The Cat Really Did That?: 101 Stories of Miracles, Mischief and Magical Moments

by Amy Newmark

  Then, one day, Ransom managed to work it open. My husband soon resembled the comic-strip character Jon, waging war over food with Garfield. Always hungry, that cat, like our own, resorts to clever and conniving ways to get food. Perhaps this is a common characteristic amongst ego-driven, marmalade cats.

  My husband, not a great lover of felines, would promptly reset the container and cinch down the lid. Garfield — I mean Ransom — waited until my husband settled into the recliner before head-butting the container. Then the cat worked his paw around and around the lid. We expected him to grow frustrated, but with practice, Ransom became deft at peeling the seal off with one smooth move.

  My husband continually relocated the container higher and higher, only to have Ransom scale greater elevations while we were away. The alpha males’ contest ended when a souvenir lay shattered on the floor. That night, the cat’s food was secured within an empty, plastic cat-litter container with a theft-proof, screw-top lid. That wasn’t a big problem for Ransom, though. We heard him in the wee hours of the morning, sliding his stash steadfastly across the living-room hardwood floor, determined to crack this lock.

  One Sunday afternoon while we watched television, Ransom, after licking the crumbs from his bowl, waited expectantly for us to notice him sitting beside his food jug. To gain our attention, he ran his claws politely down the container’s ribbed side. The sound he made seemed to please him.

  He strummed away at his improvised washboard musical instrument while defiantly glaring at us. And then it happened. He put his two front paws around that screw-top lid, and somehow he managed to twist it in the right direction. Apparently, that day, I’d barely tightened the thing. With only two swipes — pay dirt! Food spilled across the floor. Ransom choked down mouthfuls of kibble before my husband jumped from the recliner and confiscated the loot.

  Maybe a marmalade cat’s larger head holds a few more brain cells, allowing the cat more reasoning to achieve its goals. Where my other cats had been content to lounge in patches of sunlight and wait for their meals to appear, this cat did not. We’d find our cat staring down the container as if he possessed some telekinetic power to move objects with his mind.

  He began stalking the container, checking if the lid was fastened down tight. He’d stand with one front leg around the container’s shoulder. Then he’d brush his other paw along the lid’s side as if to spin it.

  One evening, the elements of the universe aligned. A claw caught against the textured surface. The lid loosened a bit. Encouraged, he clawed the cap again and again, hooking the lid occasionally until it started turning with each advancing swipe. Finally, it clattered to the floor. With one shoulder, the big cat toppled the jug and then crouched down to gorge on his prize.

  Soon this skilled safecracker could spin that lid using both his paws with the speed of a Rubik’s cube champion. Not to be outwitted, and because we, too, still needed to open the container — though my husband had considered gluing it shut — we wedged the container between two heavy planters so the thing couldn’t tip over. Though this made it much harder for me to feed the cat, neither my husband nor Ransom seemed to mind. By now, safecracking was second nature to our feline.

  One could almost hear him thinking as he turned that lid: And now, what shall I choose? A gray kibble morsel or a red one?

  Settling himself onto his haunches, the maestro went to work. Holding up one paw before his face, splaying it out wide, he cleaned it thoroughly — or so I thought. Instead, he’d discovered that a wet paw sliding through the open slot brought up pay dirt every time, with bits of food sticking both between the pads of his toes and onto his fur.

  It didn’t matter what we tried, our cat burglar could open any container. Finally, we settled on leaving good enough alone. By keeping the liter container less than half full, we found a solution we could all live with. The challenge of hoisting food out with his wet paw gave him some exercise and slowed down his eating.

  The whole thing never ceases to amuse us. My husband likes to tease me, too, pointing out that our cat’s figured out the righty-tighty, lefty-loosey rule, and yet I still struggle to hook up a garden hose.

  ~Susan A. Hoffert

  The Power of Purr-sistence

  A cat’s eyes are windows enabling us to see into another world.

