Grog

When we lived in Spain we met a huge, black, vile-tempered cat named Grog. Grog had a family, the Hickeys, a man, a woman, a teen-age boy, a pre-teen girl, each one of them the soul of sweet reason and amiability. Grog took it upon himself to be ill-natured for all of them. What a guy.

The first time I met Grog I discovered that he permitted his person to be touched only by members of his immediate family and such others individuals as he had personally inspected. I failed the inspection.

Grog’s mama apologized, but I told her not to worry. It was my fault entirely for attempting to pet an animal without a formal introduction. Anyone that rude deserved to bleed a little.

The next time I visited, I decided to leave Grog alone. I studiously ignored him for almost an hour. But Grog, disagreeable creature that he was, decided that we were going to be bosom friends. He plonked himself on my bosom and demanded to be petted.

Grog was, in a word, difficult.

The family decided to return to the States, but before Grog could go with them he had to receive a battery of shots. Somehow he was enticed into his kitty cage and, accompanied by his mama and his pet girl, off he went to the vet. Unfortunately for everyone, Grog’s family spoke little Spanish, the vet spoke less English. After several hectic minutes of a curious mixture of Spanish, English, French and German words liberally laced with hand gestures, the vet understood that he was to stick needles into Grog. The family warned the vet that the cat would probably object to being pierced and offered to help. The vet, however, declined all offers of assistance and told them to come back at five o’clock to recover their pet.

When they returned they found a disturbed cat and a disturbed vet having a stare down. Grog was still in his carrying case, well toward the back so he couldn’t be scooped out by surprise. The vet’s arms were decorated with iodine and Band Aids. Grog wore a defiant look, tinged with contempt, while the vet’s eyes expressed a combination of anguish, frustration and loathing.

Grog’s girl reached into the carrying case and gathered Grog in her arms. The vet grabbed his needles and quickly gave the cat his shots. “There’s the Grog monster, all shot,” murmured the girl.

“Ojalá” muttered the vet under his breath. That’s Spanish for “so mote it be.”

Mrs. Hickey informed me recently that Grog lived for several years in the States but eventually succumbed to coyotes. As big and assertive as Grog was, I'm sure there was more than one coyote involved, and I'm dead certain that he did not go gently into that good night.



Copyright Ken Harris 2009