Dear Brethren,
As we roll into August, the summer wanes and the Lodge often “goes dark,” with fewer special meetings planned. To allow you (and me) more opportunity to enjoy the remainder of the season, I’ll keep this brief and lighthearted.
Our cats want to kill us. Not yours, ours—those residing under the same roof under which my wife, Liz, and I reside. We have a boy cat and a girl cat, Alyosha and Natasha (Yoshi and Tasha for short), named after characters from Dostoyevsky’s great novel, The Brothers Karamazov. They are siblings of an apparent mixed Abyssinian and tabbied descent, adopted from a shelter. They light up our lives. They want to kill us.
Some evidence of their preparation follows. To my understanding, not every cat makes dexterous use of the hidden “side” claws (dewclaws) on its front paws. Our cats (especially Yoshi) have managed to turn their dewclaws into weapons of menace, catching our clothing unexpectedly as we pass by. They’re both little Houdinis, dashing out into the courtyard when my wife and I come home after a long day at work. Despite our best efforts, they’re learning how to digest human food. Meanwhile, Tasha can stand up on her hind legs and open doors by pushing down their lever handles and pushing or pulling them open, in the latter case swinging her body back for leverage. She also hops on to my stomach when I’m under the covers, clearly honing her abilities to pin down a “hoomin.”
We also take a significant amount of physical and emotional abuse from them. Our cats pull open cabinets and let them slam shut to alert us that they need attention at 3am. I got a nasty scratch trying to help Yoshi up to a high place he was trying to reach. While yet a kitten, Yoshi almost slashed Liz’s eye while jumping at a dangling necklace. And oh, do they know how to manipulate us with their plaintive meowing when playtime (e.g., throwing toy mice which we then fetch because they won’t) is desired—I’m sorry, Yoshi, required. Please don’t kill me.
Lest you should ask, dear reader, please note: should I die, you may not have all my stuff.
Sincerely and fraternally,
Brother Andrew Merenbach