Dad's Expensive Wingtips and Alexander Our Maine Coon

by JJ
(Chicago)

When I was ten we bought a huge Maine Coon and called him Alexander. He spent most of the day sprawled out in various part of the house. He looked like a gray rug. We bought him because he was gentle and needed a home. But there was more to Alexander than we knew!

We all loved him except for my Dad, who didn't like cats very much and thought Alexander was just lazy. He slept everywhere and he was constantly avoiding him or just missing him when he walked through the house.

"That cat just lies on the floor, wherever he wants! I'm not going to have him run the house!" he said more than once.

Also, Maine Coons are friendly and affectionate and he chose my Dad as the focus of his attention. That made it much worse because it was even harder to avoid stepping on him.

In addition, Alexander would grab at his necktie when my Dad came home. He would keep it on through dinner and he would snatch at it and also at his wristwatch and cuff links and anything that could be grabbed.

"That cat does not run things around here!" snapped my Dad.

However Alexander had the last laugh - and more.

My father was, and is, an investment banker and was always dressed to the nines when he went to work: impeccable pinstriped business suit, silk tie, starched white shirt, briefcase and on his feet a pair of mirror-polished black English shoes and black dress business socks.

The authoritative sound of the crisp click of his expensive shoes echoed throughout my childhood.

Then one evening Dad came home late from work. He stepped into the front hall and a terrible sound went through the house - a combination of a yell and a shriek that brought us all running.

Dad was standing in the hall looking stunned. And Alexander was in the living room, peering around the door.

"I didn't mean it" said Dad, apologetically.

He then explained that he had not seen Alexander asleep on the floor and had stepped right on his stomach. He had taken off in a rush.

We took him to the vet immediately and found that he had not suffered any serious damage.

But the vet said that one more accident like that could be serious and told Dad:

"How would YOU like to be stepped on by a wingtip? By someone ten times your height? You need to take your shoes off when you walk into the house!"

Dad just narrowed his eyes and lowered his eyebrows. We all knew that meant: he didn't like what he was hearing.

When we got home, we all looked at Dad expectantly.

"NO!" he said firmly "Absolutely not. I will not walk around in my bare feet to please a CAT! My shoes stay ON my feet!"

The next evening I was walking towards our house for dinner and saw something shining in front of the front door as I approached the porch.

I couldn't believe it. It was a pair of my Dad's black executive shoes, shined - as always - to perfection. And dropped on top were a pair of my Dad's black silk socks, neatly folded.

I walked in and went into the living room. There was my Dad.

He was sitting in his leather chair as usual and looking through his mail.

But he was barefoot.

The only thing left of his immaculate business attire were the pinstriped suit trousers. His suit jacket and his neck tie were gone. Even his wristwatch had been removed from his wrist.

He wore his white tee shirt - and sprawled across his lap was Alexander. There was almost nothing left of the dapper and well-heeled executive he always was.

I blurted out: "Dad! What happened? What's going on?"

He looked at me with a resigned stare and sighed.

"I realized you were right about my dress shoes, so I took them off at the door" said Dad, "And my dress socks are much too slippery for the floor, so I had to take those off too."

Then Alexander had boldly and happily started grabbing at his watch and his cuff links and his necktie and his tie stay, so they came off as well, one at a time.

Finally, he said he had stopped fighting the cat and allowed him to climb up on the chair. For three years Alexander had been pushing my Dad to allow him on to his lap, and now Dad had surrendered.

And then the very expensive pinstiped suit jacket and the impeccably starched white shirt had to be taken off as well - so were then protected from cat hair, teeth and claws. A newspaper covered his pinstriped trousers.

All of the trappings of his corporate identity had been stripped from him and were piled on the sofa in an expensive heap.

After that day, I would often find his polished shoes and socks on the front step. The crisp click of his shoes around the house had stopped.

That was the day of Alexander's triumph. My Dad was never again the distinguished and dignified gentleman around the house that he was at work; he usually went barefoot around the house from then on and his general attire became much more casual.

Alexander transformed my Dad's personality and his image against his will, but he eventually and grudgingly became used to it.

Even my Dad's NAME was changed! My formal and commanding Dad was always called William or "sir" by everyone; he insisted on it. But there was a day when the delivery man dropped groceries off one evening and saw my Dad with his new look - a sweatshirt, jeans and bare feet. He asked me if my Dad had lost his job (!) After that he called my Dad "Billy", which was soon used by others in our town, including our neighbors - including the garbage man who sometimes called him "Billy boy"!. Somehow the image of him without his suit and tie and shoes had brought him down a few pegs but also made him far more accessible to people - including us.

My Dad hated it, but he had to live with it. Yet Alexander was always called by his full formal name!

On the day of his triumph, Alexander stared with calm condescension at the barefoot, humbled, dressed down patriarch he had conquered and vanquished.

Who was the owner? They had traded places.

No more neckties in the house. No more cufflinks. No more silk business socks. No business suits. Not even a wristwatch - and certainly no mirror-shined shoes.

The immaculate attire of a high-ranking executive did not fit with Dad's new lower position in his own home. But his new humble outfit and his lack of shoes were perfectly appropriate for his new subservient status - the role our Maine Coon had chosen for him!

I remember the old saying: Dogs have masters, Cats have staff.

Dad paid a very high price for refusing to acknowledge this - he was now Alexander's barefoot servant!