Spike is my cat. He’s getting up there in age (14-ish). I consider him a staple of my musical life because he was given to me by my choir director when I was 18. One day in school, teach said he had 24 hours to get rid of this cat or his landlord was going to cut him a new one. Because I have no self-control (and neither does my cat-loving mother), I begged my mom to take him (I didn’t have to try very hard), and thus began the 10+-year saga of Spike.
Spike is an indoor fellow, and spends a lot of his time in my basement studio. Because the median ground-to-belly ratio for the household animals around here is a solid five inches, Spike ends up getting smacked in the face a lot with young, fresh, over-eager dachshund tail, leaving our feline in a consistently senile mood. He’s perfectly content to wallow in the studio shadows. The dogs aren’t allowed in the studio because I prefer the urine-soaked carpets to be somewhere other than under the $10,000 instrument (read: dachshunds are impossible to housebreak for life. It’s a real thing. Look it up…and don’t judge).
As a result, Spike enjoys a good realtor role-play, as in, he owns all the subterranean territory of the house. If you move anything in the studio, he’ll show you what’s what. Another idiosyncrasy: I frequently find myself apologizing to unsuspecting studio guests who think they can employ regular cat-petting techniques on Spike and walk away unscathed. No, no. He’s a fickle little being. It’s also not uncommon for me to walk in on what appears to be nothing short of a one-cat party because he’s 14 and still kicking.
As of late, I’ve tried to catch Spike in some of these compromising positions while in my studio, which wasn’t very difficult, and have amassed a mini-blackmail-arsenal that I’m going to share with you in a small series.
Behold the real studio owner:
I have at least two more for you. So hold onto those cat-wrangling gloves and sit tight for the next installment.
He’ll be back.
He’ll always be back.