Cat Tales 34
According to the vet, our three-year-ol d cat, Jazzy, is obsessive-compulsive. She chews the end of he r tail until it looks like a fountain pen dippe d in an inkwell. She bats her grayish-brown paws at strangers and attacks their knees and a nkles. Jazzy is more guard dog than cat. Rather than hide unde r the bed when friends call, she waits at the front window, a mini-tiger with tabby stripes and green eyes and claws out.
Recently, a painter knocked at our door. Jazzy flung herself at him, hi ssing and spitting like Taz from the Bugs Bunny cartoon. When I tried to intervene, she hissed and spat at me, too, her eyes black and dilated. Embarrassed and unnerve d, I apologized and shooed Jazzy upstairs with a pillow. A little while later, before sta rting to work, the painter glanced around nervously and asked, “Where’s that cat?”
Jazzy has thrown fits at a handyman, a mover, and several friends of our thi rteen - year- old daughter, Juliana. In a strange reversal, our cat is affectionate with us, her ad optive family, except in those instances when she feels threatened at seeing an unfamiliar face. She cuddles on our beds and is a fixture on my desk. She’s friendly with our regular pe t sitter and the girl’s mother. She eats well and uses her litter box. She’s trim and active, almost the perfect cat, except for those sporadic, unpre dictable attacks.
That is why we’ve put her on meds. Jazzy is now part of the ne w Prozac Pet Nation, dogs, cats, and even horses on anti -anxiety drugs. Our vet prescribed amitri ptyline, generic for Elavil, starting with five milligrams a day, which Jazzy took for a month. Each day we watched for signs of change, relief from he r obsessive -compulsive symptoms. We praised our cat and petted he r even more. To our disappointment, over that month Jazzy re mained hissy at strangers and continue d to gnaw on he r tail. The vet doubled the prescription of amitriptyline to 10 milligrams; now we wait for more positive changes.
It wasn’t always like this. The beginning, like all love stories, began with hope and a dream. For yea rs, Juliana begged us for a cat. William and I put it off. Our condo was too small. I didn’t want to trip ove r a litter box in the kitche n or leave a sandy mess in a bathroom or near the front door. Cat-box odor was the deal-breaker.
Finally, we cleaned out the tiny laundry room and made a space there, planning to surprise Juliana with a kitten on her tenth birthday. For wee ks we examined, held, and petted doze ns of potential pets at shelters, adoption clinics, and at homes of friends who owne d mothe r cats with new litters. William suggested a gray female tabby. “They make good lap cats,” he said. “The ones I’ve seen are pretty gentle.”
Our future pet had hef ty competition, a legacy to endure. When I was twelve, my family adopte d a docile gray-and-white kitten my father na med Putti after the cherubs in Renaissance paintings. William previously owne d a cat, Sweet Pea, who lived up to her name. We both kept a lookout for a gray female tabby, but to be thorough, we considered other cats too. A pair of black male kittens, too wild! Older cats at an adoption clinic, health issues! Shelter kittens that turned out to be fe ral.
After a month-long search, we found what we thought was the perfect kitten: an eight- week-old Torbie (a tortoiseshell and tabby mix) in a cage at a local Humane Society. Alert and friendly, she had white markings and an adorable half -orange, half-gray face. The kitten’s distinctive feature was a pair of ears almost as large as her frame. A shelter worker handed William the tiny fur ball, who had bee n found on the street with he r mothe r, a small gray cat. He held the kitten and played with her. By now, after an exhausting search, there was no surprise left for Juliana, only anticipation. “I want this kitten,” Juliana said. So did we.
We named he r Jem Jelly Jazzlica after the characters in the musical Cats. Jazzy for short. Little did we know how well the name suited her. At home, after a minor intestinal bug for which Jazzy was prescribed antibiotics, she beca me bold and fearless. She scaled furniture, arms, and legs, and pranced around the house with an arched back, her tail fuzzed out like a Halloween cat. We thought she’d outgrow her aggressive, kittenish tende ncies.
