Cats In Clover

by Lea Tassie

  ***

  A few days later, Ben went off on a mysterious errand to Ellis Bay and returned with the tarp tied down over Blue Betsy's box. Cheeping and squawking came from underneath.

  "More hens? I thought we had enough."

  "These are different," Ben said, untying the ropes.

  A flock of little yellow hens, with tufts of feathers on their heads but no tails at all, fluttered out, flew into the orchard and settled in the top branches of a pear tree like frowzy golden pigeons. Mr. Mighty, ever vigilant, bustled over to the tree and ordered them to come down for inspection.

  "What are they? They look too small to be much good for anything."

  "They're Araucanas and they come from South America."

  "Do they lay eggs?"

  "Little pale green ones, Mrs. Fraser says."

  "People aren't going to buy little green eggs, Ben."

  "We can eat them." Ben gave me a sideways glance. "I think they're kind of cute, with those little tufts on their heads."

  "Wonderful. Are the eggs green inside too?"

  "Of course not. Anyway, who cares?"

  Ben was beginning to bear a distinct resemblance to St. Francis of Assisi.

  XII - The Royal Lavatory

  We brought Henry home from the clinic, neutered, shot full of anti-rabies, anti-distemper and anti-feline leukemia serums, his right front leg bandaged from ankle to chest and the white fur on his belly half-shaved. He was so eager to get away from the clinic he climbed into the carrier all by himself.

  Jerry apologized for the sloppy shaving job. Henry had come out of the anaesthetic before he could finish getting rid of the tangled, knotted fur on the cat's belly.

  "You can probably snip away the rest of it yourself. Be sure to keep him inside so his bandage won't get wet. He uses a litter box, doesn't he?"

  "I don't know," I said. "If not, I'll teach him."

  "Good. Can you play bridge Wednesday night, my place?"

  "Nothing could keep me away."

  On the way home, I said to Ben, "It's not hard to teach a cat to use a litter box. I think it's almost instinctive for them to use one, anyway. George teaching Nicky to use the litter box is proof of how fastidious cats are. But the box has to be kept clean."

  He looked surprised. "Are cats that fussy?"

  "You don't understand George's language well enough yet to know when he's yelling for someone to clean it."

  "We should get a bigger box. Eighteen kilos of dog trying to balance in a cat-sized litter box looks pretty silly."

  "I wish Peri and Jezebel were here to teach both of them how to use the toilet. I've told you about Peri, haven't I?"

  "Many times."

  "I don't think I told you this story."

  Peri was a small dark tabby with big ears and rust highlights in her fur. 'Peri' is the Persian word for fairy and I'd named her that because I thought she was dainty, delicate and subtle. It turned out that Peri had as much subtlety as a bull moose.

  One evening I came home from work to find she'd defecated on the tile floor beside her litter box. The litter box was truly disgusting and I realized I hadn't been paying enough attention to Peri's comfort.

  Down on my knees, I cleaned and groveled. "I'm really sorry, Peri. I'll get a bag of litter tomorrow on my way home from work. I promise I'll scrub and disinfect and make things nice for you. This will never happen again."

  Can I have that in writing?

  "Just don't ever poop on the rug, okay?"

  She turned her back and flounced away.

  Next evening I came home with fresh litter. She hadn't used the box or the rug during the day. When I went to the bathroom to scrub the litter box, I discovered why. She'd used the toilet.

  "So how come you didn't flush?" I asked, trying to mask my excitement over her brilliance and wondering whether she'd go on using the toilet if I refused to buy cat litter.

  Peri gave me a haughty look and washed a paw.

  You're the slave. You flush it.

  "All right," said Ben, "I get the point. If Henry is persnickety, I'll clean the box twice a day." He was still suffering from Henry's rejection of his lap and determined to do almost anything to win approval.

  At home, the Houseboy put the freshly washed and filled litter box back in the laundry room and we blocked the cat door so Henry couldn't get out. Not that he'd ever used the cat door, but cat contrariness indicated he'd do so the minute we didn't want him to. I showed Henry the box. He gave it a contemptuous sniff and walked away. All right, I thought, at least he knows it's there. Several hours later, noticing his restlessness, I showed him the box again and put him in it.

  He got out and shook the litter off his feet, tail twitching with indignation. The next time, I showed him how to dig in the litter and cover things with it.

  You can play in this stuff if you want, but I'm having nothing to do with it.

  When we went to bed that night, I was still optimistic. If we ignored his pleas to go outside, he'd be forced to use the litter box.

  Morning came. Henry still hadn't used the box. He paced from door to door and window to window, demanding to go out in plaintively desperate wails. I carried him to the litter box. Several times. Each time he walked away.

  Ben said, "Why don't you use the litter box yourself? Then he'd understand what it's for."

  "Ben, there are limits!"

  "I know lots of people who can't learn unless they're shown exactly what to do. Miss Mew must be one of those."

  "I am not going to widdle in the cat's litter box. And it's 'Henry,' not 'Miss Mew.'"

  "Do you think maybe Jerry doesn't know what he's doing? She's so pretty she can't possibly be male."

  "He knows. You're just plain stubborn."

  Some thirty-six hours after Henry came home from the hospital, he finally let loose. On the hall carpet by the front door. The new hall carpet. I knew cats had big bladders but I wasn't prepared for a flood.

