Football the cat

My cat Football is afraid of the heat in our new apartment. Yes, since I am apparently incapable of regulating my own body temperature, I have turned on my heat. It’s environmentally irresponsible to turn on my heat this early, I know this. But in my own defense, I don’t get hot, so I don’t use air conditioning. The girls get hot, but I make them lump it. Still, I have to listen to them. So I do go out of my way to protect the planet, but I can’t function normally wearing two sweatshirts in my house all day long, September or not.

So, Football. This is a story about Football. The heat kicks on and he hightails it into the kitchen to curl up on the linoleum. I’m not sure why this feels safe, but it’s also his spot for fireworks. For thunderstorms, he actually cries, so we wrap him in a blanket and sit with him, or carry him around. Or we tuck him into the covers of a bed. I know, he’s a cat. But he’s a really pathetically sweet cat who, despite having a big strong name like Football, just isn’t very brave.

He was the tiniest kitten I’ve ever had, so little that he scared me. The lady at the farm was going to give him to some college kid coming in the afternoon if I didn’t take him, and I couldn’t have that. College kids can’t even keep plants alive. He was too young to be with us, even Sparky the Big Gray Asshole knew this, and so he would grab the tiny orange kitten by the scruff of the neck and carry him up the stairs to us when he cried. We all followed suit and my mom started saying “That cat is proof that you need another baby.”

I was coaching the girls in flag football the fall that we got him and this is probably where the name came from. We threw around names like Favre, Lambeau, Packer, even Jon Gruden. I saw a theme developing and ran with it. “Let’s name him Football!” I thought that it was genius. The girls, even at six and eight, thought I was nuts. Everyone thought I was nuts. Still, the name stuck. My cousin Greggi commented once on how funny it was that we still call him that. Of course we call him that, that’s his name.

I should state for the record that, despite the name, we never kick him or throw him around. We do rub him on the TV for luck during football games (imagine that), but that’s the extent of his duties per the name. My mom got into the habit of putting dryer sheets in her rocker during football season, to rub over the cat during close games, to help with the static.

Truth be told, I love Football more than any cat I’ve ever had. He is the gentlest soul on the face of the planet. He doesn’t allow yelling, at all. It doesn’t matter if the yelling is “I am soooo freakin mad!!!!” or if it’s just calling the girls for dinner, its not permitted in our house. Football immediately runs to the yeller, climbs up near their face and bumps his face into theirs, trilling. As if to say “Be nice… (bump, bump…) We only cuddle and give kisses… (bump, trill in ear, scratchy nose kisses) Just be nice...”

I especially love that he does this because he is afraid of everything. He wouldn’t go into our old basement for nine months, just wrapped himself around my neck like a monkey and cried (without using his claws, mind you. He still has them, but he wouldn’t use them, ever.)

He still thinks that our dog Somewhere wants to eat him. We’ve had the dog for nearly a year now, and they may play on occasion, but Football definitely still thinks that she wants to eat him. He won’t even scratch the dog, and she asks for it, believe you me. He just swats at the air near her face when he’s had enough of her shenanigans.

So I sit here on my computer writing, with Football the cat curled up in my lap, hiding his face from the scary heater. When I lean down and say “Hi buddy…” he comes out of his hiding spot for exactly three seconds, just long enough to squeak at me gently, kiss my nose twice, and tuck back into being afraid.

Maybe bravery is overrated. It’s obviously not meant to be everyone’s purpose. Truthfully, I’ll take the gentlest soul on the planet any day.