Going for the Gold and the Cat

It is a matter of inconceivable timing that I came down with the flu during the Olympics and was forced to lie on the couch and watch television.

I wasn’t actually forced to watch television, I guess, but there are relatively few alternatives when one is too sick to care.

I realize that calling in with something as vague as the flu during an event like the Olympics makes one suspect of faking it, especially when the alleged illness confines one to an air-conditioned home during a heat wave.

But I swear that is not the case with me. I’m not crazy about watching wrestlers sweat or tiny girls with big smiles flip through the air for the sake of medals which, when melted down, would not buy dinner at L’Orangerie.

However, watching all the running and jumping while lying there in a feverish condition did stir my interest in people attempting to achieve what seems unachievable under adverse conditions.

It came to me after a double dose of codeine-laced cough medicine that there ought to be an Olympics for those who win only around the house, where conditions are always a little adverse.

I mean, there’s a gay Olympics, a special Olympics, a senior Olympics and a junior Olympics, why not a domestic Olympics?

Not enough challenges? Try luring a cat into the house after you’ve slammed the door on its head the night before.

*

It occurred during the first day of my illness which, coincidentally, was the first day of the Olympics. Cinelli, who has seen me through many bouts of hypochondria, was unconvinced I was sick and was therefore not about to take over my share of the household chores, which included feeding the cat.

Actually, we have two cats, identical twins, whom we call Cat One and Cat Two. Not the most imaginative of names, I suppose, but why waste creative energy on something that urinates on the rug?

For a while we also had a cat named Peanut Butter who disappeared one day in a fit of pique. Cinelli wanted me to go hunting for him, but I’ll be damned if I’ll run up and down the street calling for something named Peanut Butter.

Cats One and Two are outdoor creatures, let in at night to eat and to keep from being eaten by coyotes. They are creatures of a highly suspicious nature, and getting them through a door at any time is a challenge worthy of an Olympian. A 3.2 degree of difficulty at least.

Cat One had been the most cooperative until, while trying to stop her from dashing out again, I closed the door quickly. Unfortunately, One’s head happened to be between the door and the jamb and for a terrible moment I thought I had decapitated her.

Cat One’s yowling summoned Cinelli, who, watching the animal flee in terror, looked at me the way a vegetarian views a pork chop and said I was disgusting for trying to kill a helpless animal just because I had a little cold.

Stunned by her logic, I replied with a line from an old Richard Widmark movie, “Lady, if I’d been trying to kill Moe he’d be in hell by now.” Moe was the guy he’d just thrown down the stairs.

*

My flu was worse the next night but, true to the Olympian spirit, I mixed a tasty collation of kibbles and chopped horse into a dish, opened the back door and called Cats One and Two in a voice as sweet as a lute in spring.

They came running as usual but stopped about five feet away and looked at me. I suspect that Cat One had informed Cat Two about the unfortunate incident the night before and was not about to bend easily to the guillotine.

“Apologize,” Cinelli said, watching me.

“I’ll explain,” I said, “but I won’t grovel.”

No amount of clarifying the head-smashing, however, made a difference. They stared and fidgeted and nuzzled each other, but held their ground for a full 10 minutes while I kitty-kittied myself into hyperglycemia.

I was running out of sweetness and patience at about the same time but then realized that greatness swings on final effort. Did Carl Lewis quit when they said he was through? Did Bob Costas quit when he had nothing more to say?

I backed away from the door and, summoning one last great flow of sweet-kitty talk, called again. Cat Two edged toward the door then stopped. Cat One followed and went a step farther. Cat Two sniffed the air. Cat One licked its chops. Cat Two stood in the doorway. Cat One took one final look around. And then both dashed in as I closed the door.

Cinelli gave me a standing ovation, I took a victory lap and then collapsed on the couch. Well, actually, I missed the couch and hit the floor. Cinelli helped me up. “Poor dear,” she said, “you over-rotated. It was only a 6.5 but you’ll do better in Sydney.”

I cried.

Al Martinez can be reached through Internet at al.martinez@latimes.com