My Cat Spit McGee
Willie Morris
Not since the Hatfields and the McCoys have two groups been pitted so
vehemently against each other. Enter into Willie Morris's world, where
the meritorious love of dogs and the unthinkable love of cats are not
only at battle, but are mutually exclusive realities, period. A self-proclaimed
"dog man," the late Morris effortlessly cultivated his life-long hatred
of cats while growing up in Mississippi. Only when faced with an equally
self-proclaimed "Cat Woman," aka, his fianc�, did Morris's journey into
the feline forum unfold
. Morris's first tiny tigress? Rivers Applewhite, a waif of a kitten
found on Highway 51 and presented, unbeknownst to the author, to his fianc�
on Christmas day. Faced with the unavoidable presence of the, gasp, anti-dog,
Morris sought out "some sound counsel about cats" from several feline
fanciers only to come up short on enlightenment. Rivers, it would turn
out, was merely the first cat to enter Morris's home, while Rivers's son
Spit McGee was the first to enter his heart. "Live, kid, live!" the dog
man pleaded upon Spit's complicated birth as he rubbed the "formless blob's"
amniotic sac in a desperate attempt to get "it" to breathe. And breathe
it did. Lives pivot on small, deeply personal moments, and with his improbable
midwifery, a significant transformation in Morris did, in fact, occur.
"With the survival of Spit McGee I would become against all past injunctions
a cat-watcher, observing his curious development from a kitten on."
And his observations are keen, endearing, and humorous at that. When
Morris, after futilely attempting to teach Spit to fetch, heads to the
local library to research his former four-legged foe, the reader quickly
surmises the veracity of his bewilderment: he just doesn't get it. Despite
his insightful proclamation, "cats ain't dogs," it's not until later that
he begins to understand and appreciate the differences in the species.
His articulations on Spit take shape in fascination (he not so much walked
as glided), indulgence (he even liked fresh boiled asparagus if this was
garnished with Parmesan cheese), camaraderie (often in fine weather we
sit together down by the creek and I tell him things), and appreciation
(never once can I take Spit for granted).
Some have labeled Spit a follow-up to My Dog Skip, Morris's heralded
account of his childhood and his beloved dog. Although Skip is mentioned
throughout, along with Morris's middle-years ally, a black lab named Pete,
these pages were undeniably penned for none other than Spit and his periphery
kitty entourage. Remembrances of Skip and Pete abound, to be sure, yet
they mainly serve to set the feline-fearing stage on which Morris, pre-Spit,
lived his life.
One false note: His apparent disregard for spaying his female cats in
the face of such devastating pet overpopulation in our country is disappointing.
One hopes he would have known better.