Cat Tales 28
I know it’s horrible to admit in a cat lover’s book, but I’m a dog woman who hates mice more than cats. I had to be sold on the benefits of having a feline i n the family. It didn’t really take much. One mouse in the garage and I said, “Okay. Get one.”
I went and bought the paraphe rnalia. You know, designer cat food, cat bowls, litter box, litter, diamond-studded collar. Even a leash. We were going to train the darn cat.
We live on ten acres in the Ozarks of Missouri, in a hollow, or “holler” as people around here say. We couldn’t let the kitten out without supervision and a leash, even for yard explorations. It was an indoor cat. Or that was the plan, anyway. Princess, a skinny, striped girl who looked full grown and like she should be hung ry for mouse snacks, arrived at our house when she was six months old. It took us all of about an hour to realize she pretty muc h had every bad cat habit in the book. She cl imbed: cabinets, curtains, people.
Our three-pound Yorkie, Mojo, nearly had a connipti on whe n she decided his food was bette r than he rs. And since she already outweighed him a few times over and had meaner hissing abilities, she left him no more than a fe w morsels, whatever he could snag and run away with, one kibble at a time. He barked. He bounce d. But she won every single battle. (He’s really a chicken dog.)
The situation worsened dramatically only two days after she got here. She went into heat. I’m not talking a well-behaved thing. Not just needy and a little purry, but rubbing roughly against every surface and person, squealing and squalling, begging for attention. Demanding attenti on. If you didn’t reach out and pet he r, she dug in her claws, archin g up your leg or shirt front, if you were silly enough to let her on your lap, or tearing into my couch or drapes.
At first, it was funny; the n it became disturbing. How long does a cat stay in heat?
Answer: several days to two weeks, and they can cycle ba ck in within two or three weeks. We needed to get her in to be spayed, but life was hectic. We lived thirty miles from the closest vet, and he was booked solid for two months.
Two months. That’s only eight weeks. We could handle that. How many times could she cycle in before that snip date with the vet came around? Answer: anothe r three times. I know, that seems way too much. But who controls that sort of thing? We presume d she’d be all right as long as we didn’t let her out on he r own. Sounde d good. Sounded easy as pie. Except, of course, the instinct to mate gets into a critter when they’re in heat. Everybody knows that, and the cat didn’t take long to figure out the front door
was the escape hatch from he r imprisonme nt.
It was probably those darn leash expeditions to familiarize her with our property that got us into trouble. Sort of worke d against us. And cat leash walking, well, if it can be done, we’ re not the ones to teach it. It didn’t pan out for us. What we soon learned, howeve r, was that a cat is smarter than it looks. And just because a feline seems lazy doesn’t mean it can’t up and scat in a moment’s notice, with some one saying, “Holy cow, what was that?” Answer, of course: “Princess again, I think.” I’m dead serious here. Cats can pretend not to care if the door is open. But if it is open for more than three seconds or two inches, you’re fighting fur at the gap. And, like a greased pig chase, there is no catching a cat that’s side hopping and bounding worse than a drunken bunny in headlights once it gets out into the grass. So, you might have guessed it, the cat got loose. She became an escape artist in record time.
At first, we panicked. Mostly because we were afraid she’d get hurt or lost. Then we realized that she had come to te rms with our p roperty bounda ries, probably by virtue of neighbori ng dog territories being marked, which actually comforte d us. We hadn’t seen a cat in the hollow for years. That meant no toms around to get dirty with our little Princess. And she didn’t stay gone for long. But from the n on, she’d slip out and take off for parts unknown. I’d panic and wail until she was found, sending five kids out as a search party, and swore we bette r not have kittens or the pe rson who’d let her out was on death row and double toilet-cleaning duty. I’m really big on pet-owner responsibility and chore rewa rds for trouble makers. The cat never slipped out through my legs. I just want to say that. I got smart in a hurry. I took he r down the hall, cuddling and cooing with her, and locked her in the bathroom if I needed to go somewhere. That’s where he r cat box was, so I thought it was a good plan.
Well, one day, I arrived home from a shopping trip to hea r, “Princess escaped again.” I squinted. “Please tell me she wasn’t starting that squalling again.”
We’d had a week or so of blissful, happy cat—in fact, so long that I began to panic. Had she gotten pregnant on her last Houdini deal? “Yeah, well . . .” There was no talking to me that day. If you we re in the house, you were n’t out looki ng for the cat, and I didn’t want to hea r whateve r you said. I’m sort of snippy that way some times. Yes, she’d grown on me. The kids came in. “It’s starting to rain."
