Cat Tales 31
Pirate, come on, get away from the wi ndow. Lamb chops for dinne r tonight. ” I waved the plate of tantalizing morsels in my cat’s directi on. At sixteen pounds, Pirate had neve r said no to food before. In fact, I’d once found hi m in the den, rolled down on his spine, belly exposed and hind legs extended, purring to hi mself after a meal of filet mignon.
This boy liked his food.
Worried now, I went to pick him up and carry him to his plate. Somethi ng, I thought, had to be wrong. Before I hefted hi m, I pulled back the lacy curtains and looked outside. I didn’t see anything. I set Pirate down in front of his dish. As soon as his four paws touche d the floor, he ran back to the window. Perplexed, I went outside.
A tiny silver-striped head popped up from the cente r of the lirope in my front plante r. Reaching in, I picked up an adorable silver tabby with the biggest front paws I’d ever seen. I guess ed her age at six months. I counte d her toes. She had six. Five fully developed, a sixth in between the thumb and index finger. Yep, this kitten had mittens.
I buried my face in her soft fur, and she began to purr. “Okay,” I murmured into her fur, “let’s see if you can get along with Pirate.” I set her down just inside the door and braced myself. Pirate never wanted anything to do with any other cat. He was the only declawed cat I’d ever owned, and his outside wanderings were restricted to the end of a leash. Any cats with the ne rve to invade his terri tory found the mselves on the business end of his hiss. I really had no idea how this would work out.
Pirate walked up to the kitten, sniffed her, bumped he r shoulder, and pushed he r toward the kitchen. Fascinated, I watched him show he r his dish and sit next to her while she devoured his lamb chop bits. Clearly, love at first sight! Again, he walked up to her and bumped he r shoulde r. This time he led her around the house, pointing out such areas of interest as the litter box and the kibble and water bowls. Tour finished, he lay down next to her and began to groom her.
It astounded me that Pirate had adopte d this little girl. It frightened me too. Who knew what illnesses she had that could spread to Pirate? A trip to the vet for a checkup and a quick fix, and I brought my girl, now name d Starlight, home. The vet gave her a clean bill of health. That night she began to bleed from the mouth. Devastated, I called the vet, sure the anesthesia tube had nicked her esophagus during surgery, and rushed he r back. Her little mouth and tongue were completely blistered. The blisters were breaking and bleeding.
They put he r on life support and told me she had a congenital illness triggered by the surgery. Whether she lived or not depended on her willingness to eat on her own once they re moved the feeding tube.
They also warned me that, although she wouldn’ t be contagious, if she lived, I’d have to keep Pirate separate from her while she recovered. The vet suggested he might t ry to attack her while she was weak. I brought Sta rlight home three days later. I’d prepared a room just for he r and made sure Pirate had no access. As soon as she returne d, he pawed and me owe d outside her door. I could hear he r weak cries in response. Fea rful Starlight couldn’ t withstand an attack, I was determine d to keep them apart. On the second day I had her home, whe n I opened the door to feed her, Pirate shot in under my feet and raced for his little sister. He curled his body around her and began to groom her, cove ring her from head to toe with te nde r licks and refused to budge when I tried to get him out of the room. Starlight, contente dly surrounded by cat fur, slept pressed against his ample stomach.
Starlight fully recovere d. The vet credited he r quick rec overy to Pirate’s care. Love clearly conquere d all. Pirate, it seemed, had signed on for sickness or health. Two months later, in the middle of the night, Pi rate suffered a seizure. Starlight woke me when it happe ned. She jumped on the bed and ke pt batting my face until I woke up and paid attention. I rushed him to the twe nty-f our-hour ve t. Pirate neve r recove red. I often wondere d if he knew of his illness and chose Starlight to replace him so I wouldn’t be alone. Starlight sat at the front door for two days, refusing to eat or drink. She slept curled at the base of the door and hissed at me every time I passed her. I had taken him out through the front door. Some how, she held me responsible.
Starlight is sitting on my lap as I write this. She just turned twelve, and now weighs in at sixteen healthy pounds. I have two othe r cats in the house, both boys, but Starlight refuses to give her heart to eithe r one. She re mains aloof and, I think, still in love with Pirate.
Cat Tales 32
Shortly after we adopted two childre n, ages seven and five, to love and take care of, we adopte d two kittens for the m to love and take care of. A local farmer brought us two males from a litter of half-Siamese kittens. Because of their mixed breeding, they both had deforme d tails. We named one Smoky, because of his smoke -like gray coloring. His tail was shorte r than normal and oddly kinke d, so that when he raised it, i t looked like an arthritic finger. The other gray kitten’s deformity was worse. His tail was full -length but bent back ove r itself in a Z shape. We were going to name him Zorro, but when he jumpe d out of a cardboard box and got his tail hung over the edge, preventi ng him from getting loose, we realized the deforme d tail was dangerous to him. We had it removed, and he became Bob, for the bobbed tail.
