by Amy Newmark
One day Betsy said, “See? I told you. You just had to find your own cat.” She was right. Without even knowing I was doing it, I became kinder and more affectionate with the brood of cats around the house. Getting to know Carlos allowed me to recognize the personalities of the other cats. They weren’t just obstacles to sitting, walking, or eating anymore. Sam favored the top of the refrigerator because it was warm. Dwarfy liked sitting in laps because she was a people-cat. Mama liked the radiator in the downstairs hall because no one bothered her there.
Carlos was especially pleased when Betsy and I started dating and she spent even more time at the house. If I tried playing a board game with anyone else in my room, the cat would walk all over it and actually kick the pieces. When Betsy came, though, he just curled up between us and watched until he became bored and fell asleep. Carlos opened the world of cats up to me and showed me how fascinating, warm, and wonderful they can be. He was long gone by the time Betsy and I got married, but he lived on in the first gift I gave her in our first apartment: a small, black kitten.
~Joshua J. Mark
Pansy, the Two-Timing Cat
The cat is domestic only as far as suits its own ends.
~Saki
I live with a crazy cat lady. My girlfriend, Diana, has adopted more than a dozen carnivorous felines. They sprawl in every nook and cranny of the house, lounging about like gods. I think we have far too many cats. Diana wants even more.
As a kid, I once watched my neighbor’s German Shepherd corner a tom. The cat leaped on the dog and raked its nose with his claws. The pooch scampered off, howling. From that day on, I interpreted a cat’s display of affection as a personal nightmare of clawing and flashing sharp teeth.
It took me a while to warm up to cats after that. I was the guy who rolled his eyes when friends went on about their tabbies. I didn’t understand their undying devotion. Nor could I comprehend the cutesy names they assigned to their animals, like Fluffy, Boots, Mr. MooMoo, Pookums and Socks. Yuck!
After a couple years in residence, I’ve finally been accepted by Diana’s cats. By “accepted” I mean they’ve learned how to work me to get what they want, which is usually another can of food or a large dollop of whipped cream from the fridge.
I’ve become a personal servant to Diana’s herd. I’m alert to their slightest request. They constantly come and go. I act as their doorman. At mealtime, they rush us like hyenas piling on for a kill. They sit in our laps, sleep on our bed, and keep us awake with their late-night antics. I’ve learned to grin and bear it.
Cats are a lot like the people you meet on dating sites — never quite what they appear to be. When a dog is hungry and you feed him, he shows gratitude. When a cat is hungry and you’re late with his food, he throws your cell phone in the garbage disposal. The smarter ones then hit the switch.
I only recently grasped how remarkable and intelligent cats are. The ones around here are like automobiles. Some are full-time hunters (4-wheel drive), others only go outside in good weather (sedans), and a few never leave the house (luxury models). Some meow softly like a Prius hybrid. Others yowl at full volume like a Mack truck hitting the brakes.
Diana’s most amazing cat was a bandit-faced female named Pansy. Pansy was a slayer of rodents. She did not like to be held and preferred to live outside. On the rare occasions she wanted a caress, she let us know by flopping down in our path. Diana invested a huge amount of emotion in her relationship with Pansy. What she got in return was cold-shouldered rejection.
Pansy had it made: complete reign of the house, plenty of food, and a warm bed. Then she began secretly visiting a neighbor down the street, close to a field where she hunted mice. A week later, she stopped coming home. Diana would call for her. No answer. She would set out bowls of kitty chow and saucers of milk. But the little two-timer never came back. Did Pansy abandon us for a wealthy family with a private groomer and a veterinarian who made house calls? Was it simply a shorter commute to her hunting grounds? Who knows? Whatever the reason, it broke Diana’s heart.
Late one evening after yet another fruitless search, I told Diana that her cat would probably never return. She needed to accept the fact that Pansy was a two-timing mouser who was born to wander. Diana had to learn to accept Pansy’s affection in the cold and aloof form it was given.
I explained that there were many cats like Pansy. When they rub against us, it isn’t a sign of love; it’s how they spread their scent. These same cats only purr because they know humans will reward them. They barf up hairballs and use our furniture for scratching posts because they believe it’s their cat-given right.
Afterwards, Diana nodded and said she understood. The poor woman wasn’t crying, but she was close to it.
But the next morning, she was down at the field, calling for Pansy, hoping to entice her home with a fresh can of whipped cream. “I wish I could catch her,” she lamented. “I’d like to put flea medicine on her.” Oh Diana, still wanting to care for that unfaithful cat.
~Timothy Martin
Gizmo and Boots
You cannot share your life with a dog, as I had done in Bournemouth, or a cat, and not know perfectly well that animals have personalities and minds and feelings.
~Jane Goodall
Gizmo was born on a muggy August afternoon in the stall of a horse named Lucky at an equine adoption farm where my family briefly volunteered. The owner’s oldest son, who was about ten at the time, came running out of the barn, beaming from ear to ear and carrying a newborn kitten to show me and my girls. We all fussed over the tiny ball of fur. The boy then led us to Lucky’s stall, where a pretty, little, tortoiseshell cat lay peacefully feeding her new arrivals.
