Let's talk about Socks, baby

(Disclaimer: I love my grandparents and my uncle, I wrote the following only for its comedic value. I realize the character described in the post has become a companion for my grandparents, and I would never want to rob them of that.)

Not the kind that go on your feet. I am speaking of the feline variety. My grandparents’ cat, inadvertently named for the former First Family’s comrade. This cat, Socks, wandered (more accurately, forced its way) into our lives some time back. My uncle, who lives with my grandparents, discovered him, began feeding him, and before long the cat had a permanent home on the screened-in porch, which has been locked from the inside since the cat took up residence therein. Meanwhile, the rest of us are stuck walking around the side of the house and up a dubious, do-it-yourself ramp to the front door. I have fallen down this ramp twice, and at least one of my cousins has fallen. It’s a dangerous ramp, with splintery handrails. Whenever weight is applied to the ramp, a visible gap appears between it and the porch landing, and the ramp itself sways and buckles like the Bay Bridge in a San Francisco earthquake. In the years I lived prior to knowing Socks, I can count on one hand how many times I remember going to the front door of my grandparents’ house. It just wasn’t done. Using the side door adjacent to the driveway was just a part of life. Not anymore, but I digress.

My grandparents don’t like animals. To this day my grandmother refuses to eat food prepared by someone who has an animal in his or her home. I can remember several instances of the city being called out to squelch barking dogs and expel neighboring cat colonies. Being a pet owner, and especially co-habitating with said pet, earned you a place of scorn in my grandparents’ opinion. But, Socks is different, he’s a clean, smart cat.

The whole ordeal started out innocently enough. The cat stayed on the porch because it wasn’t allowed in the house, and if let outside, it would run off or surely be eaten by wild dogs. Fall arrived and the air grew chilly, so soon heavy plastic had been stapled to the outside of the porch. Fair - Socks has to stay warm. That was the first winter. Then things warmed up, plastic didn’t come down. Want to know why? Because the plastic helps keep in the cool air being blown out by the newly purchased window unit. Yes, the cat has its own AC unit.

Now, I will say that although my grandparents had made special allowances for the cat, they held firm to the no-pets-in-the-house rule that had always presided. But soon, the cat was allowed to come in for “visits.” He watched The Price Is Right with grandpa in the mornings, and football with Uncle J on Monday nights. This is how things carried on for a while.

As winter again began to approach, there was a new addition to the “cat pad.” Suspended from the ceiling by two chains hung an electric space heater. There was also a square cut out of the blinds on the porch door, enabling the cat to peer into the living room whenever it fancied.

Socks now has free reign of the home by day. The door is opened first thing in the morning and the cat has claimed its place on top of the guest bed. I was visiting there a week or so ago when the cat rolled over onto its back. I was ordered to tell the cat how pretty he is, because apparently that is what Socks expects whenever he engages in the strenuous task of rolling over and stretching. So, loyal and obedient granddaughter that I am, I relinquished all pride, surrendered my adult card and said to Socks, the cat: “You’re such a pretty cat.” Brent saw me do it.