Smoky and Bob gre w and blende d in with the family, along with the children. We bought a camper and taught the cats to enjoy riding in it. That was a good thing, because shortly the reafter we moved from far northeast Colorado all the way across the state diagonally to far southwest Colorado. We packed two kids, two cats, and all the belongings that didn’t go into the moving van into the campe r and drove over the mountains to our ne w town. My husband had signed a teaching contract and made a deal on a house.
When we arrived, we found out the house deal had fallen through. We looked and looked but could find no houses for sale in our price range. Rentals were almost impossible to find in the rapidly growing tourist town. School was about to start. Another teache r came to the rescue and allowed us to park our camper in his driveway. His wife didn’t like cats or kids, so I spent a lot of time trying to keep all four from annoying her.
School started, and the kids had to register with no address. I began to understand how homeless families must feel. My husband had to grade pape rs and do lesson plans sitting in the driver’s seat with a flashlight, while I tried to keep the kids and cats under control in the back. We didn’t want the kids to have to change schools again, but I began to despair of finding a house that would work for us. After several weeks of living like squatters, a for-sale sign went up on the house across the street. We’re going to get that house, I vowed, whatever it takes. It took talking the seller down in price and borrowing money from my mother, but we finally had a place to move into, and the kids and cats had room to roa m and play. There was a nice big elm tree in the backyard that all four liked to climb. One day I looked out and saw my daughter standing in the crook of the elm with the two cats on each side of her. I went outside.
“What are you doing?” I asked. “Trying to get up my brave to jump down like the kitties do,” she said. And then she did, landing on her feet just like a cat. While teaching the cats to ride in the camper had been a good idea at the time, we found it had a down side. They loved to get into vehicles, and when anyone left a car window open, it wasn’t long before the y were inside. Our neighbors got used to checking for the m and shooing the m out bef ore they left for work, but I worried that someday a stranger would unknowingly drive away with our cats, never to return. Sure enough, one fine summe r day Smoky disappeared. We called and searched, to no avail. The kids were heartbroken. They’ d already had so much loss in their lives. “Maybe he went to anothe r foster home,” Jerry s aid sadly, a concept he knew only too well. His sister, Terry, added, “I hope he gets adopted by a nice family."
"I’m sure that’s what happened,” I said, not at all sure but willing to grasp any straw offered.
Gradually, the tears subsided and we all got used to Smoky’s absence, even Bob. He became king of the house, the only pe t, pampe red and adore d by all. In fact, I doubt if he missed Smoky very much. But the rest of us did. Things just weren’t the same with only one cat. Someone’s lap was always empty. Six months later, on Christmas afternoon, the kids were playing with their new toys and my husband wi th his. My mothe r had given him a freestanding fireplace, which he was in the middle of installing. I was just starting to pick up the piles of wrapping paper and ribbon scattered all over when I heard Bob scratching on the front door to come in, as he always did. He’d gotten fat and lazy and didn’t like to be out in the cold snow for long. I stepped over a piece of stove pipe to ope n the door and felt the cat brush against my leg as he came in. Then I heard yowls and hisses from the couc h as, Bob?, reacted to the intruder. I looke d down to see a gray cat with a raised, crooked tail, Smoky, a very scrawny, bedraggled Smoky, still rubbing against my legs.
The kids were yelling, “Smoky, Smoky!” as the cats raced around the house, chasing each other ove r the pieces of stove pipe and through the piles of Christmas paper in a chaos of celebration. Finally, I was able to pick up Smoky, ove r his brothe r’s loud protests. The pads of his feet were bloody and worn thin, and he was skin and bones, not to mention ve ry dirty. But oh how loud his purr was! How I wished he could talk and tell us his adventures.
Where had he bee n? How far had he walked? What dangers had he faced? How did he find the way? Some things we just can’t understand, and the force that brings an animal back to the family who loves it is one of them.
Smoky recovere d nicely and regained his weight, although he never got as fat as Bob, who, after a few days, decided to accept him again. We often hear about how loving and loyal dogs are and how haughty and indepe ndent cats are. Well, maybe it was just a desire for free food and familiar surroundings that brought Smoky back, but somehow I doubt it. I think he missed us and got up his brave to make the long journe y home.
Cat Tales 33
I just want to be sure this is Buttercup.” The vet tech unzipped the carrier and out popped a gray head. “Oh yes, that is our Butte rcup,” I assured her. “Well, we have a yellow tabby back the re and . . .” I had forgotten about the visual discrepancy betwee n Butterc up’s name and her gunmetal-gray color. Eve r since I brought her home f rom the shelter, I’ve found myself apologizing for her name. It’s the one she came with. I thought pe rhaps a child had named her, and I wanted to honor that. Of course, it’s certainly possible she and one of her shelter mates traded na mes, leaving, someplace in this city, a yellow tabby name d Charcoal.
