Scaredy-Cat

Our youngest pet, Fred, is a most satisfactory cat. She’s got spunk. She has a wicked sense of humor—or at least she does things that make me laugh, like settling next to one of the other cats while they’re napping, waiting until they’ve been lulled into a false sense of security, and then hauling off and clocking them. She’s sweet and purry at night, and a lap cat during the winter. She’s a chatterbox who’ll carry on entire conversations at the drop of the hat. She’s photogenic. She is a top-notch squirrel monitor at the back windows. And best of all, she always seems grateful to be living here.

As I said, most satisfactory.

However, she’s the archetypal scaredy-cat. The slightest disturbance and she’s off like a shot to hide somewhere. If she can’t hide beneath the den sofa, she’ll cower beneath the bed upstairs, or huddle beneath the staircase in the basement, shivering, until I go down there to find her. I’ll point a flashlight in her direction and see two tiny, frightened headlights for eyes shining back at me.

Fred is frightened of the following:

- Thunderstorms. The slightest bass roll in the distance will have her scurrying for the safety of a dark enclosure, from which she won’t emerge until two or three hours after the storm has passed.

- Rain. Because it accompanies thunderstorms, I imagine.

- Trucks. Because they sound like thunder.

- Construction. When our neighbor had a new driveway poured, poor Fred spent the entire day in the basement.

- The vacuum.

- The sound of the door opening to the closet where we store the vacuum.

- The doorbell. I don’t really know what the doorbell has ever done to her, but apparently they have a dicey relationship.

- People who enter the house after they ring the doorbell. If we have a party, Fred will stay upstairs all evening with big, alarmed eyes. Then halfway through the party she’ll decide to venture down, see what’s happening, and will discover that everyone pays her so much attention that she sticks around and looks adorable so people will fawn over her. Then we have to repeat the entire process for the next party.

- Branches falling from the trees.

- Raccoons.

- The sound of the smoke detector going off.

- When I turn on the vent fan over the stove. Because usually it’s a hasty precursor to the smoke detector going off.

- The sound of people crunching through leaves on the deck.

In some ways, Fred’s little phobia make it easier to deal with her. She’s the only cat I will take outdoors, accompanied, because I know that if she gets out of hand, all I have to do is stomp on the deck a few times or brandish a broom and there she is, scurrying back to the back door and cowering to be let in. In others, it’s a little bothersome. Finding her after a scare can be a pain, since she has a tendency to find the most out-of-the-way places in the house. We’ve taken to trying to anticipate the frightening moments and to put her beneath the blankets on our bed, where she feels safe, stays warm, and where we can find her easily.

I keep hoping she’ll outgrow some of her fears. So far, though, we’ve just become accustomed to the sight of a brown and black fuzzy streak zooming by.

Conversations with My Father: Fancy Food Edition

THE SCENE: An uncrowded Denny’s on Broad Street.

ME: I haven’t been to a Denny’s in forever.
MY FATHER: This will be a treat for you, then!
ME: Mmm. Denny’s. That’s a real treat, all right.
MY FATHER: Now. Let me explain the menu to you. I like the Build Your Own Grand Slam breakfast. It’s only $4.99. You get to choose four out of the ten items. I choose eggs, pancakes, hash browns, and sausage. You could choose eggs, pancakes, biscuits, and bacon. Or you could choose pancakes, bacon, sausage, and grits. Or you could pick an English muffin, eggs, ham, and. . . .
ME (my voice raised): I get it! Thank you!
MY FATHER: Are you always this grumpy in the mornings?
ME: So basically, when I’m in town, my role is to escort you to crappy chain restaurants?
MY FATHER (offended): Denny’s is not a crappy chain restaurant!
ME: Let me rephrase. My role is to escort you to every restaurant in town that has photos in the menus? We’ve been to IHOP, and Outback Steakhouse, and Golden Corral, and you were threatening the Olive Garden again.
MY FATHER: Well, when the Barramundis and I go out to dinner, they refuse to go to chain restaurants. They think it’s ‘important’ to support ‘local’ restaurants.
ME: I can’t say I disagree with them.
MY FATHER: They make me go to fancy breakfast places where I will get two eggs and a slice of toast for eight dollars. Eight dollars. At Denny’s, you can get a Build Your Own Grand Slam for $4.99, and you can get eggs, pancakes, hash browns, and sausage. Or eggs, wheat pancakes, ham. . . .
ME: I think we've covered this territory, thanks.
MY FATHER: Even at a fancy place like Appleby’s, you can get a better value for your money.
ME: To you, there’s basically Denny’s and Golden Corral, and then everything else is just fancy, isn’t there?
MY FATHER: What do you mean?
ME: Fancy or unfancy: Appleby’s.
MY FATHER: Fancy.
ME: Fancy or unfancy: Chili’s.
MY FATHER: Fancy!
ME: Bennigan’s?
MY FATHER: Oh gawrsh, Fancy.
ME: Ruth Chris Steak House?
MY FATHER: So fancy.
ME: So to you, a Ruth Chris Steak House is on the same level of fanciness as an Appleby’s?
MY FATHER: Listen. Jon Stewart. You know Jon Stewart. You went to school with him.
ME: Yes, and he slept next to me in sweatpants for two semesters of abnormal psychology.
MY FATHER: Well Jon Stewart has a British sidekick and Jon Stewart was joking with him about how once his sidekick came to America and ate at Denny’s, the sidekick never wanted to go back.
ME: You don’t think Stewart was being ironic?
MY FATHER: No.
ME: Did I ever tell you about Cafe Muse back home? No? It’s one of those breakfast and lunch-only places. It was featured on Oprah because they have some kind of amazing grilled cheese sandwich and it gave Oprah’s girlfriend Gayle an orgasm.
MY FATHER: You’ve eaten there? Is it fancy?
ME: Oh, it’s very fancy. They have French toast there that’s slices of chocolate bred stuffed with vanilla-and-liqueur-laced cream cheese, then drizzled with chocolate sauce. I always get these amazing whole wheat pancakes with berries and homemade granola.
MY FATHER (with suspicion): How much?
ME: Twelve dollars.
MY FATHER: Oh gawrsh. Twelve dollars.
ME: And if you want bacon, it’s three dollars extra.
MY FATHER: Gawrsh. Gawrsh!
ME: It’s fancy and delicious.
MY FATHER: Well what’s good enough for Jon Stewart is good enough for me and that includes Denny’s.
ME: Next time you come visit we’ll go to Cafe Muse.
MY FATHER: Gawrsh. You are trying to kill me.