Cat Tales 40
Here, kitty. Here kitty-kitty,” I beckoned in the sweetest cat-calling voice I could muster. Like always, Max ran inside, grateful to get out of the pouring rain, but the n promptly ran to anothe r door to go back outside. “He’s so dumb,” laughed my husband, Jim. “He doesn’t know how to stay out of the rain. We should have named hi m ‘Stupid Cat’ instead of Max.”
Neither of us knew much about cats, and we couldn’t understand people who acted like their cats were their children. We’ d had three cats, but they certainly were n’t like me mbers of the family. Our children we re excited over our first cat, the tiny orange ball of fur we kept only a month. He scratched the kids, and our son Clay was highly allergic to him.
Twenty years later, our second cat arrive d one day. A pitiful -looking gray cat that wound itself around our legs while we sat on our deck, she looked hungry, so we fed her milk. We continue d this, and, before long, she would walk to our ref rigerator and meow “milk.” Though we never took Kate to the vet or brushed or pette d her much, Kate was content with food, wate r, and a warm place to sleep. She kept away mice and snakes. We had a great symbiotic relationship, but nothing more. Our thi rd cat showed up a few years after Kate. I told Clay, “You can keep her, but she’s your responsibility.” I never paid enough attention to Allie to judge whethe r or not she was smart. Whe n Clay joined the Marines, I decided one cat was quite enough and took Allie to the pound, assuming the shelter would find he r a good home. My children and granddaughte r, Amber, rode with me. The kids called me “cat killer” the whole way. “Can you say ‘felinicide’?” my son quipped. Ambe r mi micked, “Fe-lin-i-cide.” That toddler is now twenty- one, and I’ m still not sure whether she’s forgiven me for taking Allie to the pound.
Kate kept at her mouser job for years before she began to lose weight. She never appeared to be in pain, but one day she vanished. I was shocked to find I missed her, but I neve r felt guilty about our lack of time with her.
When a friend of our daughte r, Melissa, had to move and find a home for he r “inside cat who love d to be outside,” we were happy to adopt a new mouser. His old owner arrived with as much paraphe rnalia as a newborn baby: two crystal bowls, a litter box, litter, a small carrier, and health records. She also left his brushes, after demonstrating how he loved to be petted and groomed. She discussed his daily schedule and the special food he prefe rre d. She left a generous supply, along with his favorite treats.
Nervous as a new mom, I tried brushing and petting him, but I wa s afraid he’d bite. Max wandere d around sniffing and exploring the house and didn’ t mess up anything. He used his litter box, ate, slept, and never seemed to miss his owner.
We gradually introduced him to the outside, making sure he stayed nearby. Max wou ld meande r a while, then come right back inside to eat or use the litter box. We gradually increased his time outdoors and move d the litter box into the garage. That’s when we first realized we’d adopted a stupid cat.
We installed a kitty door in the gara ge. Max just looked at it, even when we tried coaxing him in with food. Jim also rigged up a small box equipped with a heat light, so Max wouldn’t get too cold. Though he loved the garage, he refused to enter it except through our kitche n.
“I don’t want to be tied down,” I complained. “I want to be able to leave for a few days without having someone cat-sit.”
When grandchildren visited, I asked them to try to train Max to use his cat door. One grandchild stood inside the garage and poked food through the opening, letting Max sniff it, while the other child stayed outside and fairly pushed him through the kitty door. Afte r hours, he finally learned how to get where food, wate r, a litter box, and warmth waited.
Despite having mastered the cat door in the garage, Max continued to do the most awful things, like stalking birds and leaving them, dead, at our door. Once, whe n I opene d the kitchen door, Max waltzed in with a live chipmunk in his mouth. I screamed, and he let go. We had an indoor chipmunk, alive, for days. “Stupid cat,” I said. “What’s wrong with him? He has food!” When we’d leave for several days, he wouldn’t touch his food or water, and we’d re turn to see a dead something at our kitchen door. “Max!” I’d scream. “What’s wrong with you? You’ re so stupid. You have food you won’t eat, and you drink from the birdbath when you have clean water.”
So it went for years. Occasionally, we’d let Max inside when it was frigid, but basically he followed in Kate and Allie’s footsteps, staying outside except during harsh weather. I brushed and pette d him occasionally. Max seemed to prefe r it that way. He also would meet our cars every afternoon, but when we’d say, “Hello, Max,” the silly cat would wander away, head held high, like he didn’t know who we we re. Although he got in terrible fights, we never thought about taking him to a vet, not eve n for shots. We still felt he was just a mouser cat, a duty he did well.
