by Amy Newmark
I realized that Kayla wasn’t quite “sitting” on him — she was bouncing her legs, pretending that he was a horse, and he was more than happy to play along. It was a moment I’ll never forget.
Many years later, when Kayla turned twelve, Kittery fell ill and passed away. He had been such an important part of the family that we couldn’t bring ourselves to bury him in some random plot in the woods behind the house. Instead, we paid to have his ashes placed inside a small oak box with his picture pasted on the front.
To this day, Kayla often looks at the oak box with the old picture on the front and reminisces about her old friend, Kittery. Some kids have imaginary friends, but our daughter was lucky enough to have a childhood friend who was quite real, even though he wasn’t quite human!
~Ryan Dube
The Cat That Couldn’t Meow
I love cats because I enjoy my home; and little by little, they become its visible soul.
~Jean Cocteau
I knew something was up the minute our dog let out a short bark. Coming out of the barn, I watched a silver-grey blur streak off the back porch and across the drive. Someone had dropped off another cat. A kitten to be exact. I guessed her to be about six months old.
I felt anger well up against the person who would send a kitten off into the unknown just before the winter snows. Pushing aside my feelings, I went back into the barn and added a scoop of cat food to the barn cat dish. I figured it was just a matter of time before the kitten figured out where safety and food could be found — if it didn’t get hit on the busy highway first. My three barn cats were already munching when the kitten found the lighted doorway and shivered her way into the barn.
Her first few weeks were spent skulking — getting her bearings — deciding how safe I was. After all, the last human in her life hadn’t been all that trustworthy. It didn’t take long for her to recognize who was feeding her, and I was greeted at the barn door each morning to a good leg rubbing and a healthy purr. Unlike her barn mates though, the kitten never meowed. Her mouth opened but no sound came out. Her vocal expressions were only audible when the dog came near, eliciting a throaty growl or a squeak; when she was deeply content she would purr. But there was never a meow.
I named her Dusty. It was either that or Blue to go with her unique silver-blue fur with subtle stripes. Those were combined with her startling yellow-green eyes.
The following spring Dusty had a litter of four kittens. Normally, I would find new homes for each one, but the winter had been hard on my cat population. My oldest had died of old age. Another simply vanished, as transient creatures do in a neighbourhood full of dairy barns where spilled milk is more appealing than dry cat food. The third became a victim of the resident eagle, leaving me with Dusty and her four little ones.
Dusty was smart. She steered clear of the highway traffic, ducked for cover when the eagle’s shadow fell across the lawn, and knew exactly when mealtime arrived.
When my daughter talked about getting a cat for her children, I thought of Dusty and her warm heart. She always looked for the children when their van pulled into the drive. She wrapped herself around their skinny legs and purred constantly. Maybe Dusty would be in a better place with this cat-loving family, so I offered her to them, knowing that I would see her often, and she would receive all the petting she deserved.
She settled into her new home like a queen settles onto a throne. It didn’t take her long to notice that children don’t always close doors, and soon Dusty learned that she had a place on the arm of the couch when she wanted it. Another litter of kittens surprised the family — four again — and Dusty taught them well. They learned the art of mousing and how to slip through an open door on the heels of busy children. They found their voices — high-pitched yowls and purrs. They mastered the leg wrap so as to offer affection without tripping the recipients.
But as the kittens grew, Dusty became surly. She wanted her space. New homes were found for two of the kittens, but the other two had wedged their way into this young family’s hearts. My daughter commiserated that three cats were one too many, and I offered to take Dusty home.
Again, she settled in, and I assumed she would be content to return to her barn life. Dusty had other ideas. She had mastered the art of ducking and weaving. Her third day home brought with it the realization that the dog loved her mat by the door more than she loved her vigilance against cats. As I entered the kitchen after morning chores, a silver-blue torpedo shot past me. The next half-hour was spent chasing Dusty down and returning her to the outdoors. My husband came home for lunch and again the cat found her chance.
It didn’t take us long to realize we were fighting a losing battle. A trip to the store provided the necessary cat accouterments, and a trip to the vet put an end to Dusty’s kitten bearing years. As Dusty has settled in to our house, I’ve discovered things that make her an asset as an inside cat. The mouse population in our old farmhouse has dwindled. Also, Dusty’s feline impulse to massage is a huge benefit. Often I find myself winding down at the end of a day, with Dusty parked on my lap and kneading my leg muscles or perched on the back of the couch and working at a shoulder. When she’s finished with me, our little masseuse moves on to my husband. And what can be more adorable than a cat that looks up at you with devoted, yellow-green eyes, opens her mouth and offers a silent, heartfelt meow?
~Donna Fawcett
Casper
I believe cats to be spirits come to earth. A cat, I am sure, could walk on a cloud without coming through.
~Jules Verne
I am not a cat person. Yeah, sure, when I was younger, I would love going to the pet shop and seeing the kittens play. They were so cute when they were chasing balls of string. But then I picked one up, and it clawed at me and screeched like something out of a horror movie. I was definitely not a cat person.
Instead, I got a beautiful mini-Schnauzer named Charlie, and of course, I walk him regularly. If it weren’t for that, the other thing wouldn’t have happened.
One day, I took Charlie out for a quick walk right after a rainstorm. I heard a strange sound as we walked under a tree. I thought it was some kind of bird crying out. But when I looked up, I saw it: a tiny white kitten, clinging to a branch and crying. When our eyes connected, it was like he knew. Even though he was at least twelve feet up, he jumped.
