Tree Tuesday: The Ballad of the Mowing Cat

Tree, a magnificent Russian Grey with eyes the color of emeralds and a coat softer than a cloud’s whisper, considered himself a creature of profound intellect. He observed the world from his perch on the windowsill, a fluffy, grey philosopher contemplating the absurdities of human existence. Most notably, he observed Steven, his primary human, and Steven’s peculiar daily ritual.

Every morning, just as the first rays of sun kissed the dew-kissed grass, Steven would don a pair of ridiculously bright green trousers and disappear. Not into the mystical realm of the refrigerator, as Tree often hoped, but out into the great green expanse beyond the fence. He’d then reappear, wrestling a loud, roaring beast with spinning blades, pushing it back and forth across various patches of lawn. This, Tree had deduced, was “work.” And from this “work,” Steven acquired the magical kibble that appeared in Tree’s bowl twice a day.

Tree, a connoisseur of fine salmon pate and crunchy, fish-flavored morsels, found his dependence on Steven increasingly irksome. What if Steven ran out of green trousers? What if the roaring beast broke? Such thoughts kept Tree up at night, or rather, during his prime napping hours. It was during one such existential ponderance, as he watched Steven meticulously trim the neighbor’s unruly weeds, that a revolutionary thought ignited in Tree’s feline brain.

If Steven mows grass, and Steven gets money for mowing grass, and money buys kibble…

A spark. A flicker. Then a full-blown supernova of an idea exploded in Tree’s furry skull. I could mow grass! He pictured himself, a tiny, agile entrepreneur, pushing a miniature lawnmower, stacks of crisp dollar bills piled high, enough to buy an entire pallet of his favorite chicken pate. No more rationing! No more waiting for Steven! He would be his own master, a titan of turf management, a mogul of mowing! The possibilities were endless: catnip investments, luxury napping cushions, perhaps even a solid gold scratching post.

The first step, Tree realized, was reconnaissance. He spent days meticulously studying Steven’s technique. The precise overlapping passes, the rhythmic pushing and pulling, the occasional grunts of effort (which Tree interpreted as expressions of pure joy from a job well done). He practiced his own ‘mowing’ in the living room, batting at imaginary dandelions with intense focus, his tail twitching like a tiny, furry conductor’s baton. Steven, bless his oblivious heart, just assumed Tree was having another intense dream about chasing laser pointers.

The next hurdle was equipment. Tree knew Steven wouldn’t simply hand over his roaring beast. That thing was clearly too large and too loud. No, Tree needed something more discreet, more… feline-friendly. His eyes fell upon Steven’s old toy lawnmower, discarded in the garage. It was brightly colored plastic, complete with fake whirring sounds. Perfect! It lacked real blades, but Tree figured that was a minor detail. He’d just have to be very thorough.

The day of Tree’s grand debut dawned crisp and clear. Steven, oblivious to the entrepreneurial spirit brewing in his humble abode, was already out in Mrs. Henderson’s backyard, the roar of his big mower echoing across the suburban landscape. Tree, with surprising stealth for a cat of his bulk, had managed to drag the plastic mower out the back door. It was a tight squeeze, and he almost decapitated a prize-winning petunia in the process, but freedom, and infinite kibble, awaited!

He positioned himself at the edge of the lawn, a determined gleam in his green eyes. Steven was working his way closer, the sound of his mower growing louder. Tree took a deep breath, puffed out his chest, and with a surprisingly agile lunge, began to push the plastic mower. It glided easily, the fake whirring sounds a satisfying accompaniment to his determined stride.

Steven, lost in the zen of perfectly striped grass, paused to wipe sweat from his brow. He glanced casually to his left, expecting to see nothing but manicured lawn. Instead, he did a double-take so abrupt he nearly strained his neck. There, trotting along with an almost business-like air, was Tree. And Tree was pushing a tiny, brightly colored plastic lawnmower, his tail held high like a victorious flag, seemingly intent on tackling the same patch of grass Steven had just finished.

Steven blinked. He rubbed his eyes. He looked again. Nope, still a cat with a toy mower. He was pretty sure he hadn’t had that much coffee today. Tree, meanwhile, oblivious to Steven’s existential crisis, squinted at a particularly stubborn patch of clover. He’d show that clover who was boss. He’d show them all!

The neighbors, peering over their fences, weren’t quite sure what to make of the scene. Was Steven training his cat to be a lawn care apprentice? Was it a new kind of garden gnome? Whatever it was, it was certainly more entertaining than watching paint dry.

Tree, in his boundless ambition, continued to “mow,” leaving perfectly imaginary stripes across the already cut grass. He might not have earned any money that day, but he had certainly earned a reputation. Steven, still trying to process what he’d seen, simply shook his head and decided to call it a day early. He clearly needed a very long nap.

As for Tree, he returned home, exhausted but triumphant. He hadn’t quite figured out how to collect payment, or why the grass still looked the same, but he knew one thing: he was a working cat now. And perhaps, just perhaps, that meant endless bowls of salmon pate. After all, what do you call a cat who tries to mow the lawn?

A purr-fessional gardener!