Walter the cat is. He really is. And I don’t mean that Walter cross dresses because that’s just silly.
He’s more of a transpecies rather than transgendered. Although if he sashayed by in a dress, I wouldn’t be that shocked. He’s an anything-is-possible kind of puss.
He has a sardonic wit with an appreciation for electric adventure, even if he prefers khakis and Brooks Brothers shirts. (Walker and I like to spend time figuring out how the animals would dress based on their personalities.) As an aside, Walter also would drive a BMW because it would jell with his naughty boy disguised as preppy.
Walker, the child, likes to tell people that Walter is a cat trapped inside of a dog body and she’s not wrong. The cat is a dog and the cat-as-dog is an alpha dog.
Some say that Maine Coons are canine-esque but Walter ain’t no highbrow Pomeranian. He’s a mutt mix McKitten with hard knock kitten hood. I rescued his litter, because of the pleas from my serial rescuer friend Cheryl. The babies were just a few weeks old, not weaned, dead mother by car, horrid upper respiratory infections. They were caked with mucus with little kitten faces that could hardly breathe.
Cheryl said that out of four, I would likely lose one of them. OH HELL NO! No death on my watch, thank you very much. That is not something that I cannot stomach, so I was like “un-ugh” and did a little head wag to that suggestion. I would need counseling for that and counseling is quite pricey and time consuming.
I had the advantage of a fancy pants heated floor bathroom, which likely helped saved my kits, along with my OCD care. I am not OCD, but nobody was dying on Mama’s Watch either. I also spent more than one night as an origami folded upon a kitten in my lap. And I force fed them and made them poop (one nasty-ass proposition, pun fully intended) and gave them meds and real baby food. I washed little faces, little noses, and little butts and ran the shower all the time to create steam.
It was like a stint on _The Dirtiest Jobs_ show. The smell of heated nasty cannot be described with words. And to spare you, I shall not try.
My once lovely white marble bath was littered with errant kitten poop, kicked up litter, and smeared baby food, and splashes of medicine that missed the mark. I tried to spot clean as I went. But it wasn’t working. All of it was getting baked by the heated floors into what I imagined to be a primordial stew, thick enough to create a new species. I looked for something to crawl forth from the shower with gills and feet and kitten fur. Nothing did though. Probably because there wasn’t a monster storm and we weren’t hit by lightening. Otherwise, I might have been devoured by shower life and couldn’t write this.
Through the shit, the mucus, the kitty litter and the shower steam, I kept all four sick babies alive and got them all to a point of health and adoption.
But Walter, the sickest of them all was Cyclopean with one eye glued shut for weeks. The doctor said that once I got it open, it was possible the eyeball would come unhinged and squirt out at me like a grape from the skin. Had that happened, I would have needed counseling (mucho expense and trauma), so happily it did not. But that kitten, the size of a dwarf hamster, kept crawling up on my shoe like he owned me. And he did and does.
And now he’s my semi-loyal dog. I adopted out all the rest of the kittens and the surrogate mom. They all sported the _Street Car Named Desire_ names and Stella, the surrogate mom got a great home. We saw Stanley months later, wearing a cat halter and leash at the PetSmart and he was sleek and healthy and well loved by a little girl.
But Walter, he stayed on, because he chose us and he wanted to be our dog….
The evidence list reads like this:
- He fetches small fake mice, or anything resembling small fake mice. Dollhouse pillows qualify.
- He comes when I call out, “Walter Roo- Roo.” Because he likes his formal name to be employed and does not hold against me, the ridiculousness of his Surname.
- He loves to be “blown dry” (only when he’s perfectly dry to begin with)–in the winter only, if you please.
- At large raucous parties, he works the crowd, charming guests with his Puss ‘n Boots charm, only no boots. He prefers loafers, thank you.
- He enjoys hors d’heuvres, if you will kindly turn your head. It’s a disorder.
- He likes to hug my large noisy HEPA filter, all of his fur being sucked into the machine. Dogs like that too right? Wait, no species likes that? He’s an alien? I should have titled this differently? Shit.
- He sometimes bitch slaps the 75 pound Siberian husky and bites his whisker pouch until said “tough guy” husky whimpers in submissive pain. The 12 lb. cat is an alpha and a bit of a bully.
- He is fine with me sleeping and holding his tail. He holds my tail too. It’s not weird and please stop judging.
- He must be in the center of any and all household action. He licks the stamps. He affixes the Tupperware, and he folds the sweaters. You should see his giftwrap skills but I’m getting too braggy.
- He will also eat the hibiscus (but it’s delicious) and scale the Christmas tree and eat the ornaments like any dog worth his salt. He fixes the best creme fraiche with Alaskan salmon and flax crackers.
