Last night was a big night for Tink and the Punk. Tony bought a new computer chair, which produced one of Punk's favorite toys (and snacks), a large cardboard box. After he'd taken all the components for the chair out, he tossed the flap of the box closed across the top and started working on the chair.

Punk is an eight-month-old tortie who's about as light as a feather. She likes jumping up on things, especially since Tink is a thirteen-pound two-year-old with the approximate density of a neutron star and all the maneuverability of a Willys Jeep. When Punk can use speed or agility to her advantage it pays her to do so. If Tink gets her cornered, she's in for nips and the infamous "sleeper hold", usually ending with her spitting and doing a stiff-legged crabwalk, while Tink shrugs and grooms her feet smugly. I've seen Punk go vertical, three feet, onto the kitchen counter when Tink cornered her. Without even looking.

They were galloping around the basement last night while Tony put the chair together, and Tink was, as is often the case, getting the better of the Sumo bouts. Punk resorted to jumping up on the lid of the empty box, which only bowed a little under her weight. Tink is a lunker, but she's not stupid -- she made one foray with her front paws up on the box, felt it start to give . . . huffed once, turned and ran upstairs to refill her fuel tank. Score one for Punk.

We'd actually bought a "toy" at one of the big chain pet stores -- an obviously much-abandoned device that had a catnip reservoir, a sisal scratching roller and little else of interest to either Tink or the Punk but the catnip. Both cats, when introduced to the device, promptly started chewing on the little drawers where the catnip is held, ignoring the scratching roller other than Tink's efforts to mark it as her own by petting it lovingly for ten minutes and growling at the Punk at every opportunity. We knew this was the likely outcome, so we were glad we'd only paid four bucks for it.

Once the chair was assembled and the box was put away -- soon after a box is empty, Punk starts trying to eat it, so we have to whisk all chewable cardboard out of the room unless we want to appear to be providing a nest for seven-pound mice -- they both disappeared upstairs to the front room for a brief performance of "no, really, we're a herd of wild antelope!" on the hardwood. When we moved in the house there was carpet in the room, but I knew Tink would love the plain hardwood floor for that very reason, so we dispatched the carpet.

Meanwhile, in the family room downstairs, Tony and I were eating grapes. Though Tink is the most omnivorous cat I've ever seen, and will eat just about anything from cooked cabbage to blackeye peas to raisins, grapes are a favorite of hers only as toys. Same with peanut M&Ms -- she will beg and beg until given one, even knowing she doesn't like to eat them. The carpet in the basement is a tan-and-brown tweed Berber, and the grapes were black grapes. You can imagine the joy this engendered in the cat population -- after handing each of them a grape, and watching Punk make the realization it wasn't food in the sense she considers food, she pawed at it a bit and looked up at me hopefully. "If it isn't food, Human, make it a toy!" she insisted. I leaned over and flicked it the length of the room, like a hockey puck. She damn near gave herself a concussion when both she and the grape arrived at the far wall at the same time. I flicked the second one, and Tink -- who should probably audition for the Canadians, she's that good at passing and defense -- began slapping it up and down the room as always.

The high point of the event was when Punk, who'd cornered the wily, vicious grape at the bottom of the stairs, climbed up on the landing, reached down, hooked a claw in it and slung it up about three feet over her head, then caught it and batted it down the floor again. Hmm. She's got vertical and she's learning to dribble . . . Tink plays hockey . . . maybe it's time to start kitty sports leagues?

Nah. Never work. Too many timeouts for grooming.

Copyright © Melinda Nowikowski
February 20, 2000