The Slice: The Slice: If the claws don’t get you, the tales surely will

Back before my parents moved to Spokane from Vermont in the fall of 2000, my dad had a routine.

He would go outside and sit in a lawn chair. And the neighbor’s orange cat, Philippe (named by a college girl), would come over and climb into his lap. Philippe’s partner in crime, Crème (also named by the aforementioned fan of all things French), would come over, too. Crème usually reclined on the grass.

My folks probably would have enjoyed having their own pets. My allergies kept them from considering that.

I hadn’t been a regular resident at 76 Venus Avenue since the ‘70s. But you know how parents can be.

Anyway, a few years ago, my wife and I got a new neighbor. Soon this nice woman acquired a cat. The pet was named Chloe.

In keeping with family tradition, I struck up a relationship with this next-door feline.

I’ve referred to this gray tabby in print several times. But because of poor vision, my father hadn’t been able to read the paper in recent years. So he mostly heard about the cat’s antics via oral reports.

“Did you see Chloe today?” he’d ask me practically every day.

I would tell about times when the cat slipped into our house while we weren’t looking. I’d tell about her pretending to be a small snow leopard. And I would tell about the various ways she extorted tuna from me.

But I think the thing my dad most enjoyed hearing about was Chloe’s prickly personality.

You see, Chloe is not what you would call friendly. In fact, there are days when she would just as soon hurt you as look at you.

I’ve speculated that she resents repeatedly appearing in a column she disdains as cornball.

My wife was bold enough to pick her up once. That went OK for about a tenth of a second. Then Chloe started throwing lightning-fast left jabs and punishing straight rights.

She has bitten both of us. Not grievously, but enough to prompt a question: Why do we continue to be nice to this demented little wildcat?

Maybe it’s the behavior-modification challenge. Plus, when she’s not attacking you, she’s pretty cute.

Besides, Chloe gave me something to talk about with my dad. She was good material.

After my father died last weekend, I told myself I was going to pick Chloe up. But when the opportunity arose I got all chicken and hesitating and, before I knew it, she had my bare forearm in her mouth. Boy, she’s fast on the draw.

She didn’t actually bite me, though. Maybe that’s progress.

Later that night, I was outside and she sidled up to me – no doubt waiting for me to go in and fetch her a snack.

I reached down and gave her a pat on the head. I thanked her for providing me with stories to tell my father. She tolerated this.

“You’re a good kitty,” I told her.

And for just a moment, she really was.

Today’s Slice question: What is this area’s most Stepford-like neighborhood?