Fredrick The Cross-Dressing Cat

Some of you already know him. But, currently, he is the love of my life, the apple of my eye, the fuzzy little being that puts a smile on my face. So, I thought I would introduce him to the rest of you. Give my little pussy cat his small moment of fame. Do you think Andy Warhol knew that even God's animals would be getting their 15 minutes?

Cats have never been my first choice when it comes to pets. I like the cuddlier kind, the less aloof, the more needy. You know the kind to which I am referring. Those beasts who adore you no matter what your crime or misdemeanor. Miss Rose, the hyperactive, lickety-lick-lick puppy that grew up beside me was a dream-come-true, fitting quite comfortably against my slightly codependent psyche through college and right up into my first year as a grown-up girl. But dogs don't tell you that they have places to visit and things to do that reach far beyond our small, human landscape. They don't tell you they will turn the tables, making you as devoted to them as they are to you. And, then -all too soon- they will have to move along, leaving us far behind, to do those cosmic doggie things that mere Homo sapiens cannot possibly comprehend. Thus, Miss Rose did take her leave, and I was left pet-less and heart-scarred.

C'est la vie! No more pets for me! Cutoffs, smiley faces, bubble gum, and Miss Rose's sacred ashes (tucked discretely behind my candle reserve on the top shelf of my pantry) aside, I was an independent, all-grown-up, sophisticated city girl now! Who needs to be walking a dog when you're now wearing (at least, on occasion) high heels, right?

After a more than respectable grieving period, I settled in to learn the joys of pet-free solitude.

And shifted and settled....

Obviously, something was wrong with this picture. No matter how many times I rearranged myself, I was a puzzle missing a piece. I NEEDED A NEW PET! With Miss Rose watching from the pantry, a new puppy was simply out of the question. Birds and fish weren't quite furry enough, nor very "pet-able." So after a series of fruitless inquiries and false starts there entered into my life, my home, and eventually (the sneaky little critter) my heart, Sir Fredrick Alexander Theodore Katt.

Perhaps his initial indifference can be credited to some cat sense that my adoption of him was a tentative gesture at best. Maybe he resented the canine ghost of which I pretended ignorance. Imaginably, he might have resented the lack of a second "e" in his given name, feeling it an intentional slight on my part. It could be that I just plain pissed him off when I insisted he wear a hot pink collar and started calling him my little Sissy Kitty.

Regardless of his reasons, Fredrick remained obstinately aloof for what seemed to me the longest of times. I began to worry that this cat thing was not going to work out. "Give him fresh food and water every day," advised my friend, Kandy, when I called her in a panic. "Keep his litter fresh. Otherwise, ignore him. When he learns you are trustworthy, he will come to you." Cripes, how long did I have to wait? It had already been three whole days! I was living to hear the tinkle-tinkle of that little silver bell as My cat pranced through My home, tickled pink (And I do mean PINK, Fredrick!) to be My pet. And the little guttersnipe wouldn't even give me the time of day!

And what was this whole litter thing all about? This cat was, in fact, a mere kitten, no bigger than a large coffee mug. Where was all of that coming from? Poop and scoop. Poop and scoop. It was an endless (not to mention, repugnant) cycle. Jennie, my "cat expert" friend, advised, "You do the same thing with dogs, just in a much larger litter box. Kittens, being hyper by nature, have fast digestive tracts. Be patient." In other words, "This too shall pass." (No pun intended. Well, maybe a little.) My brother suggested Science Diet. Two words: Less Waste! Needless to say, I made a beeline to PETsMART. (To this day, this is the only cat food I permit Fredrick to eat...well worth the extra dollars.)

As predicted, Fredrick eventually came around: First, sitting wide-eyed at the edge of a room watching my every move, even in the execution of the most mundane of tasks. Then, daring to sleep at the edge of my bed. When he began lying across my hip, sleeping and purring as I read in bed, I knew this was going to be a beautiful thing. In quick order we graduated from light stroking to heavy petting.

Fredrick has accepted his role as my little cross-dressing kitty cat. Among the cat toys of the usual variety in his toy box you will also find a “Doggy in Drag,” which happens to be his favorite toy. I continually have to search for that little, stuffed dog's skirt and put it back on. You might happen to notice a little red and pink stuffed penis amongst the yarn and balls and stuffed toy mice...but, we won't go there. His newest collar is decorated with pink flowers and sports a Victorian heart along with the silver bell.

I think Fredrick knows that this enforced sissydom befits his scaredy-cat temperament. He really is a very meek cat, even at two years old. While he will sit for hours at a window watching the outside world, he has no desire to experience that world firsthand. My callers know Fredrick better than my friends and family, as he runs and hides whenever we have visitors. Never sight nor sound from Fredrick when there are (God, forbid!) Humans in the House! At least the callers can hear his occasional meowing. And, of course he's never met a cat he didn't like (or liked, for that matter), because he's never met another cat!

As I finish up this post, Fredrick sits under my desk lamp "sunning" himself. I ask him, "Are you my little pussy boy?" He yawns, stretches out his little paws: "Meow."

Which means: "Yes, and I am a very happy little pussy boy, thank you very much!"