Cats

The Carruthers household has always been a dog family, and not a cat family. There is a very good reason for this: I can’t stand to be around cats. Don’t get me wrong; I don’t intend this as an indictment on the character of cats (or on my own character for that matter). It is not that I hate cats, but rather I hate the terrible physical consequences I suffer whenever I come into contact with them. My eyes swell, my sinuses water, hives erupt on my neck, and worst of all my chest closes leaving me gasping for air.

Many years ago before my kids were born and my wife and I still had time to be social, we regularly attended parties hosted by our Best Man, who was widely celebrated for the hospitality he provided at his home, sometimes euphemistically known as “the Hotel”. One New Years Eve (I think it might have been 1994) my better half and I planned on attending a Hotel party and celebrating until dawn (Best Man made it his regular practice to observe the countdown for each of the four time zones across the continental U.S. with fireworks and occasionally artillery in the back yard—more on that later). Sometime after dawn when the party wound down we would crash on a spare bed for a few hours before enjoying a late brunch at Crackerbarrel.

Best Man’s wife (I’ll call her Carla) was a felinophile and kept two cats as pets in and about the Hotel. Ordinarily the cats resided in the back yard, but with the onset of inclement winter weather they were spending much of their time inside. My first indication of cat proximity was an annoying watering and burning sensation in my eyes that would not relent for anything. This was quickly followed by a series of sneezing fits that rendered me entirely unsociable for the occasions. The itching and crawling sensation of my skin came next. The symptoms progressed from inconvenience to outright misery by the time midnight arrived. Soon after the turn of the New Year, my eyes were nearly swollen shut and I was suffering from a fever. By this time my wife reasonably insisted that we leave immediately, and I gratefully agreed.

I don’t recall much of the drive home that night except for a few moments as the car made its way up the cut-in-the-hill through Covington, Kentucky, when my chest began to tighten and close up. As I gasped for breath I tried not to reveal my sense of alarm to my wife, who in turn was trying to conceal her own alarm as well (but with not much success). “Do we need to go to the hospital?” she asked repeatedly. Each time I managed to croak out a negative reply, which was obviously more a reflection of my own stubbornness rather than an honest assessment of the truth. Instead of seeking the medical attention which I sorely needed, we returned to our apartment and vowed to stay away from cats in the future.

The resolution to avoid cats is one that I have found easy to keep as one might well imagine. I can recall the very last time I ever touched a cat; 12 April 2001. It may seem odd that I can recall the particular date, but coincidentally the occasion was a VIP reception for two National Geographic photographers, Nevada Weir and Virginia Swanson, that was being held at a swanky country club in suburban Cincinnati while riots were erupting downtown (it is easy enough to Google the dates of the riots). Virginia and Nevada had just returned from a photography adventure along the Nile in central Africa, and were on a lecture tour following the publication of their work in National Geographic. My wife helped organize the lecture in Cincinnati through her work at the local PBS station, so we frequently were invited to these special receptions. After dinner and a slide presentation by the photographers, they announced a special treat for those in attendance; at the front of the room a handler escorted in a Cheetah on a leash, accompanied by her pet dog. Yes, it was a fully grown African Cheetah, and yes, the cat had a small terrier dog as a pet (It was explained that the cheetah would get lonely and feel anxious without a companion). Obviously it is not every day that someone brings such an exotic animal to a party and in spite of my misgivings that another attack of asthma was in store I could not resist approaching the cat and giving it a few brief pets. Fortunately I did not get sick on this occasion. I have not touched a cat since.

I wasn’t always so perilously allergic to cats. My symptoms date back to a particular night in the late 80’s at a different party in a different city. I had a fraternity brother (I’ll call him Boom) who was hosting a back yard party for friends and neighbors in historic central Louisville. There was quite a gregarious crowd milling about and swilling barley and hops into the late evening, probably making enough noise to annoy those neighbors who weren’t invited. Around midnight an attractive young woman with fine blond hair arrived at the party and approached Boom with a stricken look on her face. “I’ve locked myself out of my apartment!” she exclaimed. “What am I going to do!?” She indicated that the second floor window next door with the light on was her apartment, and I immediately recognized that a gesture of gallantry at this moment might be rewarded with generous gratitude. Immediately I replied, “I’ll get you inside” with an unwavering tone of confidence. The second floor window overlooked a roof over the back porch, and it only took me a few seconds to climb onto the roof and pop open her window (don’t ask me how I know so much about B&E). I made my way through her cluttered apartment and unlocked her front door with a flourish.

This was a mistake. She did not tell me that she had a cat in the apartment.

The blond lady was waiting on the other side of the door which was situated at the top of a flight of stairs. Her grateful smile quickly evaporated as the cat shot past us in a flash, down the steps and out into the night. “My cat!” she cried with the same stricken look that she had earlier. Even though I had gotten her back inside her digs, I was quickly traveling the road from hero to bum.
I spent the next THREE HOURS chasing that damned cat around the neighborhood, cursing and fuming and disturbing the neighbors all the while before finally cornering the beast behind a hedge, against the foundation of the house next door. The cat tried to make a break for freedom by running along the foundation as I reached out and grabbed for it. I was only able to latch onto its tail, and by this time I was determined not to let it get away again. This was another mistake. The cat hated to be grabbed by the tail (not very surprising). As I carried it back triumphant to the blond lady, the disagreeable cat made good its escape from my clutches by pushing off with its hind legs, digging its claws into my torso in the process. In all honesty, I deserved this.

In spite of the bloody welts across my belly, I launched after the cat once again. This time it only took me an hour to recapture it. By this time it was nearing dawn, and my interest in the companionship of the blond lady had disappeared into a fog of annoyance and discomfort (and she probably felt the same about me by this time). I gave her back her stupid cat and left to return home (the party had broken up hours ago).

By midday the next day, I was truly starting to suffer. My eyes swelled shut; my sinuses watered continuously; hives began to erupt on my neck; and I started to run a fever. I drove from Louisville to Cincinnati in this miserable condition and was sick for the next two days (causing me to miss work that Monday). Ever since this party, I have been allergic to cats.

Some may scoff at “cat scratch fever” as a myth, but I assure you gentle reader that it is no myth.