We were somewhat concerned about the welfare of the kittens since they were sharing a stall with a horse, but each day we’d check on them and see they were doing just fine.
On the tenth day, the mother had moved the kittens. I could hear them crying and went on a mission to find them. It didn’t take me long to follow their little cries. Their mother had moved them to a bale of hay across from Lucky’s stall but she was nowhere to be found.
We set about our chores for the afternoon. Then I took my children home for dinner and then headed out to the local pet store to get some supplies in case there was a problem.
The mother cat still had not returned by the time I got back. We searched around the farm and could only assume the worst, so I brought the kittens into the house along with the little feeding bottles and other supplies I had purchased. They were ravenous; we had no trouble at all getting them to feed. Once their little tummies were satisfied, we introduced them to a cat living in the home who had recently lost her own two kittens.
The foster mother took to them right away, and began cleaning and stimulating them to do their bathroom business — something I also didn’t know needed to be done! She lovingly washed them all and curled up with them, happy to have a little family again.
I went back the next morning to see how things were going. It appeared the kittens’ new mom didn’t have any milk left. The kittens were desperately kneading at her belly and crying. I took them away one at a time and fed them before returning them to her. The farm owner became very aggravated about the whole situation. She didn’t want to be stuck feeding a bunch of kittens every few hours, so I offered to take two of them home with me. A little beige one didn’t seem to be doing well, so I took that one along with a ginger-and-white one.
I fed them frequently, but the little beige one was not responding. Sometime in the night, the poor little mite passed away curled up next to his sibling — whom we had christened “Gizmo” due to his big ears and little face. He was a polydactyl kitten (meaning extra digits on each paw), also known as a “mitten kitten.” Thankfully, he was still alive and screaming for his breakfast, so I set about feeding him.
Gizmo’s will to live was strong, and he grew in size, strength, and attitude each day. He was only the size of my palm when he first came home, but the slig
htest meow from the little carrier he slept in would send our dog, Boots, running upstairs to hide. We had rescued Boots himself as a puppy when his mother passed away.
One afternoon, I carefully placed the kitten on the kitchen floor, and Boots stood there paralyzed with fear. Eventually, he got up the courage to sniff Gizmo, who was trying to walk a few steps. He was quite awkward at first with his extra toes. Once Boots realized Gizmo wasn’t going to tear him to shreds, he lay down and cautiously watched him. Within several minutes, he was gently licking Gizmo, and from that point forward they were great friends!
We’d all sit and watch as Gizmo would climb on Boots and bat at his ears. Boots would let him bite and attack those big ears. A bond had formed between a kitten and a dog who had both lost their mothers. Boots had been raised by people, yet here he was, being a parent to this tiny kitten.
They had seven years together before Boots passed away in October 2016 at age fourteen. We consider ourselves very lucky to have witnessed the love that developed between those two orphans — born of different species, but good friends.
~Karen Reeves
The Guest Cats
As we all know, cats now rule the world.
~John R. F. Breen, Who’s Who of Cats
In 2005, I retired. Such a wonderful word. I moved to a small house with a large yard. At the same time, my daughter-in-law’s grandmother was moved to an assisted living facility. She had two indoor cats that she couldn’t take with her.
My son called to ask if I would mind housing two cats for a short while. No one could justify taking the cats to the pound. It certainly wasn’t their fault Grandma Fisher couldn’t care for them.
I hesitated. I’d never had a cat, let alone an indoor cat. Everyone made me feel guilty, though, so I agreed to “babysit” the two cats until a suitable home could be found. Everyone thought it would be a short time, perhaps a month or so.
The cats were declawed, neutered, and not quite three years old. They were beautiful, longhaired white cats. The larger of the two cats was more curious than friendly; the second cat wanted no part of me. I didn’t actually see him for the first two weeks. He came out of hiding at night to eat, drink, and play with his brother. Occasionally, I would see a white streak as he scurried away when I surprised him.
When I did finally see the whole cat, unmoving at the water bowl, I was surprised. He was beautiful. I picked him up; he went limp and sort of dangled over my arm. After scratching between his ears, I put the cat back on the floor. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I might have broken him in two. I was unaware some cats go limp when they’re picked up.
However, after that single encounter, he followed me everywhere. If I took a book to read on the front porch, he would sit on a table in front of the window and watch me until I came in.
It took some time, but he is no longer the shy cat. His name is Harry, and he greets everyone at the front door. His brother, Louis, is the strong, silent type. Louis doesn’t follow me around. Instead, he joins me to read the morning newspapers. Somehow, he curls under my left elbow and appears to be scanning the newsprint in front of him. Louis also likes to watch baseball on TV.
Harry, on the other hand, prefers quiz shows and Dancing with the Stars. Regardless, if I’m watching TV, reading or knitting, one or both of the cats are within arm’s reach. They sleep right outside my bedroom door… like sentries. They remind me of the lions outside the New York Public Library. Both can be very stately in posture when they choose.
Over time, we have become good friends. Both like to be brushed, and it has become our evening ritual.