Over time, though, Jazzy’s precociousnes s turned into anxiety. The sound of the doorbell made he r put up her claws. For a while I thought our home of thirtee n years was the proble m. “She’s too cooped up in this little condo,” I said. “There are no sun patches for her to lie in. She’s climbing the blinds to get to the light.” William agreed, but moving to a bigger house wasn’t in our budget at that ti me. Letting Jazzy outdoors where she could expend her abundant energy was not an option either. We lived at the edge of a canyon whe re coyotes roamed and could be spotted at dawn on our street.
When Jazzy was a year old, we moved to a larger home a few blocks away that had windows and sun patches galore. Jazzy will be happy here, I thought. She was, for a while. When the novelty wore off, she became feisty again and suspicious of guests, especially men in workman’s boots. She started to chew he r tail. “Maybe a man in boots frightened he r whe n she was on the street,” I told William. Or the unthinka ble. I lowered my voice. “Maybe a man in boots did away with the rest of her litter.”
“Maybe,” William said.
I had read in a cat care book that kitte ns who aren’t ha ndled during the first weeks of life might not respond well to humans. We’ll never know. One thing is certain: Jazzy is a survivor, and that gave me comfort. My quirky, scrappy cat had had a difficult childhood. She was doing the best she could. I, too, have obsessive, perfectionist tende ncies. I wondered whethe r I had inflicted them on Jazzy, had scrubbed the bathroom sinks with a little too muc h vigor. Over time, I began to cringe when the doorbell rang. I’d place Jazzy on a plant shelf so she’d be at eye level and wouldn’t feel threate ned at seeing a stranger. I asked visitors to hang back and not pet her. If she seemed agreeable, I advised them to approach her cautiously. During parties, I locked Jazzy in our be droom.
I started to fantasize about dogs, envisioning a cute little Pomerian who’d lick a guest’s hand. But I knew Jazzy wouldn’t tolerate a dog. “Get a big dog,” my friend Barbara suggested. “Jazzy might not fight if the pooch is bigger than her.” Fighting, flying fur. I was in over my head. I briefly considered giving Jazzy up for adoption, but feared she might fall into the hands of a less -tolerant owne r. An antisocial pet might wind up being euthanize d. I started to fantasize about, gulp (pet owne r guilt trip), the day Jazzy would be gone (of natural causes), and I could adopt anothe r, friendlier pe t. “How long do you think Jazzy might live?” I asked William. “She’s a healthy cat,” he said, “at least another te n years.”
Ten more years of bad behavior, ten years of waiting. The stress on Jazzy’s nervous system could not be good either. I had to do something. I read a newspaper article about pe ts on meds: a dog being treated for separation anxiety that ba rked and tore up his owners’ home when they were away, and a cat with some unspecified emotional problem that suddenly began to claw her owner. On a pet Web site I read a letter to a vet from a man who sounded like me. He wrote that his good-nature d cat freaked out when guests came over and that he was at his wit’s end about the ba d behavior.
When I expressed my ambivalence about drugging my cat to Barbara, she said, “Do you want to live like this for another ten years?” As if I had a disease. Maybe I did. Maybe I was codependent, a cat enabler, encouraging antisocial behavior. I envisioned the day when neighbors woul d refuse an invitation to lunch, make excuses when invited to a dinner pa rty. I would be shunned, a refugee hunke red at home with a vicious pet.
That same morning I called our vet, who, after I described Jazzy’s behavior in an office visit the year before, had suggested Prozac. I had laughed four years ago when my cousin Debbie told me her poodle was on Prozac. I wasn’t laughing anymore. “How will I get her to eat the pill?” I asked. “Grind up the medication in her food,” he said, “or put the pill inside a piece of cheese.” I tried stuffing the blue pill into a ball of cheese and then tuna. She ate the cheese and the tuna, but spit out the pill, intact, both ti mes. I ground up the pill and mixed it into gourmet cat food, and after that into a small piece of shredded chicken. Each time, Jazzy ate the glob with the hidde n medication once and never again. I called the vet again. “Open Jazzy’s jaws and drop the pill down her throat,” the receptionist said. I pictured bare d fangs. I imagined bloody scratches. Surprisingly, Jazzy allowed me to dose her this way. Every morning before breakfast I open he r jaw and drop the pill down her thr oat. After, I offer a cat treat. So far, so good. But I worry the meds will turn Jazzy into a listless slug, that the spark in her personality might vanish. Already she seems to have less interest in playing with her favorite catnip-filled mouse. “It’s a compromise,” William said. “What can we do?” Jazzy will need to unde rgo yearly blood tests, as amitriptyline might affect her liver enzymes, though research says the drug does not usually have long -term negative side effects on cats. With new habits and pos itive social interactions, our cat might even be able to discontinue taking the medication.
