Age with grace: Pinko the cat is getting long in the tooth | Mark Hinson
Pinko, our plump Russian Blue cat, turned 18 in late summer.
Yep, 18. If Pinko were an American human in Florida, he’d move to The Villages, eat dinner at 4:15 p.m., drive a hideously decorated golf cart, wear white socks with sandals and cash his Social Security checks while complaining about the socialist government.
Instead, Pinko takes arthritis medicine once a day to climb into the litter box, yowls loudly for no reason and tries to mount the other Russian Blue, even though they are both boys missing certain parts of their anatomical junk. Shuggie Pop, our 13-year-old Russian Blue, is confused over Pinko’s sudden and hostile mating overtures. So is everyone else in the house.
As I often tell my wife Amy, it’s not easy living with a senior citizen cat who has lost his pluperfect mind.
Bump in the night
Not long after Pinko reached voting age, the cat decided his new goal in life would be annoying the hell out my wife when she tried to sleep at night. Pinko started by putting his paw in her slightly opened mouth as she dozed. Nothing will wake someone up faster than cat toes on the taste buds.
When Amy began sleeping with her lips locked, Pinko changed tactics and stamped on her chest, sure not to miss the most sensitive parts of the female breast plate. The poor woman had to start sleeping on her stomach.
It hardly mattered, though. Around 5:30 a.m. each morn, Pinko began marching on Amy’s night table. He often knocked over books or magazines, making an unholy noise. During one early morning waltz, he turned on the radio. Pinko knocked over a framed photo of our wedding reception and it collapsed behind the nightstand.
The strolls ended when Pinko sent Amy’s tall water glass crashing to the floor. The lights came on. There was yelling. The profanity was my addition. Shattered glass had flown everywhere. Naturally, Pinko jumped in the middle of the wet, sharp mess.
For his water glass fiasco, Pinko was forever banished from our bedroom during sleep time.
Deliver us not from Temptations
It didn’t take long to figure out that Pinko was trying to wake Amy so she would feed him more Temptations cat treats. Who cares if I am the one who gives food to the cats every day when I rise early, Pinko figured he’d annoy the nice one. (Yes, sometimes it pays to be the jackass in the relationship.)
We buy the Temptations MixUps Backyard Cookout bag of cat treats, or “kitty cookies” as they are called around our house. The ad copy on the bag reads: “There’s a picnic out back and I’m invited! Chicken! Liver! Beef! Yes, please! A veritable smorgasbord of carnivorous goodness, all for me! Turf and Turf … and Turf flavors! No vegetarians allowed today – this is a meatlover’s feast. A triple TEMPTATIONS treat!”
That’s what it really says! No kiddin’! Eight exclamation points! To drive home the message, there’s a hipster cat wearing baggy shorts, sunglasses and carrying a tray of meat.
Judging by way the Russian Blues scarf down the tiny brown Temptations squares, I think the kitty cookies are made with chicken, liver, beef, crack rocks, hot dog water, crystal meth, smelly athletic socks, tuna juice, cat nip, smack, mole noses, lizard spleens, and snake crackling.
Pinko purrs loudly as he inhales the kitty cookies in the morning and again at night. The Hoover Maneuver is what we call it. Gluttony is another name.
I know if the pantry is ever out of Temptations MixUps Backyard Cookout cat treats, the end is near. Pinko and Shuggie Pop will seek revenge after they go cold turkey. The two Blues will finally succeed in tripping us, and we will die when our heads hit the kitchen floor. Exclamation point!
Waiting for the click
During these twilight times, Pinko trudges through the house with the grace of a Clydesdale, the hefty draft horses used to pull the Budweiser beer wagon. Hard to sneak up on anything. I should cut his nails, but it’s easy to tell where Pinko is always located.
It’s a major change from his early days when the cat would catch the zoomies. Pinko was a ball of energy as a young’un. He hated art judging by the way he leapt headfirst into vases by Robin Rodgers or disappeared up a 3D artwork. I literally tore apart a piece by Greg Carter to free the pear-shaped little destructive monster. His full name is Pinko Commie B----d, a nod to his Russian heritage on Archangel Island even though he would use dictator Vladimir Putin as litter after what the Russian leader did to Ukraine. Even cats have scruples, you know.
Pinko was the cutest kitten. I know everyone says that. But he was. Pinko had lumps of coal for eyes. Plush blue gray fur. Like a stuffed animal toy. A small head, a big butt. Didn’t look real. When the eyes turned emerald green overnight it was a beautiful shock.
Everything written in the owner’s manual about Russian Blues was wrong. Shy? Yeah, right. Reclusive? Only someone forgot to add that Pinko was a spitfire and the life of the party. Stand-offish? You mean the little munchkin with claws who just climbed up my jeans and shirt to stare directly in my eyes? I am convinced that all Russian Blues wear wrist watches, read timetables, and prefer what human are having for dinner over cat food.
Now as I watch Pinko slowly plod his way across the living room, I am reminded of how fleeting life can be. Click, click, click. I recall his sudden outbursts, when he would tear across the wood floors if he’d been shot out of cannon. Click, click, click. Yesterday, a kitten. Click, click, click. Now this.
I would gladly put up with Pinko for the next 18 years.
Mark Hinson is a former senior writer at The Tallahassee Democrat. He can be reached at mark.hinson59@gmail.com
This article originally appeared on Tallahassee Democrat: Age with grace: Pinko the cat is getting long in the tooth