Periodically, I remind someone that Grandma Fisher’s cats are still in residence. I get smiles and nods, but nothing is ever said. I expect someone to at least say, “Yes, we’re working on that.” But… nothing.
Years have passed. Both the cats and I are getting older. At this point in time, I suppose it would be cruel to suggest that different arrangements be made. We have established a routine of daily living. It is Louis’s (self-imposed) job to guide me through the house. When I get up from the table, sofa, or computer, he is sure he knows where I should be going and is two feet in front of me the entire way. If I don’t go where he leads, he pouts. It is Harry’s job to be sure they are fed on time… and to ask for treats.
This was supposed to be a short cat-sitting stint. Evidently, everyone but me has forgotten that. There are days I want to call my son and remind him that ten-plus years is not a short period, but I know I won’t ever do it. They seem to love me, and I certainly have developed affection for both Louis and Harry — my guest cats.
~Charlotte A. Lewis
Until I Met Kittery
Cats are absolute individuals, with their own ideas about everything, including the people they own.
~John Dingman
Until I met Kittery, I never knew that a cat could be a nursemaid, babysitter, and toddler’s best friend — all wrapped up in a furry, brown-and-white bundle.
Kittery entered our lives during my summer internship after my junior year of college, when my wife Jennifer and I were living on the coast of Southern Maine. We’d rented an apartment about four miles from the ocean. It was close enough to smell the clam-flats through our open windows each evening as we lounged on our futon, watching the news.
On one of those evenings, a tiny kitten trotted through our open apartment door with the bow-legged gait of a cowboy, walked across the living-room carpet, and entered the kitchen where we’d set up a bowl of cat food for our cat, Gypsy.
As this little, fuzzy kitten started munching away on our cat’s food, my wife and I watched in amazement. Where had it come from? Why was it so hungry? Could we keep it?
We soon discovered from the downstairs neighbors that the kitten had been born only a few months earlier. While all of the other kittens were given away, this little male kitten and his sister remained unwanted because of their congenital defects. That explained his cowboy walk.
Adopting him was a no-brainer. We named him Kittery, after the Southern Maine town where we hoped to live one day.
Over the next few years, Kittery became part of our family. We graduated from college and moved to Connecticut, where we rented a cottage by a lake in a small town called Coventry. Kittery was a fine cat, but it was when my wife got pregnant with our first child that he started showing his true colors.
One morning, as I was getting ready for work, I heard my poor wife inside the bathroom, losing her entire breakfast. It had become a morning ritual not long after we learned she was pregnant. However, this particular morning I heard another retching sound, and it wasn’t coming from inside the bathroom. It was coming from just outside the bathroom door.
As I poked my head out of our bedroom door and looked across the hall, I spotted Kittery tossing his own breakfast onto the floor — a sympathetic gesture, apparently.
Kittery loved Jennifer so much that when she got sick, he got sick.
This morning ritual between Jennifer and Kittery went on for months. It was the first real clue that something about this cat was very special.
When Kayla was born, we weren’t sure how Kittery would respond to her, seeing as he always seemed to act like he was our own baby. Would he dislike her? Would having cats around a baby be dangerous? As new parents, we didn’t know what to expect.
Our concerns were put to the test one evening when my wife lay Kayla down on the couch so that she could get a drink from the kitchen. No sooner had she left the living room than Kittery jumped right up onto the opposite end of the couch.
I was sitting on a chair beside the couch, watching both Kittery and the baby closely. At any sign of trouble, I was prepared to whisk away the cat.
Kittery gingerly walked closer to Kayla and put his moist, pink nose up next to her little feet. He sniffed, and then walked closer. As he walked beside her, I thought to myself, This is it. He’s going to lie on top of her face and try to smother her!
Just as I was about to
push the cat aside, he slowly stretched out along the edge of the couch next to Kayla, his malformed hips causing his back legs to sprawl out like that of a frog. He placed his head down on his front paws and closed his eyes.
It dawned on me that he wasn’t trying to hurt her; he was trying to protect her! He’d placed his own body as a shield so that she wouldn’t roll off the couch. When my wife returned, I put a hand up to gesture to her to look at the couch. When she spotted Kittery playing nursemaid to the baby, a look of amazement spread over her face, and she broke into a smile.
From that point forward, every time we placed our little baby girl on the sofa, Kittery would immediately jump up onto the couch and stretch out alongside her, protecting her from harm.
The relationship between Kittery and Kayla blossomed over the next few years. One day when I came home from work, I saw three-year-old Kayla following Kittery around the house. I’m not sure if they were playing follow-the-leader, but it sure looked like it.
Then, suddenly, Kittery flopped himself down on the floor, spreading out into his signature frog-legged sprawl. To my amazement, little Kayla stood over Kittery like he was a horse and lowered herself onto his back.
My first reaction was to run across the kitchen to remove her from the poor cat’s back, but then I stopped when, to my amazement, he let out what I could only describe as a “happy meow.” As she bounced her legs up and down, Kittery closed his eyes and purred, his tail flowing happily back and forth across the floor.