Cat Tales 43
I’d always sensed something was not quite normal about my cat, Ama deus. There were hints from the start, like the way he did nothing but hide under furniture and hiss the first few days after my husband, Ron, brought hi m home. I’d neve r had a cat before , so I was at a loss. I tried coaxing him out with toys, with milk, with tuna. Nothing worke d.
This strange specimen came with no instruction manual, and none of the books on cat care seemed to apply to him. Page after page featured adorable kitte ns batti ng at strings and showing off their fat fuzzy tummies, but nothing resembling my hiding, hissing kitten.
Convinced the little beast was possessed or defective, I was ready to send him back to the bree der. Then Ron informed me the hissing was all for show.
“Just reach in there and pet him,” he said. “He won’t bite.”
Slowly, cautiously, I reached my hand unde r the bulky antique dresser that was the curre nt lair of the psycho-kitty. As my hand moved closer, the hissing grew louder, like I’d kicked a nest of vipers. Amadeus backed himself as far into the corner as he could and bared his pointy little teeth. I risked one finger and scratched him unde r the chin. The hissing stopped, and Amadeus froze. I scratched a little more. The fierce teeth disappeared into an expression that resembled conf usion. A little more scratching, and his neck stretched forward. Longer and longer it grew as I gradually withdre w my ha nd. Finally, he took a step forward. In no time, we we re best buddies. But he did not suddenly become normal. Oh, no. New signs of “not normal” emerged almost daily. For one thing, Amadeus develope d a love of ambush. I would walk innocently down the hallway, my mi nd on a million things, when suddenly from a doorway a fuzzy gray blur would streak out, ricoche t off my thigh, and blast away to safety. A few times, I’m pretty sure I heard hi m laughing as he disappeared.
Then the re were the monsters. My cat was convinced our home was infested with the m. When I made the bed, the re we re sheet monste rs. Amadeus would scramble across the bottom sheet, his eyes as big as headlights and his whiskers at attention, swiping at the menacing pockets of air. Then I’d throw the top sheet ove r him, and he’ d flip over to claw frantically at the monsters descending from above. Smaller but trickier mutations of the bed monsters were the sock monsters. When I lounged around the house in socks and no shoes, Amadeus attacked my toes, for where the re was motion, the re were monsters. When I wrote, the re were pape r monsters. The neare r my deadlines loomed, the more monste rs Amadeus would spot in my precisely arranged and precariously teetering stacks of papers. He’d flail through them, front paws waving at the speed of light, back paws propelling him through the flurry of pages like a bullet train through a snow drift. He left no monste r unturned . . . and no paper un-crumple d, un-torn, or un-slobbere d-on. These minor sacrifices were of no concern to Amadeus. His devotion to monster hunti ng was unstoppable.
Each time Amadeus would spring some new ve rsion of “not normal” on me, I’d report it to my husband. “He’s not normal,” I’d say. Ron would just shake his head. “He’s your cat.”
To which I’d counter, “Yeah, but you picked him.”
In the end, Ron always leapt to Amadeus’s defense. “His f ather used to run into walls,”
He’d explain with admiration in his voice, even pride. “Is that supposed to reassure me?” I’d ask. It occurred to me that my cat might not be the only one who wasn’t normal, but that’s anothe r story.
Yes, I noticed many clues that Amadeus was not normal. But it was the special way he woke us one fateful night that gave me all the proof I needed. I was sleeping peacefully enough to make the dead whine with envy whe n a strange sound dragged me toward consciousness. It was a ras ping, high-pitched shriek that came in quick bursts: Scree! Scree! Scree! Closer it came, closer. Then I felt Amadeus jump up onto the be d, and my imagination kicked into warp speed. What was wrong? Was he injured? Choking?
I reached over, flipped on the lamp, and slipped on my glasses. There before my squinting, blinking, sleep-blurry eyes stood Amadeus, with a bat’s head clamped betwee n his teeth and the rest of the bat sticking out of his mouth, squirming and flapping like there was no tomorrow. The bat’s fear for its future was the most logical part of the whole scene. I gave a suitably logical response: I screamed. Satisfied he had my attention, Amadeus proceeded to oh-so- matte r-of-factly spit the bat out onto my feet—pa- tooey. My eternal thanks went out to the inventor of blankets, because those were all that separated my skin from the now-free and logically unhappy bat.
Luckily for me, the bat was a bit disoriented. It flapped and flopped around on the bed, shrieking the whole time. Meanwhile, Amade us sat himself down and gave me one of those classic cat looks. You know the type. This one said, What a lucky woman you are. Just think, you could belong to a lesser cat, some ordinary cat. But no, you’ re with me. See what I’ve done for you this time? I brought you a toy that is also a snack. Or maybe it’s a snack that’s also a toy. Doesn’t matter. I brought it just for you. And it’s only slightly used. Because that’s what a great cat I am. You lucky, lucky woman. You may shower me with gratitude and adoration now. I’ll take a side of tuna with that.
Right. I jumped out from under those covers, yelling something to the effect of “Get that thing out of he re!” Ron got up, mumbling something that sounded like a darker version of “He’s your cat.” This gave the bat just enough time to get its bearings and make a break for it. It flew in unsteady circles, barely missing the ceiling fan. Amadeus’s eyes turned into glow-in-the-da rk saucers. He crouched low, saucers tracking the only slightly used toy-snack, waggled his butt a few times, and then launched hi mself at the fluttering, shrieking bundle of fun. He clipped the bat with his paws, sending it spiraling toward the ground, but the thing was resilient. It righted itself and flew out the ope n bedroom door and down the hallway with Amadeus in hot pursuit.
Our pursuit was not nearly so hot. By the time we reached the living room, the bat was cruising just below ceiling altitude. Amadeus watched it, dancing from one paw to the othe r. Now his expression said, Look! It’s a mouse! And it’s a bird! It’s a mouse -bird!
He then demonstrated the proper operating procedures for a mouse -bird. He crouche d low, waggled his butt, and launched himself into the air. This time he snatched the mouse-bird out of the air and pulled it to the floor. Clutching the mouse-bird’s head gently but firmly betwee n his teeth, he high-stepped out of sight with his prize. I can’t be positive, but it sounded like he finished with an end-zone dance.
After a quick huddle for a game plan, Ron and I split up to scavenge a bat-sized box and a piece of cardboard. We took the m into the bedroom. The re was Amadeus, playing with his mouse-bird toy-snack. “You’re not normal,” I told him. He blinked once and hit me with a look that said, You’re talking to a cat and imagining a reply. Who’s not normal? “Point take n,” I replied.
Ron droppe d the box over the bat, trapping it. Then I carefully slid the cardboard unde rneath.
Amade us gave me a new look: Hey. I’m not finished with that. Ron took the bat out to the backyard and set it free. Back inside, Amadeus ’s look now said, What the %&#$ did you do with my mouse-bird toy-snack? “You know,” I said to him, “other cats bring their people ordi nary mice and plain old birds. Often pre-killed. Why would you need to bring a mouse-bird, I mean, a bat? A live one?” Amadeus did not reply. He could be mysterious like that when the mood struck hi m.
No, Ama deus was definitely not normal. Yet, he was a great, true friend. The re was a whole world of pe rsonality, maybe multiple pers onalities, in that little package. So when, after seventeen yea rs and eleven months, his health failed and we had to let him go, we were crushed. So crushed we decided not to get another cat right away. It just didn’t seem right.
Now, a year later, we’re ready to bring home anothe r cat. We know no cat can take Amade us’s place. We don’t expect to find another one like him. That’s why just to make sure there’s enough “not normal” to go around, we’ re bringing home two kittens.