Summer 1963: “Snoop, the Cat” The cat’s name was Snooper. Snooper was a long hair yellow/orange male. We called him Snoop. What separated Snoop from all the other pets and animals--cats/dogs/ducks/geese; whatever someone dropped off in the country “to give them a better home”--we had over the years was that Mom actually allowed Snoop in the house. Other than a parakeet or two, no other pet was ever given than privilege. Have no idea how Snoop pulled that one off. Probably like most other social benefits. Based on looks. Mom really liked Snoop. My brother Pat and I really didn’t like Snoop. Two reasons. First off was that Snoop knew he was “protected” and could go/do/sleep/scratch/claw/fur ball cough up anywhere/anytime he wanted to with an MC Hammer “Can’t-Touch-This” attitude. Secondly, Snoop was a shedder. He’d shed over the carpet we walked on. He’d shed over the bed we slept in. He’d shed over all the furniture we set on. We’d all end up with this yellow/orange hair/fur all over our clothes. A major problem. Whenever my brother and I would go where there was a dog, the dog would smell all that “cat arrogance” on us and want to want to take us on…time after time. Didn’t make a difference the size of the dog either. All the way from Chihuahua/Pomeranian’s to German Shepherds. And, given the dog-of-choice back then, lots of German Shepherds. Havin’ to boot-kick your potential-new-girlfriend’s family dog to near death to get him off you was becoming a major issue to securing a second date. My brother and I had ourselves a serious problem here with no viable options. In August of every year, Mom would spend a week with her sisters in the Seattle area, taking the kid sister with her, leaving the homestead to Dad and me and the bro. “Officially” it was to stay in family contact but “unofficially”—and most likely--to touch base with the lifestyle she could have had if she hadn’t over-sped that “husband choosing thing.” Her last words as she fired up the Chevy was, “make sure Snooper gets his food and water.” You bet, Mom. During that week the evenings were pretty much ours as Dad would break from work (roofing contractor) earlier than usual and hit the BBT (Burbank Tavern) earlier than usual staying longer than usual, securing his basic food groups therein. Carbos were available from “germinated cereal grains,” proteins from beef jerky and items stored in some kind of “eternity fluid” in gallon jars on the back bar (much like those frogs in science class), and the fruit group represented by adding tomato juice to your “germinated cereal grains.” Vegetables were lacking but by adding a “One-A-Day” vitamin supplement you were pretty well covered. At least on short term basis. During that week my brother and I would allocate a “generous & appropriate” amount of time attempting to convince several of the local/regional “ladies” that they had been accepting “far less” in their present relationship selections than they were entitled to. Given that, Snoop and the hair/fur all-over-everything issue was not going to work to our benefit during the “intensive” interview process. So what to do with the cat? We come to the decision that Snoop needs to be an “outdoor cat” for the week. We move his food and water dish out to the back porch and his bed to the false ceiling loft area on the porch by the back door where he could look down on the world. Snoop ain’t happy with his new living arrangements and starts a heavy yowling, crawling up the screen door, process to get back in the house. “Work it all you want, Snoop; it ain’t going to happen.” Two days go by and a neighbor friend, Duane, stops by. “What’s the deal with the cat?” What about the cat? “He’s just laying up there above the door…starin’.” He’s just pissed cause we won’t let him in the house while Mom’s gone. Another day or so goes by with Dad heavily working the BBT and me and the bro heavily working the “local/regional” circuit when Duane stops by again. “Your cat’s freaking me out, man.” Now what? “He’s still in that same spot…starin’.” Mom’s due in the next day so we decide we might best check this one out. We slide out on the porch and, as Duane accurately described, Snoops just posed up there…starin’. I wave my hand in front of him. I get nothing. I get a chair, get up face to face, and wave my hand in front of him again. I get nothing. I reach in and lift him out. He is one stiff-as-a-board, pose-locked in a stalking position, with eyes wide open cat. I set him down on the floor. My brother asks, “What do you think?” I think he’s dead. “HOLY S--T!” says my brother. “Mom’s going to kill us!” Mom IS going to kill us. We need to get us a plan. In dealing with tricky situations, particularly with Mom (or women in general), we always relied on advice and/or assistance from our older (by 14 years) brother, Russ. This was one of those times. We give him a call, reviewing what happened, and his response is something like: “You’re right; Mom is going to kill you. I’ve got nothing for you. Let me know how it all works out…and this call never took place.” So…we’re back to square one. My kid brother offers, “Can’t we just bury him?” Not going to work. Some animal digs him up, Mom finds out he was buried, and all roads lead to us. “We could drop him at the dump?” Not going to work either. A lot of people know Snoop. Somebody might recognize him there and, again, the stinks back to us. Working on a gathering tight time frame someone offers that we take him over the fence into the Wildlife Refuge in front of the house where, in all likelihood, a coyote or hawk will claim the body overnight, and we’re scot-free even if someone finds some of the bones. We like it. Gathering up Snoop, we get to the Refuge fence. “What if Brooks (the game warden) sees us?” Good point. The Refuge main office is but a ¼ down the road to the east and we’re very visible. Using the stunted locust tree at the fence edge as a cover, we “Frisbee” Snoop about 20 yards into the Refuge, he bounces once or so and ends right-side up looking “authentic” in that same stalking/staring position he was in on the porch. That thing they say about cats always landing on their feet appears to be accurate. Even to dead cats. We move Snoop’s bed back into the house to its normal position, empty the food dish, and ½ fill the water so all looks normal. By morning, there is no trace of Snoop inside the Refuge fence. We might actually pull this off. Mom and sis arrive home. Later that evening Mom asks if we’ve seen Snoop. My brother offers, “Last we seen him was yesterday and…he was ‘flyin’’ towards the Refuge.” I give my brother a let’s-not-play-this-up-any-more-than-we-need-to-cause-we’re-pretty thin-on-this-as-it-is look… Mom looks out the kitchen window towards the Refuge. “Hopefully, the coyotes don’t get him.” My brother and I look at each other. Yeah…hopefully. A day later Mom asks if we’ve seen Snoop yet. Nope. Mom looks back out the kitchen window towards the Refuge. “Likely the coyotes got him.” My brother and I look at each other. Yeah…likely. Taking tally at the end of the week we’ve received a large box of great “hand me down clothes” from the Seattle area cousins, moved at least one local/regional out of their relationship (on a temporary basis), a major issue has been resolved, Dad is back to working longer hours (and on a more credible diet) and Mom will be sustained for the next few months on “what might have been.” A “very” good week for all on the reservation. Burbank, Washington Summer, 1963 ****** LAST NOTE: My brother Russ passed in 1994. Mom passed in 2001 never knowing what really happened to Snoop. When my two sisters read this, it will also be the first time they will know…:)
Posted on: Mon, 07 Oct 2013 15:14:52 +0000