by Patricia Fry
Meowmoirs of a Klepto Cat
Book 29
by Patricia Fry
Meowmoirs of a Klepto Cat
A Klepto Cat Mystery
Book 29
Author: Patricia Fry
ISBN: 978-0-9994724-5-3
All rights reserved
© 2018 Matilija Press
Table of Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Introduction
He’s been described as charming, cunning, captivating, crafty, and downright naughty. He has walked on both sides of the law. While he’s broken many rules and he causes serious havoc now and then, he’s also known by many as a hero—a cat hero. Granted, he has found missing persons and he has saved lives, but his most predominant characteristic may actually be considered a character flaw. He’s a thief—a klepto cat, if you will.
As you can imagine, his unusual habit creates problems at times. But this unruly feline also has an impressive reputation with local law enforcement because some of the items he takes turn out to be clues in criminal cases. Who is this rather amazing rascal of a cat? You know him as Rags, and this is his story as told by me, his cat mom, Savannah Jordan Ivey.
You may notice that I’m not writing this from Rags’s point of view. I won’t endeavor to project the cat’s thoughts or opinions into this chronicle. Rather, it’s a compilation of his experiences, encounters, and behavior during his nearly seven years on this planet from my perspective as I experienced these things along with him.
Those of you who have read any or all of the Klepto Cat Mysteries are familiar with Rags (aka Ragsdale…and my favorite nickname for him, Ragsie). And you know that, because he is so clever and because he has such a big personality, he has lived a fabulously rich and interesting life. You’ll delight in recalling some of his most harrowing, heroic, and heartwarming episodes. You’ll have fun getting to know Rags in his younger years and learning more about his beginnings. Those who have not been introduced to Rags will be equally captivated, if not fascinated, by these cat tales. I’ve done my best to capture the essence of this most remarkable cat. So cozy down with your own cat and enjoy the journey.
Chapter 1 – Snagged
It all started when I first looked into his eyes. I can’t say it was love at first sight. I mean, the young gray-and-white cat had just put a run in my favorite sweater. But there he was, eager to make an attachment with someone—probably anyone—and I happened to be standing closest to his pen. By the time I got him to retract his claws from my cardigan, we’d bonded.
After rethinking the paragraph above, I wonder if that moment was preordained—you know, fated somehow. Was the cat waiting for me specifically? Was our seemingly chance meeting actually destined? And if our initial encounter was one of those divine intervention things, did someone goof up? I mean, our travels together have been anything but smooth.
Nevertheless, for whatever reason it happened and whether it was right or wrong, I walked into the pet store that day to buy fish food and walked out with an eight-month-old bundle of furry fun. Little did I know that he would become the most challenging cat I’d ever tried to manage and the most charming.
I’m Savannah Ivey, mother of two adorable children and wife to a handsome veterinarian. I’m a veterinarian in my own right, as well. I’m also cat mom to Rags, a cat who has become widely known as a cat burglar through articles, a documentary film, and a series of children’s books. He’s well-traveled for a cat and seems to pick up fans wherever he goes, whether he’s with us or alone on his forbidden secret excursions. Yes, he’s a Houdini of sorts—an escape artist who can’t keep his paws off other people’s things.
Rags was born one of four kittens to a first-time mom Ragdoll cat named Angel. He was the only boy and the least distinctive, thus he received the least attention. Anyone wanting to play with the kittens generally chose the long-haired calico or the two that resembled their beautiful Ragdoll mother, while the plain, mostly gray male was left behind. When it came time to find homes for the kittens, no one chose the ugly duckling of the litter and he ended up in a shelter. He didn’t seem to mind. He enjoyed visits from the people coming and going and he had other kittens to play with. His playmates didn’t stay long, however; they’d come and go, as well.
One day it was Rags’s turn to be adopted. His name wasn’t Rags then. He was called Gray Boy—a nondescript name for a nondescript kitten. I wish I’d learned something more about his kittenhood. If he remembers, he isn’t telling. I do know that when Gray Boy was just six months old, his family decided to move without him and they returned him to the shelter. His first human mom, Cathy, said she didn’t think she could handle four kids, a dog, and this super-active kitten while driving cross-country to their new home. I must say that the disdain I felt for that woman, who flat abandoned this lovely cat, soon turned to empathy and even respect. The poor woman obviously knew the cat and she was aware of her own limitations. Prozac, anyone?
According to the shelter director, Cathy recommended he go to someone with a lot of space and a lot of time on their hands. That should have raised a red flag for me. But I grew up with cats and one thing I know is that a kitten is a kitten until it matures into a cat; then he’ll generally settle down. As a child, I was always a bit sad when a cat grew out of the kitten stage. But it seemed to always happen. And I had no doubt that this youngster would outgrow his rambunctious phase, probably sooner than I wanted him to.
On weekends, cats and kittens from the shelter were put on display at a local pet store. It was there that Gray Boy was adopted for the second time. He was renamed Tonka. However, this was not destined to be his forever home either.