  ~Irish Saying

  I browsed the cages at the adoption event, looking for the perfect cat to take home. Meows and purrs abounded as sweet, furry faces peered at me. After walking to the end of a long row, I felt a firm tap on my shoulder. Turning, I saw a gray tiger-striped tabby had reached out a paw to get my attention. Charmed at his bravado, I rubbed his ears. He closed his eyes and purred as loudly as my neighbor’s noisy pickup truck. This cat wasn’t the least bit shy, and I decided on the spot he would be mine.

  From the first moment Bogey sauntered into his new home, it was obvious he would take command. First, he explored the area by sniffing every corner. Then he quickly discovered the best hiding places, flirting with potential attractions such as my new curtains. By the time he curled up on the bed and purred his approval, I wasn’t quite sure what I’d gotten myself into.

  Before long, Bogey gained several new skills. He figured out how to open cabinet doors to climb inside. He discovered that the bathroom contained plenty of toilet paper for him to unfurl. He even learned how to open the sliding glass door and let himself into the yard. No matter how much I corrected his behavior, he’d only rub against my legs and purr loudly.

  I learned to secure every door.

  If I dared to set an item on a counter or a table, Bogey would leap up and paw all but the heaviest items straight to the floor — whether they were breakable or not. Assuming a look of innocence, he’d then purr helpfully while I cleaned up the mess.

  I learned to put things away.

  While I was at the computer trying to work, Bogey would push himself to recline half on my lap and half on the keyboard, preventing me from typing. I would lift him off, and he’d immediately return to his position on my lap, stretching himself as long as he could to cover the maximum area. This routine would go on indefinitely if I didn’t relent and let him stay where he wanted. Bogey cemented his victory with closed eyes and ecstatic purrs of contentment.

  I learned to push my arms and elbows out wide and work around him.

  Any time I sat down to read, Bogey was right by my side. He pushed his head against the book and within seconds insinuated his entire body between the page and me. Then he’d reach both front paws across my chest as though to hold me down. Redirecting him only made him more determined. He returned to the same position, more like a boomerang than a cat. When I finally sighed and gave in to his wishes, he again rewarded me with deafening purrs.

  I learned to put my book off to the side. I can still see it, and I am not interfering with His Majesty’s desired position.

  The cats I knew before were reserved and aloof. Bogey has never been anything but bold and brassy. But as the years have passed, I’ve learned to admire Bogey’s tenacity. He never gives up, and it has paid off.

  We’ve formed a relationship based on mutual respect: He lets me know what he wants, and I do it.

  But there’s another lesson I have learned from Bogey. Trying to stay one step ahead of a cat has enhanced some admirable qualities in me. I’ve become a little more patient, much more observant, and I’ve developed the flexibility of a yoga master.

  ~Pat Wahler

  The Charmer

  You can keep a dog; but it is the cat who keeps people, because cats find humans useful domestic animals.

  ~George Mikes

  He was dark black, furry, yellow-eyed and a troublemaker. He would “run away” and my grandma would always say: “Don’t worry, he’ll be back.” And return he did. However, he always came with “baggage.”

  Midnight wasn’t an average cat. He was a player. After each excursion he brought back a female. And she would be pregnant. So not only did we have to feed Mr. Midnight
, but we also had to make sure his pregnant girlfriend was fed, too.

  He made a habit of going missing so much that it became normal to us. “Has anyone seen Midnight? No? Okay, he’ll be back sooner or later.”

  Midnight moved like a human and reminded me so much of my granddad — confident, outgoing, and charming. I could only imagine how he seduced those female cats. I wondered what kind of pickup lines he used; on second thought, he was so smooth he probably never needed them.

  There was one female cat in particular that I remember. She was a beauty: with dark-gray and white fur and mesmerizing green eyes. I felt as if Midnight really loved her because he kept her around for a while. Even after she had kittens he wanted to be in her presence.

  The “Green-Eyed Beauty,” as I liked to call her, had a mystique about her. Like Midnight, she was confident and sure of herself. I’d watch them lie together by the front steps for hours, enjoying each other’s company. I always felt like they were the feline version of my grandma and grandpa. Their love was genuine and real.

