A Cat Critic Retires, Licking His Wounds
I am used to criticism. Anyone who expresses his ideas in public learns to expect it. Sometimes it is cruel; often it is fair. I try to ignore it, unless it calls for a correction, in which case I usually oblige.
Sometimes these assaults are inspired by a careless phrase, such as my saying that I hate the Irish. That I obviously meant the Notre Dame football team, not the Irish people, did not shield me from abuse.
Sometimes the criticisms are broadsides that attack my character in general, such as this one from Jeano Bailard of Carpinteria. Evidently her fuse was lit by my statement that cats are very much like me.
“I was really annoyed when you said that cats were so much like you that that may be why you dislike them. Well, buddy boy, my cats are many things but I would never lay that stigma on them. They are nothing like you. You manage to extract all loveliness and charm out of every experience. Your marriage sounds dreadful, your wife is a slave, your Mexican sojourns are gruesome. And if that isn’t enough, you announced during the recent political campaign that you are a liberal!”
Now that is the sort of onslaught that I usually sidestep. A person venting that much animosity must simply be allowed to burn out. No argument will appease him (or in this case her).
But it is possible that if Mrs. Bailard thinks so ill of me, others might also. I feel that some sort of defense is called for.
First, I don’t see why Mrs. Bailard should take offense at my saying that cats are like me. I pointed out that we shared the same virtues, being independent, insolent, indolent, intractable, inquisitive, infuriating, morally intemperate and intellectually inaccessible. I’m sure Mrs. Bailard cannot deny that those are the characteristics of cats. Why should she mind if I share them?
For her to say that I extract all loveliness and charm out of every experience is to miss my innocence and irony. That I describe most experiences as exasperating, embarrassing or frustrating does not mean that I am not aware, on a higher plane, of their enchantment. If we cannot rise above a few misadventures, what is life for?
I am wounded by her appraisal of my marriage as “dreadful” and her characterization of my wife as a “slave.” This can only mean that I have failed to convey the harmony and mutual respect my wife and I enjoy. It increases with the years. That I may have pictured her as a slave merely shows that I have failed modestly to report my own contributions to our peaceful coexistence.
It is true that she cooks our microwave dinners and puts the trash out; but I open the wine, share in opening the junk mail, dispose of the magazines, let the cats in and out, and replace burned-out light bulbs. I also indulge my wife’s insatiable taste for the theater, concerts and dinner parties, some of which require me to dress. For that kind of support, it seems to me that putting out the trash is a small price. (She insists on doing this chore, by the way, because she is afraid I will reinjure my back. One must lift the heavy metal barrels, twist them around and then carry or slide them out to the curb. It isn’t easy.)
As for our “gruesome” escapades in Mexico, as I have pointed out, the frustrations are part of the adventure. If it was like staying at the Ritz Carlton, there would be no challenge and no triumph.
As for Mrs. Bailard’s allegation that I am a liberal, I do not remember having announced that during the recent political campaign. But perhaps I did. I’m not sure what a liberal is anymore. But in the generic sense of the term, aside from its political implications, I suppose I am one.
Years ago I met Clare Boothe Luce at a social event and she asked me, “Are you a conservative or a liberal.”
Mentally tossing a coin, I said, “Liberal.”
She said, “That’s too bad.”
I’ve never seen any reason to change.
By the way, I think that’s something else I have in common with cats. We’re all liberals.
