The Zazu Rebellion...or...How I Failed at Cat-sitting

Full Moon

The practice session made it seem so easy. When my friends said they were going for a little getaway and needed someone to stay at their place for a few days to feed the cats, I said sure, I'll do that. It's a really nice house and spending quiet time there would be like a mini vacation for me, too. Besides, these folks are two absolute angels whom I have known for years. They work hard and deserve a little holiday. I was happy to help.

There were expectations, routines, protocols, and procedures which needed to be learned, so I showed up on time for orientation the night before my gig was to start. I like it when things are organized so I was exuding confidence. This would be a snap.

Their house is in the hills above my town, well away from commuter traffic and the associated nervous, hurried consumers, so I figured it would be a chill place to read and exercise and commune with Ma Nature. My "job" would be to keep the place securely locked, provide a live-in presence, feed Zazu and Mittzi twice a day, and herd them into the garage at dusk for safekeeping. Coyotes and other potential nocturnal predators might nab the "teenage" felines if they were allowed to prowl outdoors overnight. Hence the sunset lockdown. I watched  and listened carefully during the practice run, knowing that cats and other pets are accustomed to routine.

The garage is a stand-alone, one-car room that sits on the property about fifty yards from the house at one end of a long driveway. To lure the cats to their yummy dinner, their owners ring a small bell while they carry a tray with food and water, opening a side door to the garage and leading the hungry, adorable furbabies inside. When the cats start to eat, the door gets quietly closed behind them. Then they are safe and secure until morning, when they are let out, free to eat their breakfast on the back porch and goof around outside all the livelong day. Simple, right?

Not! After their loving parents disappeared and this odd-smelling (I can only suppose) newcomer arrived, all bets on routine and normal behaviors were off. The first night they cautiously appeared at the edge of the house and watched while I carried the tray toward the dining hall/garage. They were not buying this charade one bit. Mittzi haltingly started to follow me up the driveway, but Zazu tackled her from behind. They romped a little, like they were arguing, but Zazu prevailed. If you could read his thought bubble, it would say, "Mittzi, can't you SMELL that guy?"

I was standing twenty yards away, holding a tray of stinky-ass cat food, jingling a silly toy cat bell, trying out pathetic falsetto Here-Kitty calls. They were slinking backwards, taking cover underneath the bed of my truck, looking at me with distrust-going-on-hatred.

Then they disappeared.

I tried seven more times that first night, well after darkness set in, every 15 minutes or so, ringing the little tinkle bell, walking to the garage, calling them to dinner and safety. Nothing. Never saw hide nor hair of either one of them. Not that night. Not the next morning. Not the following night. Not the next morning either.

I was not looking forward to copping to my failure as a cat-sitter when my friends returned. My imagination was trying hard to tell me I should walk the perimeter of the property to salvage the remaining bones and fur of poor Zazu and Mittzi left behind by wicked marauding coyotes and raccoons. Should I bury them? Call a priest? Were they even still in California?

On the third day, getting really tired of trying and failing to call the cats to food and shelter (oh yeah, it was butt cold at night that week, too, below freezing), I started to wonder if maybe I was selling the two of them short, especially Zazu, who seemed to be the shot-caller. What if they weren't half-eaten or maimed next to a fence post? What if they didn't run away and join the cat circus? What if they were simply hiding?

On one corner of the house is a drafty wooden tool shed with a happy, friendly, flowery sign on it that reads "Sit a Spell." The shed has a gate with a latch and there is a three or four inch gap at the bottom between the wood and the concrete floor. "Aha," I mumbled. "Hmm."

Very quietly, I slipped open the latch and pulled back the gate. Inside on the left were various gardening tools  and potions for plant growth. On the right side of the shed, I saw three shelves with towels and boxes and an open cat carrier. And two sleeping felines. Zazu woke up and let out a single, rather pointed "Mew." The mew's associated thought bubble said "God, you're slow. Leave the food and scram.Can't you see I am napping."

"Aha," I mumbled. "Hmm."

In this way, on the third day of five, the cats and I reached a Zazulean Compromise. I was not to ring the tinkle bell or embarrass myself further with falsetto sweet nothings. I was to abandon all expectations of cooperation with the protocol taught to me by the folks who did not smell funny. And I was to leave food and water in the shed at dusk and on the porch at sunrise. In exchange, Zazu and his underling Mittzi would a) avoid being snatched by a hawk or eagle by day and b) evade all nocturnal  predators until the proper, non-smelly authorities came home two days hence.

Thus, a semblance of order was returned to the villa in the hills. I was off the worry hook and relieved of gravedigger duty. When I left at about noon on the final day, having tidied up the house and locked the gate behind me, I felt okay about the whole thing, maybe. Their parents would be home soon, but I wondered if the teenagers would keep their end of the bargain. What if they continued to rebel after their time with what could be interpreted as a smelly "fun uncle?"

Later that evening I received a thank you text from their Mom. The cats had responded to the tinkle bell and followed her to the garage in 3.82 seconds. All is well.

Peace, Love, Kibble, and Bits,
Jim