Post-Traumatic-Ginger-Cat-Disorder

The Cure? Ricky Roo.

     When you're three-years-old and an only child in a neighborhood with no other kids, you get pretty creative at entertaining yourself. That's why, one day, I decided to put a cat on my head. As we didn't have a cat, boundaries had to be pushed. So I procured a feral cat from the alley - a ginger tom - and perched him atop my never-cut, golden locks.

     Tom must've been tuckered that day. He sat still as anything, while I swirled around the yard. He may have left no scratches, but he certainly left his mark. Ringworm.

     My Godiva-like locks? A pile around the barber's feet. Round "tats" covering my shiny head.

     I lived for decades terrified of encountering one of these blighters again. Didn't have to be feral. Even seeing a ginger cat curled up in a friend's lap brought on an attack of Post-Traumatic-Ginger-Cat-Disorder, aka PTGD. Quaking, I'd breakout in a terrible itch all over my head.

     Clearly, I needed a "hair-of-the-cat" cure. Enter Ricky Roo. He'd been languishing in a cage for over a year after his owner died. Seems no one wanted a 15-year-old cat with a wonky thyroid. About the time his best friend departed, so had Angus, my Cairn terrier and BFF. I needed another heartbeat in my house, and Ricky needed to be cage-free and swaddled in love. Sight-unseen, I made the commitment to give him a forever-home.

     Well, shudda looked before I let my heart leap. Arriving with a carrier, treats, blankets, and toys, who stared out at me from his cage? Ricky Roo, the ginger tomcat. 

     I marvel at how life comes full-circle and all wounds are healed. One look at that ginger tom's sweet face that so many had rejected and I melted. PTGD cured. (300 words)

Don't Put a Cat on Your Head!

     I ended up looking like a four-year-old Alan Dershowitz in drag. All because I didn't listen to Mother when she said, "Don't put a cat on your head!" as I raced out to the backyard.
     First alley cat to swagger by found itself perched on my head. That orange tomcat cut a fine figure. His butt on my head. Hind legs draped around my ears. My little hands grasping his hungry middle. Tom must've been looking for a place to rest, because he sat on my head still as a furry log.
     Thumbing my nose at parental guidance had no downside that morning. I seemed protected by an invisibility cloak, because I paraded around the backyard a long time, giving Tom a fine ride, without being spotted. Divine retribution came weeks later though when odd sensations caused me to pick at my head. When the doctor parted my blond locks and waved his black-light wand to have a look-see, my past sin was exposed. Ringworm! Jock itch all over my head.
     Next thing, my butt's plopped on a pile of phone books in the local barber's chair. Electric clippers scalped off my blond locks, leaving me with crying blue eyes, and a shiny noggin covered in round, pinkish "tats".
     But the worst was to come. My cotton-white hair grew in drab brown, and when it poked a timid two inches from my head, Mom gave me a perm. Then, with front teeth now missing, and a kinky mat of dark hair, I had my picture taken in a yodeling outfit - looking like a cross-dressing Alan Dershowitz.
     All these years later, it's still only the bottle that can bring my spirit comfort after that trauma. A good vintage bottle of blond hair dye. (299 words)