Will Jazzy become less obsessive-compulsive? The drug’s effectiveness is not guaranteed. Our cat chews her tail less now, occasionally rather than eve ry day.
She may neve r be a Putti or a Sweet Pea; maybe the ba r was set too high. I hope she will be able to tolerate houseguests and handyme n. I don’ t expect her to purr and rub on strangers’ legs, just to sit calmly on the couch or a lap. I asked the vet what would happen if Jazzy didn’ t respond to amitriptyline. “We can try a combination of drugs,” he said, “including Prozac.”
Whethe r it’s that medication or another one, I want to fall in love with my cat again, like that first day at the shelter. I want to get back that dream. Behind Jazzy’s bad behavior is a sweet, unspoiled kitten. Last week, Jazzy hissed at a neighbor who knocke d at our door. Yesterday, whe n a friend of Juliana’s came over after school, our cat eyed the girl but sat quietly as she passed by. For me, this is progress. Our cat’s anxiety disorder has created a cockeyed silver lining in all the drama, dra wing William, Juliana, and I closer togethe r as we joke and strategize about how to help our ne rve -ridden cat. We are on day 26, and counting, of Jazzy’s new dose of meds. What I did for love, I’d do again.
Cat Tales 35
For a girl who grew up in the country, where she must have observe d the habits of a variety of livestock and a succession of pets, Mama had some surprising inhibitions. I unde rstand why she might have known mini mally about the sex life of cows, since Grandpa’s Jersey cow was walked down the road to a neighbor’s farm when it was necessary to continue milk production. It is more difficult to comprehend why Mama sometimes professed not to know whe the r our cats were toms or tabbies. Perhaps her strong sense of privacy extended to felines, such that the indignities of inspection were not to be inflicted upon the m. Anothe r possibility is that she loved to create a humorous mystery.
When I was about six and my parents settled in as publishers -editors-reporte rs of a small weekly newspaper in northern Oklahoma, a special pair of kittens entered our lives. These purebred Pe rsians had such long, thick fur that it hid all overt evidence of sexuality. The generous donor of these feline beauties admitted only that one was male and the other female. Ma ma named them Mitzi and Fritzi, and let the chips fall where they might. Dad me rely nodded, accepting her na me choices without offe ring any help with gender identification, despite being the son of a veterinarian.
In any case, both cats were supposedly “fixed,” which made the names a moot point for the time being. That soon proved to be a myth. Mitzi grew to be half again as large as Fritzi, and it was Fritzi who de posited newborn kitte ns into Mama’s shoes on the floor of her closet!
Mitzi was such a tom-about-town that the entire neighborhood soon knew his real gender. He also made a reputation for hi mself by climbing high into trees, where he would remain, howling, too scared to climb down. Once, he howled and yowled for three days and nights from the top of a cottonwood tree just outside our next - door neighbor’s bedroom window. I spent most of those days beneath the tree, alternately calling to Mitzi and crying. Mama tried to coax him down by waving ope n cans of salmon back and forth, hoping the aroma of his favorite food woul d overc ome his fear. Dad tried to reach him by ladde r and failed. When Dad climbed onto the nearby roof, Mitzi clawed his way higher up the tree and his howls grew even more piercing. Finally, Dad called the fire department for help. Back then, it was not unusual for folks to call the local fire departme nt for such rescues. Who else had the tall ladders and men unafraid to climb the m to great heights? Today, that practice would most likely result in a hefty bill presented to the caller.
