I couldn't believe it, Diary. Crazy Annie, for once, was one hundred per cent correct. Mike, the cat, had adopted me. How do I know? It kept following me wherever I went. Every time I stopped, Mike arched its back, rubbed up against me, and opened its mouth. Surprisingly, sometimes not a sound came out. At other times, it definitely mewed. So, what else could I do but carry Mike into the house and show Mother?
I walked into the kitchen and there she was. "What's that cat doing in here?" demanded Mother.
"It's mine. No matter what I do or where I go, it to follows me. No kidding. Its name is Mike."
Mother shook her head. "That's not a cat's name."
"It is, too. When I call it Mike, it comes to me." Then, I added, "Every time." Of course, I didn't tell her that I didn't even have to call it at all.
"Show me," said Mother.
"Okay, I'll take him outside and you'll see."
Mother followed me to the front porch.
I opened the door, went down the stairs, and put Mike on the sidewalk. Mother remained inside the porch. I walked about twenty feet away. "Mike, come here." Guess what? That darned cat ran to me, its fly rod tail straight in the air. Arching its back, it rubbed up against me.
I looked to the front door. Mother was smiling. "Okay," she said, adding, "but that cat isn't yours."
"It is, too. I was playing in the Amundson field and all of a sudden this darned cat jumped on my back. And it's been following me ever since. I guess you could say it's my cat now."
Mother scratched an arm. She does that whenever she's thinking. "I don't know, Gordy."
"You don't know what?"
"Maybe you ought to take him around the neighborhood and ask people if they know who the cat belongs to."
"If I do that and if nobody knows whose cat it belongs to, then could Mike be mine?"
"Wait until you do that. Then we'll see."
I'm pretty certain Mother hoped the real owner would turn up. And I'd be without my cat.
So, I went from door to door, three blocks north of our house, three blocks south, three blocks east, and three blocks west. Nobody. And I mean nobody had ever seen Mike before.
By the time I got home, it was almost supper time. I carried Mike into the house. Dad sat on his chair, reading the Daily Tribune. The radio was on. "That's a nice looking cat," said Dad. "We'll talk about it after Gabriel Heatter."
That gave me hope. Then, Dad added, "I'm certain it must belong to someone." Oops. Hope jumped out the window.
Mister Heatter always begins his news broadcasts with, "There's good news tonight." Dad hangs on to his every word. Dad's a Democrat. Mother's a Republican. Dad drinks too much. Mother won't even touch the stuff. How these two people ended up married to each other is a mystery. Except. People say opposites attract each other. Mother and Dad are definitely opposites. They're like the Scottie dog magnets I buy at the Five and Dime and lose in about a week. Whenever I try to face them nose to nose, they won't do it.
Dad's a news hound. Every Sunday morning, he listens to William T. Evjue, (Ev-you), editor of the Madison Capital Times. Mister Evjue starts each broadcast with, "Hello, Wisconsin." He sounds as if he just finished brushing his teeth and gargling with gravel. I'm certain he hates Republicans more than he does our country's enemies.
Well, anyway, I held Mike all the time, nuzzling him as he nuzzled me. I should've answered Dad, "Mike picked me. I didn't pick him. And that is a fact." Of course, I kept my big mouth shut.
Finally, Mister Heatter was finished.
"I went all over the area," I said before Dad could say a word, "and nobody has seen Mike before."
"What are you talking about?" asked Dad.
"Mike, my cat."
"Your mother tells me it follows you everywhere."
"That's right."
"Where'd you find him?"
"On my back."
"On your back?"
"We were playing war in Amundson's field. I was on my belly, aiming my rifle at the enemy."
"Yes?"
"And all of a sudden, I felt something on my back. It was Mike."
"Mike, huh? You sure that's a cat's a he?"
"I don't know. I think so."
"A pet is a lot of responsibility, Gordy. You'll have to feed him and train him not to go number one or two in the house."
"I will."
"If somebody else claims him, you'll have to give him up."
"I'll do that, too."
"Jean," Dad yelled.
Mother left the kitchen and came into the parlor. "Yes?"
"We'll put an ad in the paper about a found cat. If nobody claims it, Gordy can keep it as long as he feeds it and trains it."
"Okay."
"As long as no one claims it in the next few weeks."
"Oh, thanks Dad," I said, really meaning it. "Mike," I said pushing out my little friend at arm's length. "You're mine from here on." I then nuzzled my pet.
"Meow," Mike answered.
Both Mother and Dad smiled.
Even Dork liked Mike.
During the next week, I prayed each morning that nobody would claim my cat. And get this? Mother got up before I did, which was something different. She inspected the entire downstairs for cat pee or poop, and if she found any, she screeched and grabbed hold of Mike and pushed his nose into the stuff. She cuffed its behind. Hard. Mike screeched. Of course, my pet was in pain.
