Scarlett here.
Well, it’s gone from the sublime to the ridiculous. My readers will recall that I wrote a column a while back about how the Boarder was casually talking about inviting a kitten to move into my house. I wasn’t certain he was serious, but as the Boarder tells me, his late aunt Mary Alma used to say, “don’t trust to no mistakes.” Those humans are very erratic and unpredictable, so I followed this advice.
Rather than trusting to “no mistakes,” I started working out and running up and down the stairs when he was around. I cut back on my sleep from 20 hours a day to 18. I even chased that silly red dot for him. I thought I had stemmed the tide and the crisis was over – humans have very short attention spans.
Well, suffice it to say, things have gotten worse. About six weeks ago, a FULL GROWN cat appeared in the neighborhood. No big deal you say. She was homeless but seemed well mannered all in all. Sad but not our problem, right?
Well, this one must have been attracted to my magnetic personality. She started sleeping on my front porch and my back deck and then the Boarder started giving her my food. Ridiculous – how do you know where the next meal will come from? To add insult to injury, the Boarder has even taken her to the same doctor I have been seeing for the last 10 years. I would hate to have my medical history shared with a strange cat, but the Boarder assures me there is a law – HIPPO I think he called it – which will protect my privacy.
We have occasionally exchanged “pleasantries” through the screen door but every now and then I have to assert myself and hiss and jump against the screen. Frankly, I’m glad for the screen – this darn cat looks twice as big as me and if we were to get into it, I’d have to use my superior quickness and intelligence – and my claws. Hers don’t look finely honed like mine do. She IS a calico, which gives me a little concern since they are somehow genetically connected to torties (my people), but I don’t think they’re known for feistiness or hot tempers like us tortoiseshells. I saw the Boarder pick her up and she didn’t even put up a fight! Sad.
Suffice it to say that things have just gotten worse. The Boarder has continued to give her MY food and MY vitamins – I think he secretly gives her MY treats (beef sticks and greenies) when I’m not watching. He even went so far as to give her a name – Carreen. I know, it’s silly and no one can spell it. But as with most things with the Boarder, there’s a story behind it.
I got my name 10 years ago when I moved in with the Boarder after I found him on the grounds at his office. I spent a few weeks in the local shelter while my kittens were being adopted out (it’s a nice social service – I recommend that my kind allow humans to share space with them) and the nice folks there named me “Turtle” since I was a tortoiseshell. Not to sound ungrateful, but the Boarder and I agreed that the name was simple-minded and a tad mundane. Since my brilliant coat has a red glow, and since his kids each put it on their list, we agreed on “Scarlett.” Scarlett with two “t’s.”
Well, apparently there is a famous novel that humans used to read where the heroine was “Scarlett” – with 2 “t’s.” I hear they even made it into a movie, a way too long movie I understand. Has an intermission. Turns out that Scarlett had two sisters – being a nice Irish family, one sister was named Caroline Irene. Her daddy combined the names and called her Carreen – with two “r’s.” And two “e’s.” Now you know the rest of the story.
Now we get to the most distressing part of this story. The Boarder had been telling me that fall was coming, that the leaves would soon fall, and that the temperatures would soon drop. I know he was trying to get me to buy in to letting Carreen move in. I told him to check his lease. I told him, I know you’re a lawyer so I am sure you understand that “claws” that says, “No Subletting.” You need my written permission and it’s at the “absolute discretion” of the Landlord – and that would be me! And you don’t have it. Read the claws!
Last night, in flagrant disregard of the clear and unambiguous language of the lease, Carreen moved in without my permission while the Boarder locked me in a room – in my own house! – so I wouldn’t see it happening. She has taken total occupancy of the top floor of my three-story house – I call it the penthouse. Or the pet house. Depends on to whom I am speaking.
At least there may be some hope. A few years ago, I read the book. In it, Carreen’s husband dies during the War of Northern Aggression and the fictional Carreen moved into a convent. Would be a good place for this one.