Shelter volunteers warned Pansy Delwood about his high energy level, but all she saw that day was a sweet, affectionate kitty-cat who couldn’t get enough petting. Pansy envisioned him curled up in her lap as she whiled away her days crocheting afghans for orphans and watching her favorite TV shows. But Tonka soon let her know that he wasn’t ready to retire to lap-sitting status; he was way too active and curious. He had more energy than the woman knew what to do with. When he single-pawedly trashed her sitting room early one morning, that was the end of Pansy’s brief relationship with Tonka. She traded him in for an older, obese cat named Puffy.
Luckily for Mrs. Delwood, the heirloom lamp was repairable, the orange juice stain came out of her late grandmother’s handmade quilt, and her daughter was able to help her purchase and hang new velvet drapes.
Meanwhile, Gray Boy-Tonka spent his days back at the shelter playing with the other cats and trying to attract the attention of visitors. Enter Savannah. That’s me. At the time, I volunteered at a cat shelter when I could, I attended veterinary school, and I worked part-time as a veterinarian assistant at a large practice in Los Angeles. I was involved in an on-again off-again romantic relationship and I shared a small apartment with a goldfish named Bubbles. Looming in the near future was graduation and the prospect of opening my own practice or joining another veterinarian in an established practice. I was enormously busy as well as mentally and emotionally fulfilled, and I was definitely not in the market for another pet.
That day, when I walked into the pet store to buy fish food and saw the cats on display, of course I had to take a look. It would have gone against my nature to avoid the pens. I wanted to meet and greet the homeless cats and wish them well. I love cats. They’re among my favorite animals. I planned to have cats again someday, but the timing wa
s way wrong for that.
I can imagine some of you snickering and nodding your head. You know where I’m going with this, because you can relate. You, too, have vowed to just look at the cats in the pens, then ended up adopting one or two of them.
When Gray Boy-Tonka reached out and grabbed my sweater that day, I swear he knew something I didn’t know—that he would be mine and I would be his until mayhem and bedlam would us part. And believe me, there has been a lot of mayhem and bedlam around us since I adopted that cat.
I had to adopt him or leave my sweater behind; he was not about to let go. As it turned out, it would have been a whole lot less worry, trouble, and expense if I’d just stripped down to my bra and run out of there. Secretly, I’m awfully glad I didn’t. I do love the unruly cat. Some of my friends shake their head and ask, “What’s to love? He’s incorrigibly naughty and totally unmanageable!”
They’re right. But what can I say? He’s mine and I’m his. And frankly, I can’t imagine anyone else putting up with his brand of mischief. He does keep life interesting.
So that afternoon I paid the adoption fee and bought cat food, bowls, litter, and a plastic litter pan, as well as a cardboard carrier for his car ride. I put the carrier with the cat inside on the backseat of my Honda sedan and headed home. On the way, I told the cat all about our apartment and some of the things he was going to love about it.
All the while, I could hear some clawing going on behind me. It sounded like he was trying to dig his way out of the cardboard carrier. Obviously, he wasn’t happy being confined. But I was surprised when suddenly he joined me in the front seat, walked onto my lap, and stood watching out the side window as I drove through the Los Angeles suburbs to my small apartment.
“Hmmm,” I said to him, “curious, are you?” I glanced back at the supposedly cat-proof carrier, adding, “And clever.”
He rubbed his cheek against mine and continued to watch as the world rushed swiftly past. Meanwhile, I made a mental note to myself: Invest in a sturdier cat carrier.
When we arrived at my building, I scooped up the cat and started toward my ground-floor apartment with him in my arms. I worked with cats every day. I knew how to control a cat. But, as I would learn time and time again over the years, nothing with this cat is easy. He actually managed to break free from my grip and leap to the ground. I panicked. What if he heads for the street? I thought. What kind of animal professional am I that I can’t keep a cat safe for the first twenty minutes I own him ?
I have to chuckle upon re-reading that last statement. Rags has been with me now for over six years and I’ve never felt as if I am his owner, except for maybe when someone threatens to sue me for something he’s done. He’s much too independent to be a kept cat. In fact, I’m pretty sure that he thinks he owns me. Sometimes he has me believing it too.
Well, that first day we were together, when the cat challenged what was left of my good humor by leaping from my arms, he didn’t dart into the street. He didn’t even run off down the block or climb a tree. He simply walked along with me, staying just out of my reach, while he explored the scents, sounds, and sights surrounding what would become his new digs. He sniffed around a cement stepping stone, briefly examined an old newspaper, then picked up a candy wrapper and brought it to me. Rather than running amok, he finished his inspection of the property and joined me on the porch at our front door.
I had another thought: Invest in a harness and leash for this guy. I remember suddenly realizing how expensive it can be to set up housekeeping with a cat. I have to chuckle now as I think back to some of the unexpected expenses I incurred because of Rags. For example, I have had to purchase numerous harnesses and leashes. Why? The cat loses them. Actually, good Samaritans have probably removed the harnesses, not realizing that Rags has most likely escaped and should not be allowed to roam free. I can’t tell you how many times Rags has returned home from one of his adventures without his harness. He has also been known to secretly hitch a ride with us when we travel. On those few occasions, he didn’t reveal his presence until we’d gone too far to turn back. What did we do? We stopped and bought him a new harness, leash, food, litter box…
I won’t even go into the cost of things we’ve had to replace because of Rags. He has pretty much pushed the envelope into the next county when it comes to his keep.
