Rafiki: The Next Pete Rose (Or Was It Rowdy Yates)?

It started out as a completely normal, and some might say boring, sort of day. I grabbed my usual breakfast of a cup o’ Joe and the same kind of breakfast cereal that I’d been eating for years, or maybe even eons. After I was done eating, I headed upstairs to shower and dress.

Before I go any further, I should mention that Rafiki has been wreaking havoc on our humble hearth and home from the time we brought him home in 1999 as an adorable, beguiling, twelve-week old baby. Boy, were we ever wrong.

Now, some of you probably already know that “Rafiki” is Swahili for “friend.” Apparently, Rafiki doesn’t know the meaning of his name. Either that or he was last in line when they handed out brains. His shenanigans over the years have made us see him in a different light, as our dreaded enemy, rather than faithful friend. We never know what prank he’ll pull next.

Rafiki has indulged in frequent acts of destruction, evil-doing, mayhem, and strife our family has experienced as a result of his naughty behavior. Rafiki was born on Halloween which suits him to a ‘T’, because he has many a time been a little warlock extraordinaire. He can be worse than a teenager on mischief night when he pulls yet another prank out of his bag of tricks and decides to persecute other members of our family, whether human, canine, or feline.

When we catch him pulling one of his stunts, we swear that we can see an evil glint in his eye. If he’s already committed his crime du jour, but we didn’t witness the crime itself, such as vandalizing or raising his leg on the furniture, he puts on his favorite, smug “What? Who Me? I did NOT do it” look. Then, he usually escapes to his favorite rocking chair, the side of which he’s peed on numerous times, and looks quite regal in what he most certainly considers HIS throne, where he can rule over his kingdom and keep the other pack members in line--Rafiki’s thoughts, but not ours by any means.

We expect that he’ll celebrate his 13^th birthday this Halloween. I say “we expect to,” because there’s the distinct possibility that he’ll commit an act so heinous that one of us actually wrings that pretty white neck of his. (Now, remember his neck, as it figures prominently later on.)

 I made my way upstairs and headed for the shower located at the far end of our master bedroom. When I reached the bedroom doorway, I caught Rafiki--not exactly red-handed, but instead, white-pawed--sneaking a morsel of kitty Almond Roca—or Tootsie Roll, if you prefer--from the bathroom litter box. This act then cascaded into a flurry of unpleasant activities at Rafiki’s paws.

Now, before I go any further, I should mention that Rafiki has been a poop-stealer extraordinaire from toddlerhood on, and has had many years to perfect his sneaky, filthy maneuvers in his quest to plunder kitty treasure. So, after winning his “prize,” he carried it out of the bathroom, just as gingerly as a new basenji mama carries her precious newborn pups. It was apparent that he cherished his latest pirate’s booty.

Well…as I always do when I catch Rafiki in the act of pilfering some treasure or another, I yelled “Drop It,” which, par for the course, he didn’t do. Usually, he gobbles his ill-gotten kitty treasure before I can get to him, but this time, he decided to try something new and exciting for his sole entertainment, and like always, as my expense.

So, rather than feast on his kitty candy, Rafiki carried it to the middle of the bedroom and deposited it at the foot of the bed. Then, he backed away several feet, probably to achieve maximum momentum, and rushed forward, full speed ahead, in an attempt to become the next Pete Rose, the baseball player famous for his head-first slides to home base. However, probably because he hadn’t had any experience, Rafiki plunged forward at a 45-degree angle, landing squarely on the side of his neck. He appeared to be unhurt by the incident, and to prove it, he began rolling, rolling, rolling on the bedroom carpet, which was now smeared with fetid, smashed kitty dung. He was ecstatic as he rolled around with total abandon.

Immediately after the poop-smearing incident, I decided that I wouldn’t be fazed and would think happy thoughts. For some unknown reason, the theme song for the 1960’s TV series, “Rawhide,” where Clint Eastwood got his big break playing the assistant trail boss, Rowdy Yates, popped into my head:

Rollin' Rollin' Rollin'

Keep movin', movin', movin',
Though they're disapprovin',
Keep them doggies movin' Rawhide!
Don't try to understand 'em,
Just rope and throw and grab 'em,

Yes, just like the song says, I kept  movin’, disapprovin’ of Rafiki’s antics, and actually wanted to wanted to rope, throw, and grab him by that pretty white-collared neck of his. Speaking of wringing a naughty basenji’s neck….

….Soon, my eyes were drawn to the huge, brown slash or skid-mark on one side of Rafiki’s neck, right where he’d hit the ground and slid to “home plate.” “Oh great,“ I thought, now not only do I have to clean the carpet because of his latest prank, but I have to give him a bath to rid him of the smelly mess he’d made of himself, too. “Terrific, just terrific,” I muttered under my breath, then went to gather the cleaning supplies I’d need to clean up my naughty boy’s mess.

Then, I started scrubbing the carpet, which also had a smashed, fetid skid-mark from Rafiki’s filthy (but in his mind, utterly delightful and invigorating) adventure in the land of kitty treats. The kitty treat residue was now ground deeply into the carpet, and I could tell that it would take quite a bit of scrubbing to remove every last trace of kitty candy.

By this time, the culprit (Rafiki, in case you didn’t notice) was behind me, which was just fine by me--I didn’t want to see the smug look on his face, anyway. Undoubtedly, he was grinning like the proverbial Cheshire Cat in Lewis Carroll’s “Alice in Wonderland,” gloating over his latest fit of bedevilment at my expense. I wanted no part of Rafiki’s version of his wonderland, and decided to ignore, rather that murder, the little red devil.

At some point, while my back was still turned to clean up after Rafiki’s carpet assault, the little heathen had grabbed my bath towel from the rack, and the towel fell to the floor. By the time I turned to face him, he was already writhing around on my towel, lost in cat-poop-induced ecstasy, very much like a Holy Roller at the peak of enrapture. “Lovely,” I thought, “More laundry to wash.”

Eventually, things started to wind down, and I gave Rafiki a nice, warm bath, devoting extra time by scrubbing his cat poop skid mark to remove all traces of his dirty deed.

To this day, I can’t figure out whether Rafiki was trying to get rid of the evidence by rolling around on my towel to spruce himself up, or whether he found the pungent, putrid, and downright nasty filth and aroma so irresistible that he wanted to share it, and had wanted to share with me whatever remnants were left. Maybe he thought that he was presenting me with a special, delightful gift. Well, Rafiki, gifts like these I can do without.

I can only sit and ponder what my little demon will come up with next!  It’s OK, Rafiki. No matter what you do next, we’ll always love you forever, whatever the crime.

--Dilys Blair-Bain, Samburu Basenjis