  On the rare occasions that Midnight was around solo, he was a dream. It was the equivalent of sunshine after a rainy day. He filled our lives with such joy. His personality was unmatched. He had spunk and an air about himself, borderline arrogant and narcissistic.

  To this day, I have no idea where Midnight came from. He could have been a rescue, stray, or someone else’s, but he clung to us. He trusted us, and he reciprocated the love we gave to him. I’ve yet to meet another animal like him. He had so many human character traits and such a great spirit.

  One day, Midnight disappeared and never returned. I don’t know what happened to him, but I am grateful to have spent some of my best early years with him. Just the thought of him makes me smile. He may never know what joy he brought to our lives, but I can only hope that wherever he is now, he’s spreading to others the same love he gave to our family.

  ~Candis Y. McDow

  Timeshare Kitty

  It is in the nature of cats to do a certain amount of unescorted roaming.

  ~Adlai Stevenson II

  A mid the hustle and bustle of friends and family transporting their dinner plates from the kitchen to the dining room, who should appear but our newest kitty, John Smith? Surprisingly unafraid of the strangers, he scurried through the legs of our guests directly to my husband, Larry, who was carving the turkey on the kitchen island. John Smith stretched his tiny frame so long that his paws almost reached the top of the counter.

  “Look at him!” and “Oh, how cute” were the delighted comments of our Thanksgiving guests.

  Suddenly, our next-door neighbor, Betsy, rushed to the hungry kitty, scooped him up and clutched him protectively to her chest.

  “Stevie! Baby! Where have you been? What are you doing here?” she exclaimed in joyful surprise.

  “What? His name is John Smith,” I declared. “He’s my new cat.”

  “It’s Stevie!” insisted Betsy. “Surely I know my own cat.”

  She explained he’d been missing for weeks, and continued to cuddle him and kiss him.

  “But he’s our John Smith,” my nine-year-old granddaughter piped up. “I named him myself.”

  “Didn’t you see the sign with his photo that I posted on the street corner?” Betsy inquired.

  I hadn’t seen any sign.

  “I’ve had him three months,” I asserted.

  “I’ve had him five,” was Betsy’s retort.

  “Actually, we’ve had him eleven months,” interjected my granddaughter.

  Everyone laughed because the kitty was obviously nowhere near that old.

  I wasn’t sure how long we’d had John Smith. All I knew is one day he walked through the front door and straight into my heart.

  One of the guests suggested we let the kitty decide who the rightful owner was. Betsy put him down gently on the kitchen floor, and everyone stood back to see what would happen next.

  “Come here, John Smith,” I softly cooed.

  “Come to Mama, Stevie,” coaxed Betsy.

  To the amusement of the observers, the cat turned up his nose at both of us and returned to Larry, stretching up against him as far up as his little legs could reach. After all, Larry was The Magnificent Turkey Carver.

  Then I placed a couple of pieces of turkey into the cat dish. Of course, it was not an attempt to bribe the cat…

  “No, no, no! We don’t eat people food!” Betsy spoke up, shaking her finger at me. “It’s not healthy.”

  Betsy was one of those health nuts — I mean enthusiasts.

  “I don’t usually give him people food, but it is Thanksgiving,” I replied, feeling a little miffed. “Next you’re going to tell me the cat should be gluten-free,” I added sarcastically.

  Our guests found this interaction between Betsy and me amusing, but I didn’t want to give up my John Smith, with his quirky personality, exquisite white fur, and two different color eyes.

  John Smith enjoyed his turkey, and then, when someone opened the patio door a little later, he let himself out.

  That night, as I lay in bed recalling the events of the evening, I could hear Betsy in her back yard calling, “Stevie! Here, Stevie!”

  In the darkness next to my sleeping husband, no one could see the satisfied grin on my face except maybe John Smith, who was peacefully purring on my belly.

  But some nights I’d hear Betsy calling his name when he wasn’t with me. I’d call him, too, and when I looked out the window I would see him casually meandering in the opposite direction. I knew he could hear me. Was he in search of yet another loving family?

  Sometimes, he would disappear for days.

