
but lots of back and forth chasing. It seems kind of harsh, violent. But it is honest. And at least they are spending time together.
Meanwhile, as a member of the 'advanced' species, I spend my evenings
out talking with acquaintances about gas mileage and mortgage rates.
