Lessons of Street Cats and Lentil Soup

For about a year when we lived in our old stone house next to the bazaar, we also owned a black German shepherd mix named Stella. Stella was an energetic and excitable young dog, but overall pretty good about not barking unnecessarily. In a culture that has only recently warmed to the idea of dogs as pets, this was something that we (and our neighbors) were grateful for, especially since one family up the street kept a couple of small dogs on their roof that yapped at night for hours on end.

But there was one thing that would make Stella go positively berserk with barking – when a street cat would perch up on our high courtyard wall, smugly taunting her. The worst part about this was that these evil felines liked to do this at 5 am. My wife and I were up enough in the night as it was with diabetic lows and electricity outages. We did not need to be woken up by Stella as well because some cat thought it was amusing to watch her bark and run in circles.

After several early mornings of running out into our courtyard yelling and throwing bathroom shoes at the offending kitty (and hoping the neighbors didn’t see), I decided that there must be some more efficient way to train these cats out of this sinister behavior. So, I decided to get an Airsoft gun. In this way, I would be able to easily give these cats a small sting they would remember, yet without causing any real injury to them. Plus, I could do this from the comfort of my bedroom window, which looked out onto the front courtyard wall which the cats so enjoyed perching on. For those not familiar with Airsoft guns, they are toy guns that shoot small plastic BBs – fast enough to be accurate and to sting, but slow enough to not break the skin.

We were soon to be in the US for some training, so I hatched my plan to deal with the neighborhood cats. I went on Amazon and found an Airsoft pistol, bought it, and shipped it to our US mailing address. I saw that it was advertised as having the same appearance and weight as a real Glock handgun, except for a bright orange cylinder protruding from its chamber, but I didn’t really care so much about the appearance as much as if it would be accurate and powerful enough to do defend both Stella’s sanity and our early morning slumber. Once I purchased the thing, I didn’t think anything more of it.

Several weeks later, we were en route back to our Central Asian country when I was stopped by the security personnel as our bags were scanned at the Istanbul airport. One officer came over to me, holding up the toy pistol, still encased in its new packaging.

“Do you have letter for this gun?” He asked me in thickly accented English. “You need letter to bring gun in baggage through Turkey.”

“No, sir,” I replied, “I don’t have a letter because it’s not a real gun. It’s a toy, see?” And I proceeded to point out the bright orange front.

“Yes,” he replied. “I know it’s toy. But why do you not have letter?”

“Because it’s a toy, not a real gun.”

The officer looked at me, looked at the Airsoft gun, looked back at me.

“But it looks like real gun.”

“Yes, but it’s not. It’s a toy. I understand I need a letter for a real gun. But this is not a real gun. It’s a toy.”

“Yes, I know it’s toy. But you need letter for gun.”

“For a toy?”

“No, not for toy, but for gun.”

By now another couple of security personnel had come over and begun breaking the gun out of its very stubborn plastic casing. I turned to my wife to tell her that this might take a little while.

My wife, for her part, was looking straight-up yellow.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Um… no… I’m super nauseous. I think I need to find a trashcan fast.”

“Oh no. I don’t see any trashcans anywhere, or bathrooms. And I think I might be stuck with these guys for a bit here.”

Our taxi ride to the airport had been relatively short, only twenty minutes or so. But because of this, the driver seemed a little upset at getting a lower fare than usual for an airport run and had driven the windy roads from the Black Sea coast to the airport like a man with a death wish.

“Sir, you need letter for this gun!” the officer continued. I turned away from my wife for a second to carry on my bizarre conversation with the security man.

“I don’t understand, this is a toy. I need a special letter for a toy gun? I just got this to keep the cats away, that’s all, it’s not a real gun…”

“Watch the kids, I’ll be behind that plant!” my wife blurted out as she jogged, roll of trash bags in hand, over to a large potted plant next to a departures screen nearby.

For the next several minutes, I tried to keep debating with the security officers while keeping one eye on my prone-to-wander offspring, and one eye on the figure leaning over, face in trash bag, behind the tall plant.

The officers had by now taken the toy gun apart and were suspiciously inspecting every aspect of it. For my part, I was ready to give up the gun as a lost cause, yet another casualty of the whims or confusions of airport security like so many other harmless items over the years. I could figure out another solution for the 5 am felines. Maybe I could get a powerful water gun? Or a laser pointer? Regardless, I realized that the family was falling apart fast, so, priorities.

“Sir, it’s okay, I don’t need the gun. I have to go help my wife behind that plant over there.”

“No, you can take gun, toy gun, now,” the officer said suddenly, handing me the Airsoft Glock. “But next time you need letter!”

I thanked the officer profusely, shoved the gun into my bag, and corralled the kids and the rolling suitcases that had begun drifting away on some invisible tide. We made our way over to my wife. She was still quite pale, staring off into the distance while holding a tied-up black trash bag in her hand.

“Lentil soup,” she said. “I never want to have Turkish lentil soup again.”

Bright yellow, salty lentil soup is a staple dish in Turkish cuisine. Up until that point, our family had always quite liked it. So, I hoped my wife’s very understandable resolution at that moment would ultimately prove to be a temporary thing. But I decided to keep these thoughts to myself.

“Well, praise God for that plant I guess. And especially for that roll of trash bags.”

Indeed, after enough instances of scrambling to help motion-sick kiddos who were suddenly regurgitating their last batch of plane food, we had eventually learned that mom should keep a small roll of trash bags in her carry-on at all times.

“Mmhm. Now, help me find a trash can.”

We wandered down the cavernous check-in area looking for somewhere we could discreetly deposit the remains of my wife’s lunch.

“They let me keep the Airsoft gun!” I told her. “But it was close. I shouldn’t have risked it, this thing looks and feels too much like a real gun. Hopefully, it ends up actually working.”

Eventually, we found a trash can, regrouped, and then went to stand in several more long lines before getting on our final flight home.

Later that week, back in our old stone house, I was woken up early in the predawn glow by Stella, once again losing her mind and barking loud enough to call down every neighbor’s angry cry of “Mud of the earth upon my head!”

I grabbed the Airsoft gun, cocked it, and gently opened up our window.

Sure enough, there on the wall was one of the street cats, staring blankly down at poor Stella, casually flicking her tail in an obvious act of cool condescension.

Not today, cruel kitty. I aimed the toy gun and pulled the trigger. A blast of air sent the small yellow BB barreling toward the cat, ricocheting off the wall right next to her tail. I heard a satisfyingly panicked yowl. And in an instant, the cat was gone, off to spread the word that there was a new sheriff in town, one with a strange new weapon so dangerous it had barely made it through airport security.

Stella whined and sauntered off. I smiled, closed the window, and got back under the covers. Things would be different going forward. With the help of the Airsoft pistol, we were taking dominion over the street cats, or at least keeping them away so we could get a little bit more precious sleep. Now if we could only figure out what to do about the pack of street dogs that also liked to come by our gate early in the morning and get into shouting matches with Stella.

I lay in bed, chewing on the lessons that had been learned.

Lesson learned #1: Don’t try to bring toy guns through airport security that look and feel almost exactly like real guns.

Lesson learned #2: If you do get said toy gun through airport security, then all you have to do is scare the cats with near misses in order for it to be effective.

Lesson learned #3: Never forget that small roll of trash bags in your carry-on when traveling internationally. You never know when the plane food, Turkish taxi drivers, or lentil soup might strike.

Lesson learned #4: If all else fails, find yourself an airport plant.

And with that, I drifted off to sleep… until the pack of street dogs came by.

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