Cat Tales 26
At first the small gray tabby looked like any othe r animal abandone d on the doorstep of the Saint Charles County Humane Society. It was an unfortunate and too-fre que nt occurrence at the small, no-kill shelter. But this cat presented a special problem. Her swollen belly revealed rippling moveme nt tha t could mean only one thi ng, kittens. The shelter was full, so when I arrived for my vol untee r shift, Carmen, the shelter’s director, asked if I’d foster the cat.
“But I don’t know anything about delivering kittens."
"Cats have an instinct about these things. She’ll know what to do,” Carmen said as she balanced an armload of supplies. “Don’t worry.”
Unfortunately, if I excelled at anything, it was worry. I gritted my teeth and packed the car with an assortme nt of kitty necessiti es, leaving just enough space for the crate. As I loaded it into the car, the cat glared at me from the back corne r of the enclosure, where she was crouched, taut wi th anxiety. Was it my imagination or did I read the word “incompe tent” in those golden eyes ? My anxiety escalated. “All right, mama cat, let’s go,” I said cheerily, hoping to win he r ove r with charm. Our one-sided conve rsation continue d as I drove the slowest and smoothest route. Afte r all, what expectant mother wants to be jostled? I didn’t know whether my passenger was impressed or not, as she maintained a sphinx - like stillness and silence the entire ride.
At home, it took three trips to move everything to the foster room. The food, fresh water, and all-important litte r box we re arranged in record ti me. Since cats like hiding places, I found a large cardboard box to use as a bed. An opening cut in front and towel draped over the top create d a cozy mini -cave. I surveyed my handiwork. Though the feline birthing room had no cable or bedside phone, it looked good. I opened the crate door. Ma ma cat stalked out and stretched he r bulky body. The n she set off to examine the room like a queen inspecting the royal guard. Not a thing slowed her scrutiny until she reached the bed I’d fashioned for her. With a dubious look, she sniffed it from bottom to top bef ore climbing inside. When he r front legs began to rhythmically massage the bedding, I knew I’d passed my first test.
Unlike her mothe r, my fourteen-yea r-old daughte r, Jessica, had no apprehensions about the tabby. Deep in the throes of a girly adolescence, my youngest child confined her worries to the state of her social life. She couldn’t have been more delighted to discover our guest was well on her way to multiplying. “That means when the kittens come we’ll be foster grand-pare nts,” she announced. Since grandpare nts tend to be smart people, I waited for the wisdom of the ages to descend and provide me wi th some guidance. When that di dn’t happen, I consulted my oracle, the Interne t, for advice. Neither Jessica nor I could wait for the blessed event, she out of excitement, I out of fear. I checked the room for action a dozen times a day. Whenever the door ope ned, I hoped to see kittens, a done deal. But mama cat was in no apparent hurry for motherhood. She’ d simply gaze at me with the cryptic look that only a cat can give. It was unnerving.
One full week of fruitless anticipation later, mama cat was still kitten -less and I was a bleary-eyed mess. I figured it would be smart to try and forget my feline worries for a while. As luck would have it, we’d been invited to a family swimming party. I imagined myself lounging at a pool all day, the perfect tonic for jangled nerves. Sure enough, the afternoon of sun and water worke d its magic. Even when we got home, I felt boneless as a rag doll. Jessica made a beeline for the phone. I ambled along behind her, re minding myself to look in on ma ma cat before I collapsed.
Inside the room, the re was no sign of a cat. But I wasn’t alarmed; she was probably sleeping. I tiptoed ove r to the box and took a peek. Nestled deep inside the makeshift bed, I found conclusive proof that mama cat was no slacker. My remaining fears evaporate d the instant I proclaimed the news. “Jessica, we have kittens!” I counted four black and gray squirming balls of fur. Each one was meticulously clean. They made little mewing sounds while their tiny paws pushed to scoot the m toward their mothe r. “Good job, ma ma cat,” I told her. By golly, Carmen was right. Cats did know what to do. Jessica raced in to see the new arrivals. I suppose it was all the excitement that prompted mama cat to stand … and that revealed a fifth kitten. It looked exactly like the othe rs, with one notable exception, mother and baby were still attached by the umbilical cord. I watched in horror as the smoke-colored newborn dangled upside down, crying in protest. Ma ma cat shot a look my way, her eyes round as beach balls. The message was clear enough. But just how did one go about de taching mother and baby? I kne w it was a job tha t require d someone with a cool head. Definitely not me. “Jessica, call the emergency clinic.” I hoped my manne r exuded calm authority rathe r than the rising panic I felt by the time she handed me the receiver.