After Fritzi produced her four kitte ns, Mitzi became a model of deportme nt, a responsible feline spouse and hovering parent. As if she had declared, “Now, it’s my turn to have fun!” Fritzi started wandering farthe r afield in search of catly delights, such as chasing butterflies across the street and teeteri ng along fence tops. Although she regularly returne d to feed her newborn kittens, Fritzi disappeared for hours at a time. Mitzi took ove r like a veteran kitty-sitter, and the kitte ns soon deferre d to his benign authority.
They loved to climb on and ove r him, tumbling around on him in play and nipping at his tail with their milk teeth, and to nap on top of his stretched out body. He tolerated their antics with dignified patience. Mitzi was fond of lounging in a canvas -slung folding chair on our front porch. He would jump into it and stretch out his big frame. The kittens quickly learned to scramble up the wooden fra mework to join him. There, he would thoroughly wash himself and then each kitten in turn. Often, by the time he had licked three kittens to his satisfaction, his tongue woul d have “lost its spit,” as Mama said. His eyes would droop, and soon he woul d be fast asleep, with three napping kittens sprawled across his back and the unwashed fourth asleep between his paws.
When the kittens were old enough to scramble down our front steps to play on the sidewalk and test the grass, Mitzi hovered around the m like a nervous mothe r letting her children cross the street for the first time. Once, as the little troop frolicked on the lawn, Mitzi spied a bulldog coming down the street. When the dog spotted the kittens, it speeded up on its short legs. Mitzi rushed to grab the kittens by the scruffs of their necks and tossed them up the front steps to the porch. By the n, the bulldog was running toward our house. Mitzi herde d his young to the front screen door, startling them into alarmed hysterics that sent them clawing up the screen as far as they could go. Then he turned to face the canine menace. Mitzi weighed almost sixteen pounds. With his long fur standing up in alert mode, he looked almost as big as the bulldog and was twice as fast with his curved claws. Launching himself off the porch like a missile and growling his fiercest, he landed on the dog’s head with a quick slash of claws across the face that sent the dog running back to the street, shrieking and squealing. Never relaxing his attack, Mitzi was a whirlwind of claws and teeth atop the panicked dog. Finally, he jumpe d off the dog, and with a few more swipes with his razor claws, he chased the bulldog down the block. Satisfied, Mitzi sat down in the middle of the street to wash himself free of canine smell, while the bulldog continued running and yelping down the street.
Meanwhile, the animal commotion and my own shrieks brought Ma ma out. As she f lung open the screen door, all the kittens scrambled higher and draped the mselves over the top edge of the door frame. Being only five feet tall, Mama could not quite reach the m from front or back, nor di d she dare close the door on kitte n paws and tails. All four meowed loudly in distress, turning themselves around and around as they clung to their precarious perc h. When she could be heard over my yells, Mama told me to hold the door ope n while she ran to get a ladder. It took some time for Ma ma to get eac h kitten to let go and be lifted to safety. A cat under rescue digs its claws into the rescuer, and Mama was bloody before all were safe. Mitzi ambled back to his favorite chair, where he sat down and watched the final rescue with an expression of complace ncy, as if to say, “I’ve done my part, now you humans do yours.” We never saw the bulldog on our side of the street again.
We could not afford to kee p six cats. Homes were found for the kittens, and Mitzi mourned and was bewildered as they vanished one by one. A few weeks later, Fritzi died. Mitzi acquired a new solemnity, often sitting for hours on Fritzi’s grave in our back garden. He even stopped climbing trees. I started school that fall, and my parents worked long hours at the newspaper office. Mitzi must have felt lonely. Whereas once Mitzi and Fritzi had slept under the cove rs at the foot of my parents’ bed on cold nights (we always wondere d how they breathe d down the re), now Mitzi climbed onto my bed and settled himself on top of my wool comforte r to sleep. With his mate and playmate gone, his straying days ended.
To those who think of our feline friends as “only cats,” without souls, my proof to the contrary is strong. They feel. They care. They love. They grieve.