Only in America(Elaine Faber) ONLY IN AMERICA
Elaine Faber


Not long ago, while cleaning out a supply closet in preparation for the new occupants of the residence, a dusty manuscript was found in a box in the basement. It was written in 1992 by a well-known reporter, as told to him when he interviewed the character involved. This reader verified the facts of the story through research, and found them to be factual. The article read as follows:

………

I was born on a cool spring morning under a woodpile in the country, a fair distance from the nearest vestiges of “civilization”. It was said that my mother was a tramp, but I loved her. She taught me all she knew, and I often fell asleep listening to the sound of her purring and the thrum of her heartbeat. She shared all the secrets of the universe, which are known to all cats.

She taught me patience through the art of field mouse stalking. She taught me hygiene by learning the importance of washing behind one’s ears. I learned communication skills and the art of listening when my attention strayed from mother’s lessons. I shall never forget those carefree kitten days, for they were filled with peace and joy and love.

One day, while resting in the meadow grass, I spied a winged Intruder. He sat on a rock, trying to hide in his camouflage gray and green covering, but I, the Mighty Hunter, spotted the villain with my keen eyes. I froze in my tracks, whiskers aquiver, and oozed across the meadow. Each step brought me nearer the Intruder. He could not see me, though he had 1000 eyes. My mouth quivered and a tiny cry came forth, so silent the Intruder could not hear. He rubbed his back feet together to mock me. I was unafraid. I slithered closer, my body tensed for the final charge. I calculated my weight versus wind velocity, versus distance. I calculated to the last millimeter, the thrust needed to bring him crashing to his six knees. I wiggled my rear a few times for traction and sprang. He flew. I leaped into the air, paws flashing. A quick jab to the left. He parried. (The thing was a demon, Satan incarnate!) The intruder flew and landed an inch from Mother’s nose. In the instant it took her to open her eyes and size up the situation, she slammed down her paw. SWAP! The Intruder was history.

I did not speak to mother for the rest of the day and filled the afternoon with grooming my sleek black body, carefully licking each white foot until my body glistened and I had worked off my exasperation. Mother and I spent many happy days in the meadow, basking in the sunshine, until the dreadful day the dogcatcher drove by and caught sight of us sleeping on the woodpile. I suppose he felt we were blight on the neighborhood with no humans to care for us. My mother escaped, but before I knew what happened, he cornered me and tossed me into a truck. I heard mother crying as the truck drove away, down the road toward… What? I have come to believe it was destiny.

We arrived at our destination, the city POUND, where the smell of dogs and cats filled the room. I was put into a small cage with a box of sand in the corner. Sand? I mean, how disgusting! I was surrounded by the pitiful cries of cats and kittens. In the next room, I heard the horrendous din of dog sounds! People carried cats in and out and sometimes they never came back.

At night the older cats whispered, saying that many of the cats were “put to sleep,” which didn’t sound so bad, but the way they said it made me think there must be more to it than I understood. They also mentioned “adoption” and though that sounded worse than “put to sleep,” they spoke of it as a more desirable circumstance. I hoped that one day I might experience “adoption,” particularly if it meant getting out of kitty prison.

On the sixth day of my captivity, a man and a lady and a little girl came into the room where my jail cell was located and removed me from the cage. Though I had never experienced it before, I rather liked being kissed and petted. After some discussion, I was carried from the room, stuck with a needle and put into a small box. My box was jiggled and jounced and the sound of a vehicle again roared in my ears. I felt it was a very real possibility that the end of life was near.

Imagine my surprise when I was released from the box into a large lovely house with a number of people running helter skelter, hither and yon. Once I became accustomed to the goings-on in the house and figured out how not to get trampled, I soon took over the place. I realized the house and its inhabitants belonged to me and the people were obviously here to fulfill my every wish (as is only right). Now that I lived in a fine house and slept on a soft bed, I thought I must have been “put to sleep” after all… which wasn’t bad, and I couldn’t imagine why the old cats at the pound had sounded so concerned. Thank God I didn’t get
“adoption,” since they were so wrong about being “put to sleep”. Who knows what would have happened if I'd had “adoption”?

My favorite napping place was the dining room table in a spot of sunshine, late in the afternoon. Why the lady should take such exception to the idea was beyond me. Just about the time I would settle down on the white linen tablecloth between the plates and glasses, she would get excited and shoo me off onto the floor.

As time went on, I lost my fear of the man and we became great friends. Many times he would take me into his lap in his rocking chair. As we rocked, he would discuss matters of great importance and stroke my head. I could not understand his words but sensed his distress from the tone of his voice. I purred and gazed into his eyes to convey my wisdom and concern for his problems. He seemed to take great comfort from this and shortly, would leave me in the chair, smiling and nodding his head as though we had solved his problem. Thus, I knew my counsel was good.

The months passed and I began to think about having a family of my own and pondered the thought late at night as I lay in the child’s bed, warm and cozy, yet not quite ready to sleep. Not long afterward, as I recall, my man put me in the traveling box. I supposed they did not love me anymore and were taking me back to the pound. I had thought things were going pretty well, but there was the sleeping on the table thing that had upset the lady so much.

After a night in the cage, a man took me to a small white room gleaming with chrome. He stuck my leg with a needle and the room began to spin. I awoke in the cage again and felt dreadful. Everything hurt and I chucked up my dinner. I felt pretty bad for a couple of days, but I was much improved by the time the child returned from camp. I never understood just what happened. Perhaps it was the flu, or something I ate. All I know is that I never seemed to be much interested in the subject of child rearing again. I wondered if my illness had anything to do with my declining interest in the opposite sex. It is a puzzle……

As time passed, I was surprised to learn that my man was very important, as “men” go. They called him something like “Gun-gin-jer.” I never quite got my tongue around the English language. As busy as the house had been, it became even busier. There was talk of moving to a house with an oval room and a red phone. In our house, the rooms were square and the phone was black. What was the big deal about the shape of a room or the color of a phone? I determined that it was because inferior humans had nothing more important to think about. But I digress.

We moved to Washington into a big white house and my man’s rocking chair was put into an oval room with a red phone. Go figure. Now as I understand it, my man had become the most important “Man” in the country and my lady is called the First Lady. I suppose the child will be called First Child and I wonder what they will call me? Now people with cameras get excited when I walk into the room and say, “Here comes Socks!” They make a fuss over me and take my picture, so I think I must be pretty special too.

As I look back over my life, I get goose bumps thinking about the great country we live in. Only in America, could a cat born in a woodpile end up in Washington. Only in America, could a fellow be snatched from obscurity and have the opportunity to make something of himself. And only in America, could a black and white cat from humble beginnings find himself in the most important seat in the nation, literally in a rocking chair, in the Oval Office, in the White House, counselor to the President of the United States. I think from now on, people should call me First Cat!!

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