Columnist Susan Snyder: People and cats — who owns who?

Friday, July 8, 2005 | 5 a.m.

Susan Snyder's column appears Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursday and Sundays. Reach her at snyder@lasvegassun.com or (702) 259-4082.

WEEKEND EDITION

July 9-10, 2005

A friend and fellow newspaper hack in Utah e-mailed me a hilarious San Francisco Chronicle column in which the author had written about his cat.

"Once again, with nothing to write about, he does well," my pal wrote atop the story. "Almost makes me wish I had a cat. Almost."

Frankly, I don't know how writers get past writer's block without the help of a self-absorbed feline to frustrate, amuse and inspire. Truth is, we'd be lost without them.

The Cat gets almost as much reader mail as I do, and it's nicer. They want to know how he is or what he's been up to. If I haven't mentioned him in a while, they're afraid he has slipped off to Kitty Heaven.

Not sure how that could happen, considering he already lives there.

Recently, The Cat has decided that water no longer shall be taken from a bowl. It must come directly from the faucet and be lapped ever-so-delicately from a glass.

I cannot believe I am admitting this in public: I draw fresh glasses of water for a cat.

Excuse me, Cat.

It's not entirely clear how I managed to understand the instructions being given, as I do not speak Cat.

But then, clarity is not characteristic of our relationship.

For example, it never has been clear how we established 3:52 a.m. as breakfast time or how the center of the sofa became the place one of us would sleep (and shed) 18 hours a day.

I do not know when, exactly, I lost my rights to the end of the bed or why he does not bother The Other until 6 a.m. when I am gone.

After 16 years I do know, however, the difference between the meow for more breakfast and the one for going out onto the porch.

So the new dance in front of the sinks in the kitchen and master bathroom, coupled with meows that became increasingly pitiful and desperate, eventually told Opposable Thumb (that would be me) that Kitty wants "a drink."

The Cat's vocabulary now consists of, "outside," "dinner," "bedtime," "brush," "chicken," "tuna" and "a drink." He also understands, but chooses to ignore, "No."

Teach him "Veto," and he could be president. (A poodle in every pot.)

He does not yet understand "haircut" but soon will. We have just acquired a set of electric clippers, hoping that there is an option to trim his coat for summer beyond the usual $130 ordeal involving anesthesia.

The clippers (heretofore known as "The Instrument") come with an instructional DVD that we watched twice -- the second time with merlot.

Though seemingly suitable for any kind of fur, they were shelved in the pet store's dog accessories section. The animal used in the DVD and pictured on the package is a dog.

Cats are not mentioned anywhere. Yet, the Opposable Thumb could not understand why The Instrument could not be used on The Cat.

As The Other restrained him on the patio table, I explained that the goal here was to remove the knots first and go for pretty if we got the chance.

Suffice to say, the knots are gone, and the cat looks like a cheap rug after 30 minutes in the dryer.

I'm thinking of renaming him King Tuft.

Ah well, give The King his drink.

Make it gin, and he could be mayor.