Читать книгу Bad to the Bone: - Bo Hoefinger - Страница 15

My father arrived home several hours after my mother had locked up Moose in the basement. Upon learning of the cat’s location, he quickly retrieved her and brought her into the living room.

With my father, the encounter with Moose was a bit more controlled and pleasant. He held Moose and allowed me to sniff her up and down. I let Moose sniff me as well. She wasn’t what I had pictured in a cat. She was actually quite sociable and playful. I suppose you can’t judge a book by its cover, even if it is covered in cat hair.

We slept in the same bedroom that first night, and for many thereafter. There wasn’t going to be a Hatfield and McCoy lifelong battle between us, but rather one closer to Donnie and Marie. Moose was a little bit country, I was a little bit rock ’n’ roll but in the end we were both part of the family.

When we were finally left alone during the day, we got to know each other better.

It turned out Moose was from the same shelter I was from. When I found this out, a flurry of questions came to mind.

Had she encountered Ratchet? Yes she had, and she was a mean caretaker.

Was Candyman still running the joint? No he had been adopted out.

Were dogs still coming in with balls and leaving without them? Yes, and the scandal didn’t stop there. Cats were victims, too!

On and on it went until my curiosity had been quenched.

After we had talked ourselves out, our relationship turned into a physical one. No not that kind of physical, but physical as in running, playing, chasing.

I lay in the family room, minding my own business and chewing a sneaker. It was a Nike if I recall. It wasn’t bad, but a true connoisseur knows Reeboks taste the best.

Moose strutted up to me and purred contently, pressing her furry head against my face before taking off in a sprint. This was the equivalent of her meowing, “Nananana! You can’t catch me”—a challenge any self-respecting canine cannot turn down.

I pursued her out of the room and down the hall, my eyes focused on her tail. Just as I was about to put my mouth around it, she took a hard left, a move I wasn’t ready for. I slid forward, right into the wall. Bam…I looked up, thankful the picture over my head didn’t fall.

Moose stood at the top of the stairs, mocking me. I regained my composure and lunged toward her. She took off again. It was now clear that she was toying with me. Oh, this one was a player, she was.

I chased her onto a windowsill, where I barked wildly until she admitted defeat.

It was a game we played often. When we weren’t running around, we loved watching TV together. My parents often left it on to keep us from being lonely. It really works. I lay down in the sunny part of the room and Moose snuggles up against me. People call it spooning. I call it ladling. More often than not, we drift in and out of sleep to the likes of The Price Is Right, Love Connection, and One Life to Live. As a bonus, if anyone ever needs a lawyer for an accident claim, we can give them the phone numbers of at least ten questionable firms.

I was surprised by how quickly our bond grew. Maybe it was because cats seemed to be more trustworthy than humans. Well, Moose was anyway. We had a great relationship.

The bond between Moose and my parents wasn’t going nearly as well.

“Moose! Get down!” was the second most heard phrase in the house. The most heard phrase was, “Bo, NO!”

Moose had a habit of jumping up on the counters and sampling whatever food was up there. She also crapped in the house. Granted it was in a box dedicated to the task, but someone still had to clean it.

I told Moose to give it time, they’d come around.



Weeks after Moose came home, my mother stopped going to work. Word was that she didn’t really like her job, and she didn’t appreciate the boss’s attitude. That was fine by me; now there were three of us to hang out all day. But I was soon to learn that life is neither fair nor kind.

I awoke one morning, after having slept in with my father, and noticed that something in the house felt different. I nudged the old man to get up and let me out to pee, which he did.

When I came back in, I still couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. I went looking for Moose—I had a kink in my neck from my soft pillow and could use one of those body kneadings she was famous for. I looked downstairs. Not there. I searched upstairs. Not there, either. Hmmm…where was she hiding?

I searched again and again, growing more frantic with every passing moment, only to realize she was not at home. She was gone!

Where was she? Had she gone to visit some friends in the country? Or did she follow her lifelong dream of going to the Big Apple and trying out for Cats? Or was it more ominous than that? Maybe she was on the streets of the inner city, forced to sell her body to dirty, old tomcats just to get enough food to survive?

Days went by, then weeks. My good friend had vanished like a plate of unattended cookies on the living room table. Even the rides with my mother didn’t pack the same punch, now that I knew I’d be coming home to a deserted house.

I felt lonely, and empty.

Even my father noticed the change. After coming home late one night, he glanced down at me and said, “What’s the problem, buddy?”

I turned to him and asked, “What’s happened to Moose? Is she suffering alone out there?”

He didn’t answer, but did what he always did under difficult circumstances. He loaded me up with a handful of treats. Not a bad tactic under normal circumstances, but these were extraordinary times. I couldn’t be cheered up. The not knowing was eating me alive.

Then, one night, I overheard my parents talking.

“So how’s Moose doing?” my father asked as he finished off one of my mother’s dinner specialties.

