THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Thursday, September 1, 1994 TAG: 9408300166
SECTION: NORFOLK COMPASS PAGE: 06 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY ERIC FEBER, STAFF WRITER
LENGTH: Medium: 60 lines
What has happened to our evening walk?
What began as a daily stroll to allow my wife and me the chance to properly digest our food, enjoy the tree-lined streets of Ghent and talk quietly has turned into something else.
My wife, Marian, is a cat nut, a feline-ophile, a kitty-aholic. I call her the original Kitty Lady. She has even turned my own loathing of cats into a tolerance.
I've noticed that she has the uncanny ability to find cats wherever she goes. She could travel to Antarctica and, during a blinding snowstorm, call out ``kitty, kitty, kitty,'' and flush out a couple of mangy, yellow tabbies.
During our trips to the Netherlands, a dog-crazy country, she finds cats. When we walked the streets of Montreal, Copenhagen, Washington, Amsterdam, Brussels and other domestic and foreign locales, her high-pitched ``kitty, kitty, kitty'' had the same effect on cats as the Pied-Piper's flute had on rats.
So we began our daily walks through West Ghent. Naturally, her ability to lure felines was met with unqualified success.
Black cats, yellow cats, Manx cats, stray cats, Siamese cats and rough-tough alley cats all bounded her way. Soon she had made up names for all of them.
The one with the bell on its collar was dubbed Jingle Bells; the Manx with no tail was christened Stubby; the mangy, stray flea-hotel who bounds into our presence like a wind was named Hurricane; the small, sweet-faced black and white was given the monicker Cutie-Pie. Even when Marian found out their real names, she stuck with her chosen ones.
After the naming came the feeding.
Soon Marian was buying boxes of dry cat food so she could dole out ``num-nums'' to her ``babies.'' Now we could never alter our route. We couldn't go another way, down another street or into another Ghent neighborhood. ``What would happen to my babies?'' Marian always asked.
We have become a walking soup-kitchen for Ghent putty-tats. And each evening those guys are at their respective spots waiting for Marian's nightly ``Num-Num Patrol,'' probably checking their carefully hidden feline digital watches to see if we're on time.
Once we ran out of cat food. But we still didn't alter our route. We just tip-toed, sneaked around and hid from the hungry cats. I even thought Marian would suggest we wear those rubber Groucho-mustache-glasses to fool the waiting fuzz-balls.
The other night it rained.
``No walk tonight,'' I said.
``But they won't get their num-nums,'' Marian said sadly.
``I suppose you want me to drive along our route like some Red Cross feed wagon for felines, huh?'' I joked.
``Welllllllllll????''
What has happened to our simple little constitutional? It's become a cat walk, that's what.
Whoops, time to buy more num-nums. The ``babies'' are waiting. by CNB