Mother opened the back door and threw the cat as far as she could. Mike landed on his feet. But he didn't like Mother's treatment of him. He didn't like it at all. And neither did I because whenever she pushes my nose into my wet sheet, I can't breathe. I think I'm going to die. I'll bet Mike feels the same way.
Rather than poo or pee in the house, he started to climb the rear screen door and push its claws through the screen's tiny squares. Mike clung there until somebody opened the door. That's when he retracted his claws, jumped down, and did whatever he had to do outdoors.
My cat took less than two weeks to be trained. I'm eleven years old and I still haven't learned.
Sooner than you can say Jack Sprat, Dad announced one afternoon, "Gordy, I must tell you that your pet's pregnant."
"That can't be," I claimed.
"It's going to have kittens," he said. "There's no doubt about that."
In a way, I was happy. Finally, a pet of mine was going to have babies. It had been years since Dork stomped on my pet hamster. "When do you think Mike will have them?"
"Soon."
One morning a few weeks later, Mike came into my bedroom and meowed and whisked its whiskers against my nose. It tickled me awake. "Hi, there," I said.
At once, Mike jumped off the bed, took off, but put the on brakes. It looked back at me, waiting. After I got out of bed, Mike led me down the basement and under the stairs where there was an old throw rug. On top of it, I saw three teeny-tiny kittens. Two were asleep. One was awake, crawling around. As with the other two, its eyes were closed. I picked it up. Mike meowed. "You wanted me to be the first to see your babies, didn't you?" I said.
Mike arched her back and rubbed up against me. I laid the little kitten down and picked up a sleeping kitten. It wasn't sleeping. Instead, it was dead. So, too, was the other one I thought was asleep. I dug a single grave for them in back of our garage. Then I found four popsicle sticks and made two crosses out of them and stuck them into the ground, marking the spot. I figured since we were Catholic the kittens were Catholic, too. I said a "Hail Mary" for each one.
Less than a week later, Mike woke me up and led me down the basement again. The kitten that survived had died. I picked up Mike's last baby. My cat and I cried terribly hard for a long, long time. Eventually, I went out to the garage, grabbed a shovel, dug a grave, and said a prayer. "I know you're in heaven," I said aloud, looking at clouds. Mike remained indoors.
Each and every night, I get on my knees and thank God for keeping me alive and giving me my cat. Although Mike hasn't had any more kittens, she's the best pet I could ever want. And no, I won't call her Michelle. She'll always be Mike.
I walked into the kitchen and there she was. "What's that cat doing in here?" demanded Mother.
"It's mine. No matter what I do or where I go, it to follows me. No kidding. Its name is Mike."
Mother shook her head. "That's not a cat's name."
"It is, too. When I call it Mike, it comes to me." Then, I added, "Every time." Of course, I didn't tell her that I didn't even have to call it at all.
"Show me," said Mother.
"Okay, I'll take him outside and you'll see."
Mother followed me to the front porch.
I opened the door, went down the stairs, and put Mike on the sidewalk. Mother remained inside the porch. I walked about twenty feet away. "Mike, come here." Guess what? That darned cat ran to me, its fly rod tail straight in the air. Arching its back, it rubbed up against me.
I looked to the front door. Mother was smiling. "Okay," she said, adding, "but that cat isn't yours."
"It is, too. I was playing in the Amundson field and all of a sudden this darned cat jumped on my back. And it's been following me ever since. I guess you could say it's my cat now."
Mother scratched an arm. She does that whenever she's thinking. "I don't know, Gordy."
"You don't know what?"
"Maybe you ought to take him around the neighborhood and ask people if they know who the cat belongs to."
"If I do that and if nobody knows whose cat it belongs to, then could Mike be mine?"
"Wait until you do that. Then we'll see."
I'm pretty certain Mother hoped the real owner would turn up. And I'd be without my cat.
So, I went from door to door, three blocks north of our house, three blocks south, three blocks east, and three blocks west. Nobody. And I mean nobody had ever seen Mike before.
By the time I got home, it was almost supper time. I carried Mike into the house. Dad sat on his chair, reading the Daily Tribune. The radio was on. "That's a nice looking cat," said Dad. "We'll talk about it after Gabriel Heatter."
That gave me hope. Then, Dad added, "I'm certain it must belong to someone." Oops. Hope jumped out the window.
Mister Heatter always begins his news broadcasts with, "There's good news tonight." Dad hangs on to his every word. Dad's a Democrat. Mother's a Republican. Dad drinks too much. Mother won't even touch the stuff. How these two people ended up married to each other is a mystery. Except. People say opposites attract each other. Mother and Dad are definitely opposites. They're like the Scottie dog magnets I buy at the Five and Dime and lose in about a week. Whenever I try to face them nose to nose, they won't do it.