Within two rings I heard a man’s voice. “Animal Emergency Clinic. May I help you?” A direct connec tion to God couldn’t have been any be tte r. “My foster cat had kittens, and one of the m is still attached to her by the cord. What should I do?” Realizing my voice was about two octaves higher than usual, I cleared my throat and waited. The man sounded assured, bored even. No doubt he was accustomed to dealing with hysterical, know-nothing midwives. “Is there hemorrhaging?"
"No."
"Signs of distress?"
"No.” If you don’t count having a kitten dangling from you as distressful. “Then take the cord and pull . . .”
That didn’t sound hard. I cradled the phone between shoulde r and ear and with two fingers grabbed the membra ne, which felt dry and flat as a rubber band. Jessica stared. The mothe rly part of my brain hoped she woul dn’t be too upset by the crisis. On the other end of the phone my savior’s voice continued, “. . . but don’ t pull too ha rd, or you could cause internal damage to the mothe r. And pull by the cord, not the kitte n, or you coul d jerk out its intestines.” At least I think that’s what he said. At that point my foc us had slipped. I felt clammy beads of moisture gather on my forehead as I gave the first infinitesimal pull. Nothing happened. A deep breath later, I tried again. Still nothing. Mama cat was beginning to look annoyed.
“This isn’t working,” I finally croaked into the phone. The ma n sighed deeply. “Bring the m to the clinic.” The thought of packing up a cat with her four and a half newborns was daunting. Yet, I supposed letting mama cat go through life with a dangling kitten was not a good option eithe r. Jessica tapped my arm. “Let me try.” Before I could warn her of the di re consequences of one wrong move, she reached over and in a single swift tug neatly separated the two. My stomach churne d while I waited for signs of impending doom. Instead, ma ma cat serenely settled back into her bed while four kittens rooted against her to nurse. Jessica pushed the fifth baby into position beside the others. The voice on the forgotten phone line came back to life. “Ma’am? Will you be bringing in the cats?"
"Uh, never mind. We’re fine now.” And we were. Jessica beamed with pride, and I know my own face mirrored he rs. I realized she’d tugged more than one motherly tie that eve ning. As we watched the peaceful scene together, suddenly my youngest didn’t seem quite so young anymore.
By focusing on fears of what tomorrow might bring, I’d nearly spoiled the miracle of today. Now, I’m not certain a compulsive worrier ever truly reforms, but thanks to my daughter and a little gray cat, I figured it was time to try. Whe n ma ma cat’s drowsy gaze found mine, I could swear she nodded in approval. Then her eyes closed, and she began to purr.
Cat Tales 27
My secret was bound to come out soone r or later, so I might as well confess here and now: I’m a dog person who fell in love with a cat. Yes, it’s true. And if that weren’ t bad enough, the cat is no ordinary feline. It is quite possibly the ugliest cat in the world. How did this happen? Even the most ardent dog lover will occasionally admit to a pang of warmth for a fluffy little kitty or a flirtation with a perfect purebred, such as a Persian (they do resemble Pekingese pups), but I had to fall for a cat so unattractive that even cat lovers have been known to recoil in horror. I fell in love with a Rex.
This is no sexy Rexy, but rathe r a naked, scrawny Cornish Rex with features resembling an alien from oute r space. No exaggeration or hyperbole necessary, this may be one of the most unattractive felines in the history of cat-dom. So why do I find him so irresistible?
Love is blind. Belle married the beast, and I adopte d the Rex. While Belle’s beast became a hunk, my cat-prince is still hiding his inner charm unde r a carcass of nearly naked flab. If I had fallen under the spell of a tuxedo tabby or a slinky Siamese, it might have been unde rstandable, but a fixation on a furless feline freak is hard to explain.
I knew nothing about the Cornish Rex breed whe n I began the odyssey that led to the cat connection of my life. I was simply looking for a new companion. My little Chihuahua was reaching senior status and wanted nothing more than to sleep in the sun all day.
That was fine with me, but my childre n unde rstandably wanted a pet they coul d play with.
Being a dog person, I first thought to get a puppy. But then I was worried a puppy might upset the Chihuahua. I also wasn’t looking forward to months of new housebreaking discipline. The natural cleanliness and independence of felines convinced me that a cat would be the best choice. Just as I had determined that puppy ene rgy would be too stressful for my senior dog, likewise, I vetoed the idea of a kitten. With all the wonde rf ul adult cats in the world waiting to be adopte d, I knew we would have no trouble finding the right cat, not too young, not too old, to fit in perfectly with our family.