  Still assuming the primary caretaker role, I kept the appointment I had previously made to have John Smith vaccinated. I felt it was probably time to get him neutered, too, since he appeared to be about five or six months old.

  As the vet examined John Smith, I asked if he was old enough to neuter. The vet’s response was unexpected.

  “Yes, he is old enough, but it’s not a good idea,” she said, smiling.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Because he has already been neutered,” she laughed. Checking her files, she added, “I did it myself last month.”

  Then she spoke directly to him. “How are you doing, Stevie?”

  So maybe Betsy had been right. Maybe he had been her cat in the beginning, but by now he was also mine.

  We never did resolve whose cat he was originally. Eventually, Betsy and I reached an amicable agreement that he would be our timeshare kitty.

  We made sure that he received the proper vaccinations. Betsy fed him his morning meal, and I was the dinner chef. Treats came from both sides of the fence, but we took care that he stayed slim and healthy. We agreed that having two moms was better than one.

  In the coming years, John Smith (aka Stevie) strolled through the hole in the fence from our yard to Betsy’s whenever he wanted. He was a cat, after all, and therefore The Boss.

  ~Eva Carter

  Where’s Baby Cinder?

  When I play with my cat, who knows whether she is not amusing herself with me more than I with her.

  ~Michel de Montaigne

  Cinder was always an extremely playful cat. As her name suggests, she was a black cat, with long fur and gorgeous, big, round blue eyes. She had been the runt of the litter and was sized more like a kitten than a cat. She never weighed over seven pounds. What she lacked in size, however, she made up for in determination and playfulness. She was very special, and I often called her my “Baby Cinder.”

  One day, I came home from work exhausted after a long day, very slow rush-hour traffic, and a couple of errands I had to do on the way home. Normally, Cinder would run out to greet me when I arrived home, but this time… no Cinder.

  I called out, “Cinder, Mommy’s home.”

  “Baby Cinder, where are you?”

  “Cinder, please come to Mommy!”

  No Cinder. I was perplexed. Could she h
ave gotten out somehow? I didn’t think so, but she was so quick. Maybe she ran out the door when I left this morning. I told myself to calm down. Cats are known to hide and not come when called, although Cinder did not usually do that. I needed to do a thorough search of the house.

  First, I searched all over the living room. I grabbed a flashlight and looked behind and underneath the couch, which was a favorite hiding place for her. No Cinder. I searched behind and underneath all the furniture, behind the draperies, on the bookshelves, and under the recliner where she loved to hide and sleep. It was Christmas season, so I looked in and under the Christmas tree. After all, she had climbed the tree and tipped it over when she was younger. Still no Cinder.

  Next, I searched the kitchen. She had been known to open the cupboard doors with her paws, so I looked in all the lower cupboards, beneath the mobile island, beneath the baker’s rack, and underneath the table and chairs in the dining area. Then I searched the utility room. Could she be behind the washer, dryer, or furnace? No. Still no sign of Cinder. My heart was pounding now. Where did my Cinder go?

  The two bedrooms were next. I crawled underneath the beds, looked behind the nightstands, behind and underneath my desk and bookshelves, behind my desktop computer stand, and on the windowsills. I even pulled my heavy dresser and chest of drawers out a few inches to see if she somehow squeezed into those areas. Still no Cinder. There weren’t many places she could hide in the two bathrooms, but I gave them a thorough inspection. All I could think was, My Baby Cinder is gone. She must have gotten out somehow. My heart was so heavy. Every cat is special, but Cinder was extra special. She was like my child.

  In my frantic mind, I thought: If she got outside, is it likely that she would stay around the neighborhood? She has only been outside a few times on a leash. She is so playful that she would probably take off and explore. So, I went outside and started calling her. I asked the neighbors if they had seen her. No one had. Surely, her black fur would show up against the white snow. I was also looking for cat footprints. I walked through all the streets in our townhouse complex, which was several blocks long. I even searched in the bushes. I kept calling, “Cinder… where are you?” I wandered through all the cul-de-sacs calling for her. No luck.