  He walked away, looking guilty but also annoyed that I'd forced him to do such a thing. I spent the next hour on my knees with a roll of paper towels, cloths, a bucket of water, a jug of vinegar and a garbage bag. When I thought that we could use the door without being knocked flat by the odor, I put on my jacket.

  "Where are you going?" Ben asked.

  "To buy Henry a cat harness," I said. "He's not going to do anything else on that carpet."

  Henry did not like being fitted into his attractive red harness with its long red leash, though it looked elegant on his gray fur. I'm sure he tolerated it only because he didn't then know what it was for.

  "Come on, sweetie," I said, "we're going walkies."

  He was delighted to get outside, but he didn't like me trailing behind, especially when I wouldn't let him crawl under the veranda or go into a blackberry thicket. He also objected when I stopped to see what was coming up in Ben's flower garden. We cruised all over the yard, George and Nicky trotting behind with puzzled expressions. Finally Henry gave me a look of resignation and proceeded to do his business, burying it neatly afterwards, while I stared politely in the other direction.

  Then he wanted to check his territory and call at the message tree, a small ornamental cedar shrub inside the front gate. I'd seen neighborhood cats sniff around it to see who'd been there lately and spray it generously to announce they'd logged in and got their p-mail.

  I let Henry leave a message at the tree but I didn't have time to help him check territory, so I headed toward the back door. George and Nicky had long since become bored with our little parade and had gone off to chase mice through the long grass and squirrels up trees. Henry followed along for maybe ten feet, then flopped on his belly. I coaxed and jiggled his lead. He refused to move. I picked him up and carried him until he struggled out of my arms. Ten feet later he flopped again.

  He continued his passive resistance all the way to the back door and into the house. I shut the door, removed his lead, and went back to the hall carpet and the vinegar jug, grum
bling to myself.

  By the end of a week, I was getting quite good at helping Henry check territory. I was confident there'd be no more problems. Henry didn't like the leash or being taken for walks, but he grudgingly put up with it.

  On the eighth day, as we were negotiating the side yard, Cal drove in, his old pickup rattling and banging. Henry turned into a windmill, wriggled out of his harness and vanished.

  I nearly burst into tears. I was sure he'd never come home. He hated the harness, hated the bandage, hated going for 'walkies.' He probably hated us so much he'd adopt someone else. Somebody who wouldn't subject him to such horrible treatment. Or he'd go back to being a street cat and be run over by a car. Or his bandage would get wet and some horrible thing would happen to the wound on his leg.

  Twenty minutes later, as I was pouring coffee for Cal and Ben, Henry clawed at the kitchen French doors, yelling to come in. I rushed to the door, scooped him up, cuddled him and crooned at him.

  Cal looked at Ben. "What's the matter with her?"

  That afternoon I tried to put his harness back on. He lowered his head and hunched his shoulders, looking remarkably like a vulture. I tried a second time.

  Do that and you die!

  To hell with the bandage, I thought. So let it get wet. What is to be will be.

  When the time came to make an appointment with the vet to have Henry's bandage removed, I thought about the hassle of putting Henry in the cat carrier. I thought about what Jerry would say when he saw the damp, tattered, filthy bandage.

  Maybe I could take the bandage off myself.

  I waited until Henry was dozing in the spring sunshine by the French doors and settled beside him, scissors in hand. Cautiously I snipped through the adhesive tape and the bandage unwound itself almost without my help. Henry's leg looked healthy, though bare of fur, and the wound had healed cleanly.

  Another week went by and it was time to remove the stitches. I looked at the cat carrier. Then at Henry. I decided to put off the moment for a day or two.

  A friend dropped by, a doctor I'd met at drawing class in Mora Bay. I asked if she'd remove Henry's stitches.

  "That would be a breach of professional ethics."

  "You're joking! Just to take out three stitches?"

  Sara explained at length why she couldn't remove Henry's stitches. I didn't believe a word of it; the woman was clearly afraid of my twelve-pound terrorist and his lethal-looking claws.

  After she left, I looked at the stitches. They were quite dry and loose. Surely I could remove them myself?

  More sun, Henry dozing, me with my trusty scissors, and the stitches came out easily. Henry purred contentedly and so did I, happy that things had worked out so well.

  When Ben came in and admired my handiwork, I said, "I might train to be a veterinarian."

  "Why?"

  "Think of what we'd save on vet bills."

  "There's a much more important reason," Ben said. "Never again would George and Henry be forced to endure the indignity of a cat cage."

  "You're right; that would be worth any amount of money. Hey, I just thought of a new name for the farm. Henry's Hospital."

  "Forget it," said Ben said.

  "What about Sunny Acres?"

  "Too trite."

  "Cat Country?"

  "Too cute. Sounds like a name for a store selling cat cards. Or a nation of cats."

  "That's what I meant it to sound like. George the Magnificent is king of our five acres so it's his country. And I think I've figured out why he more or less invited Henry to stay and hasn't put up much fuss about Henry being in the house. He wants more subjects to boss around."

  "If he wants more subjects, why didn't he let Blackjack stay?" Ben asked.

  "Blackjack was our idea. I believe George thinks Henry was his idea."