VanHoose: It doesn't get much better than Butters and bluegrass

I realized Thursday night that my life may have changed forever.

I had planned all week to check out The On Fires, this Australian sensation of a band, at the Rye Bar that evening. This was going to be one wild show, and I was looking for a wild time.

But when 11 p.m. rolled around, my bar stool at Rye Bar was empty. My bed at home wasn't. In fact, it had an extra.

Mr. VanHoose, welcome to your life with a cat.

Most of the crew at the Banner-Herald had pestered me for a good year that I needed to adopt a feline friend, but I kept resisting.

But last Tuesday, they stepped up their assault. A little orange and white tabby was waiting on me when I got to the office.

It's one thing to say "no" when looking at cat pictures, which I'm pretty good at. But when a kitten climbs in your lap, looks at you and meows as if to say "Dad," "no" falls out of the vocabulary.

By Tuesday afternoon, the cat I call Butters was in my house, clawing up my leather furniture and meowing every time I vanished from sight.

In the week since, I've learned that Butters eats a lot, knows what a litter box is for and believes undoubtedly that anything that moves is a monster he must slay.

Butters also wakes up at 6:30 a.m. and goes right to monster hunting.

Really, he's something else. And he's already turning me into some sort of early riser who believes a cat can understand English and that 11 p.m. shows are past bedtime.

Maybe Butters is turning me into a grownup.

A big thank-you is in orde

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