Dad's a news hound. Every Sunday morning, he listens to William T. Evjue, (Ev-you), editor of the Madison Capital Times. Mister Evjue starts each broadcast with, "Hello, Wisconsin." He sounds as if he just finished brushing his teeth and gargling with gravel. I'm certain he hates Republicans more than he does our country's enemies.
Well, anyway, I held Mike all the time, nuzzling him as he nuzzled me. I should've answered Dad, "Mike picked me. I didn't pick him. And that is a fact." Of course, I kept my big mouth shut.
Finally, Mister Heatter was finished.
"I went all over the area," I said before Dad could say a word, "and nobody has seen Mike before."
"What are you talking about?" asked Dad.
"Mike, my cat."
"Your mother tells me it follows you everywhere."
"That's right."
"Where'd you find him?"
"On my back."
"On your back?"
"We were playing war in Amundson's field. I was on my belly, aiming my rifle at the enemy."
"Yes?"
"And all of a sudden, I felt something on my back. It was Mike."
"Mike, huh? You sure that's a cat's a he?"
"I don't know. I think so."
"A pet is a lot of responsibility, Gordy. You'll have to feed him and train him not to go number one or two in the house."
"I will."
"If somebody else claims him, you'll have to give him up."
"I'll do that, too."
"Jean," Dad yelled.
Mother left the kitchen and came into the parlor. "Yes?"
"We'll put an ad in the paper about a found cat. If nobody claims it, Gordy can keep it as long as he feeds it and trains it."
"Okay."
"As long as no one claims it in the next few weeks."
"Oh, thanks Dad," I said, really meaning it. "Mike," I said pushing out my little friend at arm's length. "You're mine from here on." I then nuzzled my pet.
"Meow," Mike answered.
Both Mother and Dad smiled.
Even Dork liked Mike.
During the next week, I prayed each morning that nobody would claim my cat. And get this? Mother got up before I did, which was something different. She inspected the entire downstairs for cat pee or poop, and if she found any, she screeched and grabbed hold of Mike and pushed his nose into the stuff. She cuffed its behind. Hard. Mike screeched. Of course, my pet was in pain.
Mother opened the back door and threw the cat as far as she could. Mike landed on his feet. But he didn't like Mother's treatment of him. He didn't like it at all. And neither did I because whenever she pushes my nose into my wet sheet, I can't breathe. I think I'm going to die. I'll bet Mike feels the same way.
Rather than poo or pee in the house, he started to climb the rear screen door and push its claws through the screen's tiny squares. Mike clung there until somebody opened the door. That's when he retracted his claws, jumped down, and did whatever he had to do outdoors.
My cat took less than two weeks to be trained. I'm eleven years old and I still haven't learned.
Sooner than you can say Jack Sprat, Dad announced one afternoon, "Gordy, I must tell you that your pet's pregnant."
"That can't be," I claimed.
"It's going to have kittens," he said. "There's no doubt about that."
In a way, I was happy. Finally, a pet of mine was going to have babies. It had been years since Dork stomped on my pet hamster. "When do you think Mike will have them?"
"Soon."
One morning a few weeks later, Mike came into my bedroom and meowed and whisked its whiskers against my nose. It tickled me awake. "Hi, there," I said.
At once, Mike jumped off the bed, took off, but put the on brakes. It looked back at me, waiting. After I got out of bed, Mike led me down the basement and under the stairs where there was an old throw rug. On top of it, I saw three teeny-tiny kittens. Two were asleep. One was awake, crawling around. As with the other two, its eyes were closed. I picked it up. Mike meowed. "You wanted me to be the first to see your babies, didn't you?" I said.
Mike arched her back and rubbed up against me. I laid the little kitten down and picked up a sleeping kitten. It wasn't sleeping. Instead, it was dead. So, too, was the other one I thought was asleep. I dug a single grave for them in back of our garage. Then I found four popsicle sticks and made two crosses out of them and stuck them into the ground, marking the spot. I figured since we were Catholic the kittens were Catholic, too. I said a "Hail Mary" for each one.
Less than a week later, Mike woke me up and led me down the basement again. The kitten that survived had died. I picked up Mike's last baby. My cat and I cried terribly hard for a long, long time. Eventually, I went out to the garage, grabbed a shovel, dug a grave, and said a prayer. "I know you're in heaven," I said aloud, looking at clouds. Mike remained indoors.
Each and every night, I get on my knees and thank God for keeping me alive and giving me my cat. Although Mike hasn't had any more kittens, she's the best pet I could ever want. And no, I won't call her Michelle. She'll always be Mike.
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