Cats and Carpets
This Week's Story Has Little to do with Antiques and Everything to do with Pets!
Pets add richness and warmth to our lives along with a working knowledge of rug and carpet care.
Sometimes, pets and antiques are an unwieldy combination. You are forced with the choice of being driven crazy with constant care for your belongings or developing less affection for them. Based on my experience with animals, my emotions are mixed.
We had two cats-Max and his brother Alfred E. Neuman. Technically, these cats weren't mine. MY cats would never puke on the oriental rugs on a daily basis. These two belonged to my husband. Like many blended families, we had some difficulty adjusting to each other, but eventually, we learned to get along, and by get I along I mean if they stayed out of my way I wouldn't call them horrible, obscene names at the top of my lungs.
The real problem arose when I became pregnant with our son. A traditionalist when it comes to names, I believe in naming my children after loved and departed family members. My father and grandmother had been memorialized in the naming of my daughter, so once we knew the child was a boy, I'd hoped to pay tribute to my Grandfather, Max. Bell. Clearly, though, it would be a problem having a boy and a cat share a name. I began a relentless campaign to change the cat's name. "He's a cat, he doesn't care what you call him." My husband stood firm. "His name is Max. It's always BEEN Max. How would you like it if someone changed YOUR name for their own convenience?" When I pointed out that the name on my birth certificate was not Mrs. Susan Cramer, he said, "Yeah, I don't know how you people can stand having your names changed like that."
Finally, I decided that Matt (Matthew) was as close as I was going to get to Grandpa Max's name. The first time I held my baby boy (who was born on Halloween, and I'm sorry to report resembled a pumpkin) I told him that he was named after a great man, even though his name wasn't exactly the same. Years later, at a family reunion, a distant relative handed me a copy of a ship's manifest concerning a young man who was emigrating from Russia. The man's name was Motiou Bellfer. He was My Grandfather, whose name in Russia had been Matthew.
At the risk of censure, I have to admit that I have not become a cat lover in the years since I married and had felines thrust upon me, even one named Max. An indifferent housekeeper at best, I found it difficult to become attached to the reason for my intimate and daily relationship with a carpet shampooer. Still, every boy needs a pet, or so I was told, so when ours was in third grade, we bought him a hamster. He was a cute and fluffy thing with button eyes who cocked his head to look at you when you held him soft in your hand and spoke his name.
I was explaining this at a dinner party to Miss Truett, who rolled her eyes and said, "Susan, that's a rodent." Rodent or not we all became attached to him and would have loved him had he been named Napoleon Bonaparte or Bobba Fett, both under consideration until we settled upon "Squeaky" because of how much noise he made running happily in his wheel.
Squeaky lived a long, and I believe happy life in his vintage-look cage in our kitchen, possibly because we gave him fresh vegetables every day, and definitely because he didn't have to eat my dinners. An average hamster lives about 2 years, so when Squeaky had what seemed to be a stroke at age 2 ½, we were saddened, but not surprised. Fortunately, my frantic neighbor had called a few days before with urgent news about the hamster she'd recently purchased for her 5 year old. "The darn thing is having babies! Five, no six of them! Aaaagghhh, now she's eating one! HELP!" We ran over with our spare cage and helped her separate Rosie from her breakfast. . .umm, babies.
"I hadn't really planned on explaining the facts of life to my five year old," she said. "Maybe you could sue the pet store for mental anguish," I offered. "Anguish is right. You should have seen Ellie's face when I gave her the abridged version of where babies come from. She thought it was even more disgusting than when Rosie ate her baby."
We got one of the baby hamsters once she was old enough to travel. I told my niece I was naming her Aunt Patty since Aunt Patty once had a dog named Susie. She thought it was hilarious. Aunt Patty is OK with it because she's an animal lover. My husband thinks it's the dumbest name ever, and calls her Squirrel. My sister, whose experience with pets is less extensive than mine, accidentally kicked the hamster ball with the hamster in it, yelling, "She shoots, she scores!'", while her daughter looked on in horror. "I thought it was a regular ball," she explained after the screaming subsided.
Aunt Patty remains a sweet and loving pet even after her brief career in soccer. And I feel the same way despite the daily collection of hamster kibble I have to Hoover off the Karistan.
