I’ve always enjoyed languages and, while a long way from being bilingual, can speak a smattering of German and slightly more French. After years of training, I also claim to speak Low Cat (as opposed to High Cat, with which only those of the feline persuasion can claim a working knowledge).
Just the other night, I was puttering around in the kitchen when MacKenzie let it be known that it was time to play.
He lay down under his kitchen chair and I sat facing him, with his favorite toy between us. My family laughed when I brought home the toy one Christmas, but a succession of cats through several generations have known and loved it.
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It’s a very simple toy, a blue plastic doughnut-shaped affair with three holes cut in the top of the “doughnut.” There’s a ball in between the two halves, and the cat is meant to reach in through the holes to bat the ball.
MacKenzie has his own version. He lies on his side and sticks his paw in between the two halves while I bat the ball to him. As necessary, he moves his paw ever so slightly, just enough to get the ball back to me so I can hit it to him again.
We’ve had some good games, MacKenzie and I, though at times I feel foolish sitting on the floor batting a ball to a cat.
The other evening, I decided to use our play time as a learning experience. For MacKenzie, that is.
He was going to learn to sing.
This was not just a whim of mine; the lessons had a very practical purpose: fame and, hopefully, fortune!
I had read about a contest for singing cats and canines sponsored by the makers of a flea control product.
If MacKenzie could just learn his song – a song, any song – in time, we could submit a videotape and he might win one of two trips (for Canadians) to New York to compete in the finals for the title of North America’s Best Singing Pet.
I started out by telling MacKenzie all about the contest and how, if he won in New York, he would have a session at a studio to record his song for all the world to hear. MacKenzie looked decidedly uninterested and even more so when we got to the actual singing lessons.
When he got up and walked away, I remembered the words of a fridge magnet my daughter once gave me: Never try to teach a pig to sing. It’s a waste of your time and it annoys the pig.
Substitute cat. Forget fame and fortune. Back to the rock picking.