That afternoon, as he and I prepared to enter my apartment together for the first time, I’m pretty sure his thoughts were more along the lines of, Yeah, this is going to be great. I’m in charge already. Come on, slave, let’s go inside and see what I can get into. And it didn’t take him long to muster up some kitty-cat trouble.
When I noticed the cat notice Bubbles, I moved her bowl to the top of the refrigerator, out of his reach, I thought. However, when I returned from the car with his litter, food, and other items, I found the cat on top of the fridge trying to drink the fishbowl dry. So I decided to put Bubbles in the hall closet until I could figure out a better solution—maybe a larger tank that would be impossible for a cat the size of Gray Boy-Tonka to tip, and with some sort of lid or top so he wouldn’t be inclined to swim with his finned sibling. The price tag for this cat continued to swell.
Gray Boy-Tonka. What about that name? To me, neither name fit the cat. I knew that changing a pet’s name was supposed to bring bad luck, and I was willing to take that chance. But what would I call him? After thinking about his beginnings it occurred to me that Rags would work. He came from Ragdoll stock, after all. Well, his mother was a Ragdoll; evidently no one knows where his father came from. Although, the more time I spent with my new housemate, the more convinced I became about who the daddy was. He was no doubt a scrapper of a tomcat, who lived without restraints, and who had never been taught any manners. Angel-kitty, how could someone as refined and exquisite as you go for such a bad-boy cat?
Along with the fact that my new cat was half Ragdoll, his story was one of those rags-to-riches tales. He’d had some trying times: first being considered the ugly duckling of the litter, then being rejected twice. So Rags it would be. But was that enough? A one-syllable name might fit an ordinary cat. I’ve known cats named Butch, Max, Dude, Tom, and even Cloud. But I could tell already that this was no ordinary cat. I don’t know what clued me in, but it seemed as though he was somewhat more aware than most cats, definitely extremely curious, and agile beyond belief. I mean, a cat on top of the refrigerator? Really?
While I could see that Rags had a giant supply of energy, there was something regal about him as well, in the way he sometimes lay with his paws out in front of him holding his head high like an Egyptian sphinx, and the way he strutted rather than walked. He exuded confidence. Yeah, he needed a strong name to go with his strong personality. What about Ragsdale?
As soon as I threw out that name for his consideration, he stopped exploring his new surroundings, turned, and looked me square in the eyes. “Ragsdale,” I said again. He trotted to where I sat on the floor, stepped up onto my knees with his front paws, and rubbed his face against my chin. I took that as an a-okay.
****
That night, Rags slept on my bed—at least part of the night. He was there when I went to bed and when I woke up. Nice, I thought. I like having a furry warm body to cozy up with at night. As it turned out, he hadn’t been with me all throughout the night. I didn’t realize he’d left the bed until I got up that morning and headed for the bathroom wearing my robe and favorite cozy slipper socks.
Squish. Before reaching the bathroom, I stepped into a cold puddle of water. I know what you’re thinking and that’s what crossed my mind at first—Gray Boy-Tonka-Ragsdale missed the litter box. But that wasn’t the case. I took a couple of soggy steps in order to reach the light switch and that’s when I saw it—a good-sized puddle seemingly originating from the hall closet. A broken pipe? I wondered. When I realized that the closet door was open and I saw Bubbles’s fishbowl lying nearby, I knew what had happened. My heart sank. And Rags received his first scolding. “Rags
dale, what have you done?”
Fearing the worst, I began searching for Bubbles. Now, this little goldfish had been my companion for several months by then—the only other living, breathing…well, living creature in my apartment. He made me smile with his fishy greeting every morning. I loved that little fish. Where was he?
Even with Rags’s help, I didn’t find Bubbles that morning, and Rags never let on what happened. My guess is that Rags decided he wanted to be the only pet and he did away with the goldfish. On better days I believe that Rags just wanted to make Bubbles’s acquaintance and things got out of hand. As if that weren’t enough drama to endure during our first twenty-four hours together, Rags and I were faced with a mystery, which would be revealed later that morning.
While I continued to go about my routine, I noticed the cat watching me from our secondhand couch. “I’m going to leave you for a while,” I told him, “and I want you to be a good boy. I have to go to work and earn money for our food and your toys. I’ll be home for lunch,” I promised, “and we’ll play a little before I leave for school.”
You might wonder if I’d had conversations with my goldfish before Rags came into my life. Actually, yes. But the fish’s only response was to spew a string of bubbles, which might or might not have been intelligible to another goldfish. Rags, on the other hand, reacted by knocking over a vase of dried flowers. I don’t think he wanted me to leave him alone.
That minor calamity gave me another thought. I told him, “As a matter of fact, Rags, you need a vet check. I might as well take you to work with me today and get that done. I want to make sure you’re as healthy as you look. And once we confirm that all of your vaccinations are up to date, then you can go most anywhere with me and be safe from kitty-cat diseases. I’ll get a harness and leash for you while we’re out today and maybe a more substantial carrier.”