Grendel and Me (April ’08)

Bernie Moore

Sunstruck

(A process whereby a cat walking across a rug is immobilized by a ray of sun)

I was talking to Grendel the other day; it was on the occasion of one of our first hunts of the pre-spring season. Hunting starts when the chipmunks begin their active foraging. The squirrels have been active most of the winter as it has been relatively mild, but they are much too quick and acrobatic for a feline hunter attached to a human by a six-foot tether. The tether is required by law of condo management controlled by very senior cits who cannot distinguish between the habits of dogs and cats, and who decreed,” All pets must be on a leash.” This has put severe restrictions on my choices of animal companions particularly of the fin and feather varieties.
Alas, I wander.
“Com’on, boss,” He implored, “There’s one just ducked into the drainpipe.” I probably do not need to point out the difference in sprint speed between us. He tugged me toward the drain pipe with incredible strength. I have always maintained that pound for pound cats can out pull any sled dogs on the planet…for about ten yards whereupon they would fall upon quarrelling and caterwauling amongst themselves. It seems that the alpha male position of cats is a very tenuous position.
Meanwhile the chipmunk is scratching away in the drainpipe trying to garner some precious altitude. Needless to say traction is wanting and he remains precariously close to the opening, which fact Grendel gleefully exploits by stuffing his arm to the hilt probing with his claws, supremely confident and with a serious look of expectation on his face.
“YeaAAAAaach”, cries Grendel, “The little %&@*&er bit me.” Here I must apologize for Grendel’s language; it really is beyond human transcription. Try to recall two Toms on a fence when the femme felines are in heat. Such was the outpouring of rage and angst.
He shook his paw and looked at it whereupon his tail shot straight up and he walked haughtily toward a nearby bush to check the first stop on his peemail circuit. Identifying something of interest with his supersensitive nose he opens his mouth into what appears to be a snarl and began sampling the air in greater detail applying the pheromone gland in the roof of his mouth, the Coopers gland. The message is sweet and the message is long, as he works it as thoroughly as a Yale scholar preparing a dissertation.
Moving to several more drop points he memorizes the mating needs of the colony of cats that prowl our neighborhood. He then goes to several of the favorite hidyholes of chipmunks around the air conditioner, but the effort is half hearted. He’s not in the mood to plunge his arm too far into the darkness.
Finally, he heads for the bits of sweetgrass that have hunkered through the winter cold. A few blades have swollen inviting a closer sniff. Chewing a few blades, he moves to the next clump and repeats the process and I know he will be rolphing it up on the rugs as soon as we get back inside.
“Why do you do that?” I asked again, knowing the question is as pointless as the answer I will get again, as I have before.
“Idonno.”
“Does it taste good?”
“No.”
“Then why…never mind.”
He then headed for home; his sortie completed satisfactorily.
So many of our rituals are ingrained in us, “God bless,” to a sneeze; stuff like that. And so it is with Grendel, yet on this day he did inspect the perimeter of his domain and found it free of dangerous predators and resplendent with the lovely scents of game and invitations from fellow felines and felionesses.
I started to think about my upcoming rituals. My tanks have been gathering sand grit and dust; dampness has been eating the inside of my BCD wings. Salt has been wreaking havoc with my regulators, batteries fading in my dive computer. Did I remember to remove the batteries from my dive lights? Tanks need to be vised; hopefully none will have to be hydroed. Regs need to be cleaned, corruptible parts replaced. Test fin straps for little crevices, order specialty batteries, see if that cheap wet suit has shrunk over the winter, and make sure the Leprechauns didn’t cut an inch or two off your weight belt.
Even though I doubt I’ll be diving this month it will feel good to have the gear in hand again, the heft of the tanks, the fit and taste of the mouthpieces, the absurd reluctance of weight belts, the beeping of puters, holding the dive knife again, rarely used but essential to heroic fantasies. Great white attacking my group. The women, the little children, tremmoring in fear, as I swirl around and around with the beas,t pumping the blade time and again, until lifeless he sinks to the bottom where his hungry brothers await patiently. Where else can you go about your business with a lethal weapon strapped to your leg? And best of all… “I love the smell of neoprene in the morning. It smells of…sniff??...sniff??….urine!”