WAG - The Smith “Cold War” Comes to an End
Coming back from college always leads to “interesting” moments when I stumble across changes that have occurred in my absence. In the past I’ve discovered my old room was turned into a storage area and I’ve had the thrill to see old restaurants disappear and belated see the arrival of the first stoplight in Sullivan (I border the area known as “the sticks” I don’t live in “the sticks” but I do see its influence in community life).
I’ve enjoyed fun conversations that have had such fun conversation stoppers such as, “Oh, it burned down,” or “It went out of business and they put in a Mexican place instead.”
There’s usually nothing to say after you hear that.
The biggest change I’ve had to deal with since I got back wasn’t a physical change, but a shift in attitude.
It seems that over the last semester, when both Smith children had moved out of the house for the first time, a truce was declared between my father and the cat.
Let me explain…
For over a decade, Patches, an energetic calico, and my dad, a stubborn human, have not gotten along. We (and by “we” I mean me, my sister, and my mother) almost didn’t get a cat. My father once had a two-week business trip/conference around the same time someone dumped a kitten in the neighborhood. When he got back, he was surprised to see a cat had moved in on our porch (that was probably partly due to the food and water and blankets and attention we provided her).
My father didn’t like cats, he was always a dog person, and he said “No.” That all changed when my sister asked my father, with tears in her eyes and a trembling lip, “Please can we keep the kitty?”
And so we got a cat.
Though he said yes, under the condition Patches became an indoor cat and stayed in the basement, animosity still existed. The cat was barred from upstairs, though the Smith children would sometimes let the cat upstairs when papa was home, or even “accidentally” sometimes when he was home. I think the cat figured out early that my dad was the reason why she stayed downstairs, and that was the reason why she exclusively targeted his stuff. Everybody stored stuff in the basement, but the cat left pile of… you know… consistently on my Dad’s stuff. I remember one time when I brought a book of his, left it downstairs for a minute, went back to retrieve it only to see the cat had already “visited” it.
My dad, for his part, has long made comments about disposing of the cat. Drowning was the most mentioned method. “I remember when all it used to take was a burlap bag,” he would sometimes remark. My dad would make nasty cat remarks, the cat would respond with vomit.
And the viscous cycle continued.
Anyway, I was surprised this break to find my dad no longer freaked out when the cat was out when he was home. In fact, he even let her up sometimes.
Imagine my surprise, after years of hatred and mutual disgust, that the two sides could now share the same couch.
It would be like watching North and South Korea going, “Okay, we’ve been acting foolish. Let’s forget this demilitarized zone and be friends!”
So now the cat is up a lot more often. She is typically put downstairs before supper, because no one appreciates a cat seeking attention while you’re trying to enjoy the meal (the tail in your face and the hair in your food are not welcome).
Nevertheless, it’s weird watching the Smith equivalent of the Berlin Wall come crashing down.
Oh well. Might as well do what the Germans do.
TIME FOR A LIBERATION CELEBRATION!
If you will excuse me, I need to grab a sledgehammer and a party hat.
'Why_Cant_We_Be_Friends'
