Mine eyes have seen the glory of something no eyes should see.
And mine ears have heard the yowls of a Community Room divided. Gunther is here, and he’s declared war.
Maybe that’s not entirely accurate. Gunther has declared “meow. Mow. Moooaaaoow. Meow. Aoow. Mow. POW!” That’s slightly different from war.
Still, in extremely-talkative-tabbyspeak, that does translate to something like fightin’ words.
If you have any doubt about that, take a look at Webster’s ear.
But I should rewind a bit. First, meet Gunther: a big, sturdy slab of tabby, with gleaming golden eyes, a mouth that won’t quit, and shockingly-bad kidney disease. It’s that last quality that landed G a plum position in the Community Room: land of humans and junk food…and Webster and Chickadee.
We human beans thought Gunther would love all the attention. (He does.) We thought he’d relish the smorgasbord. (He’s unfazed.) We thought he’d be happy here.
And he is. He just happens to be all too happy to loose the faithful lightning of his terrible swift sword on his feline neighbors.
In just a week’s time, the Community Room – that shining republic of peace and justice and freedom – has devolved into a rather uncivil war. And, like the bonnet-wearing momma with one son fighting for the North and another gone Confederate, I’m torn asunder.
I loved Gunther with all my guts and glory from the moment he moved in. A meow-a-minute mushball, he would be scrumptious enough even if he weren’t a brown tabby with a big, giant, round head. But he’s all of that and more, plus he loves love like Katy Perry loves blue hair dye. Like any new cat, Gunther was supposed to spend his first few days in the Community Room in a large crate, so he could get used to the sights and smells of the room, and the room could get used to his own personal sight and smell.
But a certain soft-hearted individual (who shall remain anonymous, except for the fact that his name may or may not rhyme with Ronathan) just couldn’t take G’s pitiful meows. “What’s one day early?” Ronathan said, scoffing at the carefully-dated cage card on Gunther’s crate. “You can come on out, Gunther.”
Ronathan opened the door. Gunther moseyed out. Ronathan left the room. (Tricksy one, that Ronathan.) Gunther proceeded to immediately trample out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored.
Which brings me back to Webster’s ear.
There was a scream, a hiss, and a flash of tabbitude as Webster flew around the corner and up into my lap. His ears were flattened against his head, but I could plainly see that one of them had been gashed by someone. Gunther immediately pointed to eighteen-year-old, arthritic, diabetic, kidney-diseased, asthmatic Franny (who was sleeping so deeply, a Skrillex concert wouldn’t have woken her). I wasn’t buying it. But, like that be-bonneted momma, I held out hope. They’ll work it out. It’ll be okay.
Sure it would. Also: I am the Queen of Spain, the sky is orange with purple polka dots, and Newt Gingrich does not have an abnormally large head.
Sweet, sweet Gunther seems to have two hobbies. One: mooshing people.
The other: loosing his terrible swift sword teeth on other cats. And not just any cats, but the very best cats of all.
Webster and Chickadee.
If the Community Room floor and table are now the Confederate States, my desk is the beleaguered North. Chickie and Webster have overcome their leeriness of each other to spend 98% of their time in this safe zone, leaping down only to use the litter box.
And still Gunther isn’t satisfied. He’ll amble around the corner to my desk, staring up at Webster and Chickie until he catches their gaze and gets them both to growl. When they do dare to cross the border, the big guy attacks. And, man, can he attack.
So what’s a Webster-loyal, Gunther-loving girl to do?
And what in the world will happen when Webster’s longtime nemesis, Harley, returns to the Community Room from ringworm?
We’re gonna need a miracle if this room will ever be back to kum-ba-yah. But, miracles do happen, and they do seem to favor Tabby’s Place, so…
Glory, glory hallelujah, indeed.