Catalympics

by tess

Each morning we are awakened hours before the alarm by our sweet nine-year old Wellington Wallis and our loving one-year old Quintus Maximus, both of whom happen to be the very best, most perfect, bravest, sweetest, strongest, and most beautiful babies ever loaned to man (and woman) by Bast, cat goddess extraordinaire.

Like all true Olympians, our competitors embrace the dark, dormant early morning. They warm up with a quick 400 meter relay, racing back and forth over our still-prone and pretending-to-be-asleep bodies. Next they mount the balance beam (our bed’s very narrow headboard) to demonstrate their cutting-edge skills and cat-like grace. A perfect dismount is key; there are additional points awarded for landing on the pillows as close to the judges’ faces as possible.

Having convinced one of us to feed them, a round of freestyle wrestling ensues en route to the kitchen. Upon arrival at the second venue, our combatants practice vaulting over the breakfast bar in a bid for gold, or at least tuna florentine. Once the judges have retired back to bed, a quick slalom across the balls on the pool table prepares our participants for the final event of the morning: the ten meter platform dive, or drinking out of the toilet.

Synchronized marathon napping is still under review by Olympic committee officials and is, therefore, considered an unofficial event. If television sponsors can convince the committee officials that there is a valid international market for the event, it is likely to be added to the 2010 Olympics in Vancouver.

Having spent all day preparing for the evening performances, Welli and Quinty greet us at the door in the midst of the 110 meter hurdles. A risky sport, the hurdle event requires leap-frogging across one another and as many obstacles as may be located. Like the shot of a starter gun, the dulcet tones of Rachael Ray’s endearing voice marks the beginning of the 200 meter sprint out of the family room and down the hall to the office. Assuring them of Rachael’s departure, an extended heat of speed skating rounds out the late afternoon hours during the laser pointer chase.

Hardcore competitors require massive quantities of sustenance. A quick match of volleyball with the Minky Mouse toy prepares our athletes for a well-earned dinner of terrific turkey giblet tenders. During dinner, Quintus performs his patented race walk maneuvers as he repeatedly carries each bite of moist food to the carpet for chewing, then returns to his bowl for another bite.

Night time rituals include the high jump from the top of the refrigerator to the open catwalk, and the ensuing cross-country ski through the dust on the catwalk which meanders from the kitchen through the family room across the dining room and into the living room. Finding himself alone at the opposite end of the house with nowhere to dismount, Quinty is particularly vocal après ski, singing his anthem at the top of his lungs. Meanwhile, high points for difficulty are awarded to Welli’s triple jump from couch to lampshade to cat tower to valance.

Finishing strong, our competitors move on to the final venue of the evening, the bathroom, for two litter-related events. First up, we observe Quinty’s soaring high jump over the bathtub edge and into the litter box. On his second attempt, he high jumps out of the litter back over the tub and settles in to observe his challenger’s performance. Welli’s second high jump, from tub to bathmat, terminates in a boisterous steeplechase gallop as Quintus pursues his sister through the bedroom and living room down the hall to the guest room around the track through the family room and out the cat flap onto the deck.

And so concludes another exciting day. There were highs and lows, agony and ecstasy, failure and success. Fortunately we don’t have to wait four years for another chance to witness the poetry-in-motion of the Catalympics. As softball announcer Terry Venables infamously reported during the 1984 Olympics: "If history repeats itself, I should think we can expect the same thing again."


(Disclaimer to my parents who will be cat-sitting soon: "The events depicted in this blog are fictitious. Any similarity to any feline living or dead is merely coincidental.")