We went around to all the local shelters and carefully read the posted information ca rds and greeted the friendly paws reaching through the cages. One of the shelters had a huge cat room whe re the residents roa med free. There we re nearly a hundre d feline friends living together in perfect harmony (except for the occasional hiss here and there). It was the perfect place to find the perfect cat, and the perfect place to find out that we we re allergic to cats! Because we were free to move among them, play with the m, and hold them, the allergy symptoms were sudde nly running as wild as the kitte ns. My youngest daughte r and I discovered we had a proble m that day. My oldest daughter was immune and didn’t want to leave without a new furry friend. We went home empty-handed.
After that, we probably should have given up the idea of ever getting a cat, but visions of kitty plums danced in our heads. I can’t recall exactly who it was that first mentioned a Cornish Rex along with the misleading phrase “hypoallergenic,” but I was off and running to look it up on the Internet. As I would later find out, too late, not only are Cornish Rexes not hypoallergenic, they tend to aggravate allergies because of exposed dander.
I soon discovered Cornish Rex rescue sites with adult cats available for adopti on. I narrowed my search to locations within driving distance of my home. Only one cat was available nearby, and even he was out of state, but the drive was less than two hours away, so it would be worth the effort. It was a gray and white male about three years old. He sounded purrfect.
I quickly contacted the Humane Society that had posted the listing. I was told he was still available, but if I was interested I should hurry, because a waiting list was bound to form. (I later learned that Cornish Rex cats sold by breeders can cost as much as a thousand dollars!)
I made plans to drive out to meet Rex the next morning at the crack of dawn. He was being fostered in a private home by one of the shelter worke rs who kindly took in overflow cats when the shelter ran out of space. During the long drive, the kids were quiet as mice, which seemed appropriate, given their eagerness to meet the mysterious cat they hope d would become their ne w playmate.
Upon enteri ng the Rex’s foster house, I never woul d have guessed that nearly twenty cats were being sheltered there, because everything looked and smelled so clean and fresh. Felines were curled up here and there, quietly and inconspicuously relaxing while they awaited relocation. Only one cat was locked up behind a closed door, and the meowing was loud and long. If this had been a mystery story, the clues and foreshadowing were being laid out like pieces of a puzzle that I was too distracted to see.
I was told the lockdown cat was the very Cornish Rex I had come to see. He was isolated for his own protection, because the othe r ca ts were picking on him. That certainly tugged at my heartstrings, but I couldn’ t help noticing that all the othe r cats seemed so mellow. All thoughts left my head the mome nt the door was opened and Mr. Rex was revealed. Skinny, scrawny, long, lanky, and ba ld. The strangest cat I had ever laid eyes on. A sphynx must have sneaked into the catte ry some where along the line, because this boy was naked down to the pink skin covering most of his body. No matte r. It only added to his unique charm. He went home with us that day. It was kismet. Or so I thought.
Within less than twenty-f our hours, all the Cornish Rex secrets were revealed. Although there was no fur to fly, our allergies took off in high gear. Dander wipes and endless hand washing would become part of a daily routine. And I soon discovered why Cornish Rex are referred to as “monkey cats.” They seem to literally fly from room to room, wreaking mischief and havoc wherever they go. No shelf is too high, no surface too narrow.
Things go crashing on a daily basis. As for the natural cleanliness of cats, the Cornish Rex are too busy having fun flinging kitty litter far and wide. Everything is a toy to a rex, so adjustments must be made. I now have a small plastic swimming pool in the basement to hel p contain t he litter box mayhe m. Indepe nde nce? That’s for ordina ry cats. No lap dog ever clung to his master with the tenacity of the Cornish beast. Velcro or Leech would make appropriate names for a Rex. The good news: Rex cats are playful. Very playful. The bad new s: our cat’s favorite game is crisscrossing full -speed underf oot as we attempt to walk downstairs.
People with bad vision, weak ankles, trick knees, balance problems, hip injuries, or heart conditions should think twice about getting a Rex. In fact, anyone with common sense should think twice.
It’s been seven years since we adopted our Mr. Monty Rex. Skinny and scrawny is now chubby and flabby but still as naked as the day we brought hi m home. Thinking back on that fateful day, I can now say with affectionate humor that I unde rstand why his first family didn’t exactly send out a dragnet to find him after he ran away. And I now know why the cats at the shelter were picking on him: he was undoubtedly driving them crazy! But we love him.