Cat Tales 4
I thought we were adopting a cat.” I froze in shock at the first sight of our tiny new housemate.
“Oh, it’s a cat,” my wife, Roz, assured me. “I’ll take your word for it.” It did resemb le a little white kitten from the nose to about halfway back. The rest looked like a low - budget robotics project. Its hindqua rters were shaved bald, and most of them we re covered by a series of bandages, splints, and braces all the way down past its back paws. The vet had been merciful enough to leave the fur on the tail. When the robotic kitty creature walked across the floor, its trussed-up hind legs chugged along like a steam locomotive while the splints clacked across the linoleum. The bandaging job was so thorough that we were a long time guessing whether it was a he or a she.
Bob became ours (or did we become Bob’s?) after a series of tearful pleas on the part of Roz’s friend Carol, who needed to find a new home either for the cat or for herself. Roz and I had recently transferred to my ne w duty station in the Philippines and obtained married housing, which allowed pets. It was a perfect match for eve ryone, but me. I was outvote d.
“He will be Bob. Nobody better have a problem with that.” I did my best to save some face in the deal. Carol began to protest as she had already been calling it Fluffy or Mittens or some othe r name no self-respecting cat would choose for itself. But my foot was down. I’d been walked on enough.
Just because a cat lands on its feet doesn’t mean it can walk away from the fall. Bob was living proof of that. One day as the kitten was exploring, it climbed too high up a palm tree to figure out a way down. Carol heard mews for help and asked one of the groundskeepers to help get the poor little thing out of the tree. Before Carol could comprehe nd the cultural differences between the Ame rican and Filipino for “get that poor little thing out of the tree,” the grounds -keeper assented with a cheerful smile and “No problem, ma’am” and shinnied up the tree, rake in hand. Carol’s cries of “Wait!” went unheard as the groundskeepe r approached the kitten, who was poised for battle. She watched in horror as the kitten lost two battles: first with the rake handle, the n with gravity.
She ran to the kitten where it landed, ignoring the groundskeeper and leaving him baffled that his cheerful efficiency and bravery we re not rewa rded with some gratuity. Carol rushed the kitten to the base vet, who worke d a miracle or two with pins and chicken wire and lots of kitty anesthesia. The finished product was now inte rrupting her perusal of her new digs to look me ove r. Bob and I did not take too long to get used to one another, and the kitten displayed mome nts of actual affection after it discovered I was capable of filling the food dish.
Before we knew it, the splints and bandages were off, revealing the even more grotesque-looking bald hindqua rte rs and surgery scars. It was then we learned that Bob was, in fact, a she. (We later learned a bit of kitty genetics: her black and brown calico spots were a dead giveaway to her gender, as all calicos are female.)
With her legs back, Bob was getting around pretty well. The fur on he r hindquarte rs grew back, and she came to resemble a cat rather than a character from an old science fiction B-movie. Bob did her best to be normal, but he r injuries gave her some limitations. She could run, but a bit sideways and always with a limp. We had to be careful how we handled he r, lest we aggravate something or other that never quite healed right. What teeth we ren’ t broken grew out at odd angles, giving her somewhat of a hillbilly look. And as much as she purred, she could never manage a meow; the best she could do was a painful squeak.
She avoided heights, except for easy climbs, which included shelves from which she took great care in identifying breakable items and great gusto in knocking them to the floor. She also demonstrate d the capability to climb in an emergency, but after a trip up and down a tree, she was pretty much d one for the day.
Despite her limitations and quirks, she was still a cat with her hunting instinct intact. We were so mouse-free that we didn’t give mice any thought until neighbors complained about theirs. She then turned he r attenti on to the other pests that didn’t have the sense to find another house to pester. Her favorites were the geckos that scampered along the walls and ceilings and creeped Roz out. (I kind of liked the m.) The word “gecko” would bring Bob charging into the room, whe re she would tra nsform into a killer with a cold- bloode d squeak.
That brings to mind one of Bob’s more unusual and creepy, even to me, hunting expeditions.
One night Roz picked me up at the airport after a long trip, and on the way home we had an interesting conversation:
“Have you ever heard of ba mboo vipers?” she asked. “Yeah.” I did not mention that I’d heard of the m at jungle survival school, where they were referred to as “two steppers” because that was as far as you got after they bit you. “We had one in the house yesterday.”
I tried to re ply, but my heart had flown into my throat. She told the story as she drove along. “I came home from the store and heard a commotion. There was Bob in the chair, fighting with this snake. I didn’t know what to do, so I called security. By the time they got there, Bob ha d taken care of the snake. The officer told me what it was.” I was upset at her reaction. Didn’t she know that she was supposed to panic at the sight of a deadly reptile in the house? Roz continue d, explaining that the cat looked pre tty shaken, so she’d piled Bob into the car and raced to the ve t, the security escort doing its best to keep up. There, Bob was pronounced no worse for the wear. The vet figure d the cat had gotten some venom on he r skin. He said if she’d received an actual bite, she would have been long gone.
“And that stupid snake woul d be curled up unde r the chair cushions waiting for us,” I speculated out loud. It was not my job to panic, but if nobody else was going to, I had to step up.
By the time I’d arrive d home, the snake’s entry way had been identified and plugged, and the house was deemed snake-free, so I was able to sleep that night. That didn’t stop Bob, though.
Over the ensuing months anothe r bamboo viper and a cobra that we re foolish enoug h to wande r into he r catdom fell victim. So I was still able to sleep at night. Bob became my he ro and a bit of a legend in the neighborhood. She never stopped he r playful antics, and neither breakable knickknacks nor geckos were safe. When my tour ende d, I was not allowed to bring her to my nex t duty station. Heartbroke n, we sent her to my mothe r in Montana, whe re she kept Mom amused, safe, and pest-free for a long time.
The years were good to Bob, but the y were numbere d. Her time as a hard-living kitten caught up with he r faster than any of us would have liked. She loved her short life and made it a point to make us all thankful for every day with her. She is now at the side of Saint Patrick, helping keep heaven serpent-f ree.
All these years later, when life sends a snake through a hole in the doorway, a quiet squeak from above tells me that everything is going to be all right.