“Well, Marcy says she’s still adjusting to living with all the other cats in her house.”

“Adjusting? That sounds like she’s not doing that great, then.”

“She’ll be all right; Marcy loves cats. Besides, didn’t you notice there’s no cat hair on your spoon anymore? It’s amazing what happens when you no longer have a cat crawling around in the utensil drawer.”

“I just hope we didn’t make a mistake giving her away,” my father said in a worried voice, “but then again, you seem much more rested now that Moose isn’t jumping on your chest to wake you up every night.”

“I didn’t mind that, but I just couldn’t take her jumping on the counters anymore. And when she licked that nice chicken I cooked for you, I just lost it.”

I could see her replay the chicken-licking incident in her mind over and over as she spoke. “Do you want some more dinner?”

“If you don’t mind making more.”

“It’s no bother. Do you want chicken or beef?”

“Does it really matter? It’s Oodles of Noodles.”

So there it was. Moose hadn’t left of her own free will at all, but was given away to the very same Marcy who had helped to pick her out!

I shuddered at the thought of Moose as the latest jewel in Marcy Catcollector’s crown. You see, as legend goes, Marcy Catcollector had actually taught her cats to fetch a crumpled up piece of paper and then return it to her: homegrown calico retrievers, if you will. No doubt there was torture involved to get felines to do this because, no offense to the cats reading this, they aren’t too bright.

Now my beloved friend was in her clutches. What daily horror was Moose facing? What torture was being inflicted on my lounge buddy? Why did Marcy need my companion? My Moose?!

What could I do? I got all shook up, I threw down my gun, he called me a pa, I called him a son. Wait, wait! That’s a Johnny Cash song and there’s not even a character named Sue in this story. Do you know why I love the man in black? That’s right, because he tastes like chicken. Sorry, sometimes my ADD gets in the way. Anyway, back to the story.

Since my communication skills were limited, I was forced to share my misgivings in a most natural way.

I started to pee in the house.

On the surface, we went about our morning routines. After my father left for work, my mother took me for my walk. I made a great show of peeing on telephone poles and fire hydrants, but unbeknownst to my mother, I started keeping a little juice in reserve to use at my discretion, if you know what I mean.

Once we returned home, I’d wait until my mother was in another room before seeking out an item at eye level, or below, and dousing it with a healthy splash of Eau De Bo cologne. Targets varied from the VCR to the couch and to my favorite…the TV.

My mother was upset. She was used to living in an odor-free home, and even I had to admit, it wasn’t easy enjoying Oprah with an electric-charged urine smell coming from the boob tube.

“Maybe he’s got a bladder infection?” my father suggested.

“I don’t have a bladder infection! I miss Moose! Bring her back and we all go back to the way things were.”

“Bo, be quiet,” my mother scolded, then she picked up the phone and made two appointments: one with the carpet cleaners and one with the vet.

It wasn’t long before I was back in the cold exam room. The doctor felt and prodded along my private area, acting as if he were the second coming of James Herriot. He took some blood along with a little bit of pride and told me to go into the bathroom and pee in a cup. When I was done I put my name on it and placed it in the medicine cabinet with two-way doors.

Do you know how hard that is to do with the oversized, furry paws I possess? Peeing took me forever and getting it into the small cup was no easy task. It turned out that writing my name on the container was the easy part.

When it was over, my mother drove me home, but not before stopping at the local ice cream stand to get me a baby cone. Even when she wasn’t happy with me, she always thought of me. I would probably have gotten a banana split if I had been pooping uncontrollably in the house rather than merely peeing.

A few days later the clinic called and confirmed that I did not have a bladder infection, but a bad attitude. Of course I had a bad attitude! I ask you, did Mrs. Hoffa have a bad attitude after Jimmy disappeared? I’ll guarantee you she did, although I’ll concede that she probably didn’t wee on her TV.

Afterward, my parents discussed my “issue” at length.

“You think he’s mad because we changed his food?”

“No. He likes variety. You think it’s because we move around in bed too much?”

“No. He sleeps right through it. Maybe it’s because he’s only escaping twice a week now.”

“No. He breaks free whenever he wants. Maybe it’s because…”

Oh boy…this could take forever. If I could have me-owed, I would have.

Seven theories later they came upon the motivation for my inappropriate behavior. They called Marcy Catcollector, thus securing Moose’s release.

We all make mistakes, and they were open to correcting theirs, so the least I could do was let them off the hook. I decided to stop making lemonade on their things.

Moose and I were together again. We caught up on our soaps, snuggled in the sunlit living room, and enjoyed each other’s company. Our relationship was stronger and better than before.



Vanity Plates I’d Get

(If I Could Get Insurance and Own a Car)



My relationship with my parents, however, had suffered. They needed to regain my trust after what they’d done.

They’d have plenty of opportunities, especially around dinnertime.