Then came the year whe n life, as I had known it, ende d. I develope d chronic illnesses and had surgery and complications that left me in terrible pain twenty-four hours a day. I was so weak I couldn’t walk to the mailbox and felt like I’d become an old woman overnight. That first winter on disability was quiet and lonely. As I sat, miserably glued to my recliner, Max would come to the back door and me ow. I’d let hi m in, he’d wande r around and then settle down at my feet, totally content.
As I spent more time with him, I noticed he seemed to move slower in the morning. “Do your joints hurt, Maxie?” I asked one day. Jim was amused at my new interest in Max, but he did research on cat years. “He’s older than we are,” Jim said. I was shocked and recognized Max was often hurting too. I spent more time with him, brushing him daily. “Good the rapy,” I said, a bit embarrassed. Before long, Max, who was becoming quite smart, would quietly curl up beside me, purring softly, as I slept. He never clawed the furniture, jumpe d on anything othe r than my lap, or had an accident. Soon, a food and water bowl also appeared in our kitchen.
Max “told” us when he wanted out, which was fairly often, and it was sort of lonesome without hi m. One day, as I talked to him, he put his paws on my chest, looked me in the eyes, and twisted his neck as if to say, Stroke my head. He butted it against my head and continue d this until he taught me to stroke him unde r his chin and to butt my head against his.
Max was more sensitive to my moods and pains than many of my family and friends. When I felt most forlorn, he would quietly curl up beside me, his purring seemingly synchronized to my beating heart. This is one amazing cat, I thought.
One night my husband and I went to Starbucks at Barnes and Noble. While we sipped coffee we browsed several books, including one about cats. We bought it to c ontinue reading at home. Sudde nly, a lot of things Max had tried to tell us made sense. The more we read, the more we understood our sweet, and oh so smart, cat.
Soon I discovered he was petrified of storms. Just like me, I empathized. As I listened and watched hi m, more understanding took place. His different me ows each meant something. I’d praise him, “Maxie, what a smart boy you are!” He still loved being outside, but one day I noticed him limping and saw white fur near the door. Max had a scratch over one eye. “Oh no, he got into anothe r fight,” I told Jim. My husband assured me that Max would be okay, but he wasn’t. He stayed inside and began hiding under our bed. We moved his food and wate r nearby, but he wouldn’t eat. After a few days, Max allowed his ignorant pare nts to hold hi m. I gasped! His right front pa w was swollen four times its normal size. “How could we have been so stupid?” I wailed. Panicked, I called my daughte r, who has three large dogs. Her roommate has four cats. They both always have huge vet bills. I’d always thought doc tors are for people, but now I realized they are for pets, too. I had no idea whom to call or how I’d get Max into the crate he’ d outgrown. Most of all, I was terribly ashamed he’d had no shots in ten years. “You’ve got to get him to our vet imme diately,” Melissa said. “I have to work, but Cat can come take you.” Swallowing my pride, I let her appropriately named roommate get Max into the large crate she brought. I was fearful of a huge bill we couldn’t afford, since my medical bills were still enormous. There was no money for eme rgencies like this, but I didn’t care. I just wanted Maxie to live, and I prayed to have another chance to show him how much I loved him. “The infection is really advanced. I’m not sure we can s ave him,” the vet said.
After two days, Max did come home. My daughter’s friend came every day to give him his medications. She knew exactly how to get him to open his mouth. We we re amazed! When Jim and I took ove r giving his meds, it took both of us to get a few drops in his mouth.
The saddest thing was how passive our independe nt Max had become. Though weak, he preferred going outside to using his litter box. When he wanted out, he’d look at the door, and Jim would gently pick him up and place him a fe w feet into the yard. Max wouldn’t move from that spot. He’d feebly try to bury his waste and then patiently wait to be picked back up.
In two wee ks Max had enough energy to stay outside for few minutes, and a week after that, he decided he’s been inside quite long enough, thank you. We were like two nervous, overprotective pare nts sending their only child off to school the first day. “What if that black cat bothe rs him again?” we fretted.
These days, I think we need Max more than he nee ds us. We have the mouser cat we trained, so Max only wants in when it’s really hot or cold or during a storm. He wants to be petted when he’s good and ready, and he loves being brushed, but most of the ti me the great outdoors, rather than with us, is where he prefers to be . Max, our brilliant cat, struts down his sidewalk like the king of the world. He looks at us rather smugly. I can almost hear him me ow to the next- door cat, Thank goodness, I finally got my humans trained. They were so stupid I thought they’d never catch on. Now maybe I can enjoy my retirement days with a little peace!