Butterc up has kept mum on the subject, but I’ve noticed she never comes when I call her, so maybe she, too, thi nks it’s a bad match.
As for myself, I never thought much of mine. “Patty,” as I was called growing up, sounded too plain. “I wanted something everyone could spell,” my mother told me. True, I could spell my name at an early age. I found out later, howeve r, that my father had named me after a jazzy piece of music popular at the time , “Patricia.” As an adult, people at work started calling me Pat, and I went with it in a last-ditch effort at sophistication. Eventually I learned to appreciate the simplicity of it. And, unlike being named after a famous person, Pat doesn’t carry the burden of my pare nts’ expectations, except their modest hope that I could spell it, which I can. It’s hard not to put your own stamp on something you’ re naming, whe the r we’re talking about kids or cats. One morning, a gal came into the office with a box of ki ttens she had found abandone d by the curb. As we weren’t employe d at the animal shelter, where such a find is sadly all too common, her box of kittens caused quite a stir. I left work that day with my purse in one arm and a yellow tabby in the other.
Now Buttercup would have been an apt name for my yellow tabby, pe rhaps a bit feminine for a boy, but at least not an obvious disconnect betwee n name and appearance, since you would have to get pre tty nosy to find out more information about the cat. But it never occurred to me to na me him Butterc up or Butte rscotch or Butter or any such color-code d name. I wanted a name that meant something to me, and I decided on the na me Eli, after the Old Testament prophe t. (It’s easy to spell, too.) I’m not sure whether Eli’s name elicited admiration from pe ople for my originality and biblical savvy or a vague “Huh?”—but Eli was a memorable cat. His creative bathroom habits left the aroma of his presence long after he was taken up to kitty heaven in a chariot of fire. After my creative fling with Eli, I left the naming to othe rs. Callie, who came with Buttercup, retained he r shelter name. A lot of people have a Callie, which is okay. A lot of people have a Pat, too, and that’s okay. Easy to remember, easy to spell. Then there’s Smokey. My brother-in-law, who lives next door, named he r Smoke y whe n he saw the black/brown/gold/gray torti streaking across our yards one summe r. Whe n I opene d my back door, she streaked right in and she hasn’t budged since. Now, the star spellers among you might well ask, “Why the ‘e’?” That’s because, when I filled out the vet’s form, I put an “e” in Smokey. I didn’t think it looked right, but neither di d “Smoky.” At home, I looke d it up in the dictionary and found “smoky.” Then I looked it up on the I nternet, beginning my search with the bear, Smokey, that is.
The white cat with a gold cap and gold tail appeared in the newspaper one morning, and several days later appeared in my house. Her shelter name was Indy, which she kept. Maybe she was born on Independence Day. Or perhaps she lived in a household of racing fans. Or maybe in her younge r days she ran laps at 220 mph. I don’ t know, but I can say Indy comes racing when she’s called, particularly if I have a plate of food in my hand.
The white cat with a silver cap and silver tail showed up in the neighborhood last spring and stayed for the summer, mostly at my sister and brother-in-law’s house. They didn’t want a third cat. I didn’t nee d a fourth. We did everything we could to find this friendly cat a home.
Neighbors at the end of the street na med the cat Princess, a fitting name for such a regal-looking animal, but they couldn’ t take Princess in because of their dog, Cosmo’s, snippy veto, which tells you who makes decisions at their house.
As weeks passed I became concerned about the prospect of finding a litter of white kittens with silver markings in my vegetable garden. I voluntee red to take the cat to the vet, who pronounced Princess a neutered male. Well, I didn’t need to worry about kittens in the cabbage patch anymore. I na med him Snowy, with no “e,” because even I know how to spell Snowy. My brothe r-in-law calls him Bob. Snowy Bob spends most of his time at their house.
T. S. Eliot had it right when he claimed, “The Naming of Cats is a diff icult matter.” As anyone who has read Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats or seen the Broadway play Cats knows, Eliot had a way with names. Case in point: Jennyanydots, Growltiger, Rum Tum Tugger, Mungojerrie, Rumpelteaze r, and Old Deuteronomy. “Rum” and “Old Deuteronomy” are the only names recognized by my spell -check program, so if Eliot added an extra “e” to any of those other na mes, I wouldn’ t know and neithe r would you. That’s a good way around the whole issue of spelling. You have a lot to think about if you’re faced with the challenge of naming a cat. If you want to keep it simple, though, I suggest one of these options:
• Take whatever name he or she comes with. If it’s wrong, it’s not your fault and the cat won’ t come after you seeking revenge.
• Ask your mothe r to suggest a name that’s easy to spell.
• Ask your father the name of his favorite song.
• Find out what your brother-in-law calls it.