After Stella came to live with us in 2019, I realized, with my mobility issues, that I could no longer carry three dishes of cat food to the cats. I needed a cart to help me tote items around the apartment. This led to the Great American Teacart Search. Not all of them were really teacarts. Several were heavy industrial carts, some better than others, but each one had problems. Like Goldilocks, I determined that none of them were “just right.” and each one had a short life in my apartment while I cursed the problems of shopping online
The best one, purchased in 2023, was wonderful – sturdy, rolled easily, held a lot of items on three tiers – but it was too wide at 24 inches to maneuver aound my studio apartment. The cats ran from it in terror when I rolled out their breakfast dishes in the morning. It completelyt filled the space between the dresser and their food mats. They hated it, and I hated llistening to three terrified and angry cats. Its replacement was the right width – around eleven and a half inches – but the damned cart had no handles, so maneuvering it was awkward and the tiers had no lips, no edging on the sides, so things constantly fell off the cart onto the floor.
Ann and Jen came to my rescue. Their Christmas gift this past holiday season was an attractive teacart with only one problem: Annabelle has claimed it – all three tiers of the damned thing! – as her own personal property. She reads her Backstage on it, she sleeps on it; she talks on the phone on it, and worst of all, she insists on being wheeled about on it.
This is such fun! she trills as I push the cart to the kitchen to prepare the kitties’ breakffast. Push me again! she demands when I push the cart, empty of everything except one bossy cat, back to the living area. Back off! she threatens Stella or Thatch when they express an interest in getting in on the fun. I love my cart! she enthuses when I try t explain the cart was a gift to make my life and housework easier.
The other day, while I was on the floor, cleaning up the daily mess around the cat tree, I heard Annabelle yell Dam! just before a paperback mystery I had left on the computer table struck me on the side of the head, knocking off my glasses.
What the hell, Annabelle? I yelled at her. That hurt! I picked up my glasses and put them on.
Sorry, Daddy! I was so mad, I just threw the book, but I didn’t mean to hit you.
What made you angry, Missy?
This report I’m reading on cat IQs, that’s what! I says here . . . let me find it. Ah! Here it is. A cat’s IQ is no higher than a one or two-year child! Do I sound like a baby? My IQ is much higher than that. I must have the reading IQ of a college student. I’m sure it’s higher than yours.
It might be, I responded. I don’t know what my IQ is.
I betcha Thatch’s IQ is higher than yours, too!
Keep me out of this! Thatch yelled from the window where he and Stella were watching the hurlyburly on West 82nd Street.
Well, I think we need to challenge this slander. I’m so mad I could spit!
Well, Annabelle, I observed, you shouldn’t believe everything you read.
Annabelle sulked for several days over this slight to her intelligence before she decided to give us IQ tests. They were primarily designed to show us how intelligent she was and we were not.
Okay, Thatch! How many fingers am I holding up?
Thatch stared at Annabelle for a moment. You don’t have any fingers, Annabelle! You’re holding up a paw with five toes.
See, Daddy? Thatch has a high IQ! I’m sure my IQ is higher. I mean, I read Congreve and . . .
Backstage, Thatch responded.
. . . and Edward Albee.
Did you understand “Tiny Alice?” I asked her.
No one does, she answered. I think he was drugged out when he wrote it.
Well, I for one am tired of these silly IQ tests you keep throwing at me, Annabelle! Thatch replied. Please! No more, no more!
Have you tested Stella’s IQ,? I cautiously asked.
Stella’s no fun. I’m sure her IQ is very low, Annabelle sniffed.
That’s not fair, Thatch protested.
She refuses to answer me, and all she does is beat that tambourine. I’m going to steal it and hide it.
I would advise you not to do that, I warned her.
Well, I need a break. She jumped from the computer table to the top tier of the teacart, where she lay down.
Taking a nap, Missy? I ask
It depends, Daddy. Do you want to push me to the kitchen and back? It’s such fun!
You know, Thatch, I told him, she used to do the same thing when I made the bed. As soon as I was ready to push the bed back against the filing cabinets, she would jump into the middle of the bed and make me push it back and forth until my arms were ready to fall off.
That isn’t quite true, Thatch. Don’t believe him.
What isn’t true? Thatch asked.
His arms never fell off.
What can I say? I asked.
Hey, I’m waiting! Are you going to push me to the kitchen and back? It’s such fun!
Annabelle & Thatch 