Rev. Erudite Redneck, B.S., B.S., M.A., M.Div.

ER NOTE: I have tried and tried to upload pix of the below-mentioned critter and cannot get it to work. I give up for now.

By The Erudite Redneck

I've always been a dog man. Hound dogs, farm dogs, stray dogs, little dogs, big dogs, huntin' dogs, herdin' dogs -- even alleged dogs like poodles and chihuahuas.

All dogs all the time.

Cats had one purpose on the farm when I was growin' up: to maintain a balance of power with the rats in our big hay barn. They were all about the same size. The trick was just makin' sure there were about as many cats in there as rats, if not a few more.

Country cats are mousers and -- well, ratters, that's all. And city cats!?! A waste of fur and meat.

Girlfriend of mine in college had the scariest cat I've ever known. Just seemed to have been from another planet. A space alien. Or a demonic manifestation. Those were the kindest things I had to say about it -- and it was an "it," too, not a "he" or a "she."

Which is why no one is more surpised than me that a cat has taken up residence inside the ER household -- INSIDE the joint, not just hangin' out on the porch.

In early summer, "God gave us a cat," Bird (19-year-old redheaded redneck stepchild) observed, walkin' in the house with a scrawny, bug-eyed, fleabitten varmint with a gash in a shoulder. The critterlet was small enough to stretch out on a potholder.

She "found" him -- note use of pronoun -- in front of the house makin' a noise like a tiny reptile or something. Not a mew. Not a meow. Not a rowr. Something like "ehh!" "Ehh!"

So many dollars later, the critterling was gettin' meds, attachin' himself to our bleeding hearts -- but to MINE, harrumph! -- and livin' on a potholder in Bird's bathroom.

Bird and DR named him Ice-T because, as they said, "he's black and he's got street cred."

Weeks go by. Kitten grows, but not much. We think he got pulled off his mama too quick and got stunted. And to this day he can't meow. Just that "ehh!" sound. "Ehh!"

Over the summer, I rescued him off the roof twice, got him out of a tree, and a couple of times sternly pried him from the grasp of a little girl across the street who wanted to claim him for her own, feedin' him and playin' with him and such while Dr. ER and I were at work during the day.

Then, one day last week, headin' to work, I knocked on the hood of my pickup as usual to spook Ice-T -- also known as Sweet Tea when he is particularly purry and Catmeat when he is bein' a jerk -- so I didn't fan him to death when I started the truck.

Dr. ER and I both have sad personal experience with what happens to a kitty-cat caught unawares under the hood of a vehicle when it is bein' started. Bird taped a note to the inside of the front door of the house, in fact, signed by Ice-T, to remind me to bang on the truck every day to make sure the critterling didn't get fileted.

But Ice-T wasn't under the truck. And I stomped around the yard fussing, wonderin' where Catmeat could've gotten off to -- then I started worrying about Sweet Tea.

I had to go on to work. After the kitty showed hisself, Dr. ER, havin' seen how distraught the unexplained absence of the kitty had made me, rushed to the store and laid out $95 for a fancy litter box and some other stuff and moved the danged cat indoors.

Riker, my stepdog, is appalled. Bailey, the redneck wienie dog, is clueless, as usual. Dr. ER finds herself havin' to rassle the kitty away from the heatin' pad she uses on her back a lot in the front room.

But I don't mind the presence of His Highness, Prince Ice-T, Esq., a bit. I have been smitten by a kitten.

END