"Rain? You think our cat wants to be out in the rain? Get back out there!” Then it thundered. Let them shudder. Suffering sometimes builds character. They came running when lightning flashed. One streak, and they we re in, and I couldn’t turn the m back out. The sky darkene d. The night sunk to the looks of one of those creepy horror flicks, you know the ominous sky that sets up the scene for something bad about to happen. “We’re not doing television tonight,” I said. “Or Interne t.” We have to unplug things like that so the lightning doesn’t hit up the phone line and zap everything in the house. “Is it because of the cat?"
"That and the storm. I am not happy she’s out there.” Hours ticked by. I’m a write r, so I thought it was good the kids were forced into reading or going to their be drooms to listen to their music.
It grew late. I got engrossed in a novel . I forgot about the cat. Sorry! I told you I was really a dog lover. But, truth was, I felt horrible about losing Princess and about her being out in the storm. I even pulled on a raincoat and went out in search of her, yes, I admit it, while mutteri ng, “A dog would have the sense to come in.” Our Yorkie quivere d unde r the cove rs on someone’s lap. But our fearless Princess stalked the world through high grass. Where could she be? I was sick over it by the time I came in. I made some sort of comment about the prope rty feeling like the House of Usher. Dark, ominous clouds hung overhead. Thunder crashed. I just knew some evil lurked in the woods, waiting for our little brat cat to make a wrong step. I called and called, but that didn’t matte r. That cat doesn’t come to her na me. It doesn’t suit her. She answers to a pointe d finger; if she can see it, she’ll come. She answers to the sound of dog kibble being poured (but not cat food; I cannot hear the differe nce). I tried pouring both at the front door but knew it was in vain with the rain pitter-pattering on the roof and porch. Finally, I gave up. I shut the door, dried off, and went to read my book again, wishing she’d snuck in when the door was open all those times and that someone would announce out of the blue, “I found he r!” But no, the cat was lost, outside in the cold rain, a victim of the dark and he r own wanton wanderings. I growled, “She bette r not get pregnant,” to the first kid who slipped through the room. “She’d be tte r not get eaten by a neighbor dog,” I warned the next. “If I find who let her out, that person is cleaning the fridge,” I snapped at the third. The fourth and fifth heard the threats and stayed, like Princess, hidden from sight, not making a noise.
Another hour ticked by. My concentratio n, though scattered at first, finally slid fully into the book I was reading. Totally engrossed, I sat on the sofa, alone in the living room. Everything was quiet. Out of nowhe re came a thump. Not just any thump. A thump at the front door. A hard thump. It made me jump, eyes wide and horrified. Our front door is old. It has a tiny diamond-shaped window at eye level. Just one. When the noise sounded, I flinched and looke d, knowing something was watching me. Then she squalled. Princess had found her way home and leaped at the door, digging her claws in, screaming for attention.
The shock lasted two seconds, long enough for five kids to come running, all asking, “What was that noise?” Princess’s face peered in the diamond-shaped window. Upon seeing us moving, she cried louder, ove r and ove r. Gingerly, we ope ned the door. She clung, claws sunk into the old wood, splatted out like something in a Garfield cartoon. I kid you not. We had to peel her loose while laughing so hard we were crying.
For those who are left wonde ring if she got pregnant, no. Did she do it again? Every chance she gets. That cat is crazy creepy someti mes. She picks the perfect moment to make us jump, like she actually knows it startles us. I have a theory on it, though. When she comes to the door and cries, nobody rushes to let her in now. She’s a farm cat. She goes outside of her own free will. We’ve loosened up on that. If she wants out, she can get out. But nobody runs to let her in at the first meow unless she hits the door, clings on, and squalls at the window. That gets her instant attention and some body petti ng her, laughing, and talking to her, telling her how clever and athletic she is. That is much preferred to the scathing look and “Brat cat!” she gets when she slips in at foot level after twenty minutes of noisy meows.
Either way, the dog goes crazy, and the minute the cat is on the ground, they’ re chasing through the house as Princess makes a beeline for Mojo’s dish. He’s getting a little gumption these days, though, and so my dog and cat play cat and mouse. But even funnier than the cat’s door attacks is the way she stalks the Yorkie. Creeping, creeping, neck stretched and eyes peeping, around the corne r she slinks and waits until he finally assumes the game is over and lays down, eyes closed. Then she pounces, bounces, bats with clawless paws, and runs. We finally wised up, by the way. If she’s out and we want to find her, all we have to do is let the dog out. One sniff of the air and a yap, and he’s off on her trail, chasing her until she circles back around to the house. If she wants in anytime soon, that creepy cat leaps for the door, sinks in her claws, hangs on, and yowls like there’s no tomorrow. Works every time.