I ran to the little guy, Charlie by my side, and grabbed him off the ground. One of his eyes was closed, his nose was bleeding, and he was skin and bones. I didn’t know what to do at first. I held him in my arms, looking around as he clawed at me with his tiny nails. I thought someone had to own him, but no one came out to thank me for saving their kitten.
So I ran home, with Charlie trying to jump up and see what was in my arms and making that horrible noise.
I called my husband. “Come home! I’m standing here with a kitten in my arms.”
“I’m sorry, a what?”
“A kitten. It’s hurt. You need to come help me.”
My husband came home, and we put the kitten in a shoebox and drove to our vet. She had explained over the phone that if we brought in the kitten and they treated it, we would have to pay for it. If we put the kitten outside their door, they were not allowed to take it in.
So, despite the fact that I was not a cat person, I thought to myself, I picked him up and brought him home, so he is my responsibility now. We will pay for whatever is wrong with him and find him a good home.
Turns out, he hurt his nose, but it would be fine. He was skin and bones because he had left his mother and was probably eating out of the trash. His eye was irritated, and he was so flea-infested that the poor thing probably would have been dead in a week if I hadn’t found him.
We treated him and asked stupid questions that cat people know but dog people don’t. We thought he would have to drink milk. News flash: Cats drink water.
He had worms, so we had to go back to the vet a few weeks later for more shots.
He snuggled with me and purr
ed when I petted him. He curled up next to Charlie, who had never seen a cat before, but was more than happy to have a new friend.
We bought litter, cat trees, bowls and cat food, all the while thinking, We are both sort of allergic to cats, so once he’s healthy, we will find him a good home.
But that didn’t happen because we fell in love with him.
Casper is what we named him. An all-white domestic shorthair with a slightly smaller left eye than right, he became Casper the friendly cat. It was the week of Halloween when I found him, and to be frank he scared the heck out of me when he jumped at me from the tree.
Casper now eats the best food I can provide, is showered with toys, enjoys snuggling up in Charlie’s old bed, and enjoys lying in the sun or slapping Charlie’s feet as he walks by. Casper is part of my family now. Sometimes I catch myself looking at him, wondering why someone didn’t take care of him the moment he was born, imagining how scared he must have been in the storm that day, or what would have happened if I hadn’t found him. But I did, and I’m happy I did.
So no, I wasn’t a cat person, but I am now.
~Jessica L. Moran
Oliver Twist, the Original Grumpy Cat
To err is human, to purr is feline.
~Robert Byrne
When my wife Diana and I first started dating, she said, “Love me, love my cat.” There were two obstacles to this, however. First, I was a dog person. Second, Oliver Twist was an excessively grumpy cat and rather possessive of his “mom.” This wasn’t going to be easy for either of us.
My first extended encounter with Oliver was coming home from visiting Diana’s mother. I had taken the train from Springfield, Illinois, to northwest Ohio to meet her family for the first time. Diana had driven out earlier in her tiny Toyota RAV4 and had taken Oliver along, as was their custom. I rode back with them on the seven-hour drive to Diana’s house in Decatur, Illinois.
Since I didn’t speak Feline, I wasn’t aware that Oliver had called shotgun. He was less than ecstatic that I was in his place, so he spent most of the trip sulking in his kitty carrier in the back seat.
Along the route, I did learn some cat language while being introduced to a couple of his travel quirks. He would yowl in annoyance when we hit the rumble strips on the turnpike that warned of the approaching tollbooth. He would also let out a comparable yowl, the difference perceptible only to Diana’s trained ear, when we got close enough to smell Decatur. To me, it was the stench of processed soybeans, but to Oliver, it smelled like “almost home.”
Once in Decatur, he climbed up into my lap, which had nothing to do with me and everything to do with the fact that he wanted to be in the front seat for the final stretch of the trip. My lap just happened to be occupying that space.
Suddenly, Diana had to swerve around somebody who had stopped short in front of her. Oliver did what comes naturally to cats. His claws came out, and he grabbed on tight to keep himself stable. Except that he was on my lap at the time.
Unaccustomed as I was to being stabbed in the legs with sixteen curved needles, I yelled in pain. Oliver turned and barked at me. Yes, barked. Like a dog. I had never heard a sound like that come out of a cat before, but even with my limited experience with cats, I could tell it was not a happy sound.
We arrived at Diana’s house a few minutes later. She went inside for a moment to replace Oliver’s travel litter box and left me in the car with him. The instant she was out the door, Oliver jumped into her seat, turned back to me with a look of deepest loathing, and gave a loud, theatrical hiss in my direction.
Being unloved by an animal was new territory for me. Dogs are easy. All you have to do is be there and they think you’re awesome. Cats, I was learning, take some work. Particularly this cat, who I later learned had been found abandoned in the woods when he was just a tiny kitten. Nevertheless, I believed that this half-feral ball of gray fur and attitude had a soft spot somewhere, and I was determined to find it.
The ice between Oliver and me ended up breaking in a rather unexpected way. Diana had bought some coffee to keep at her place for visitors. One day, I was brewing a pot when I heard an inquisitive meow behind me. There was Oliver, looking at me for the first time with an expression other than one that suggested a desire to kill me in my sleep. He hopped up onto the counter and began sniffing at the coffee pot. When it finished brewing, and I poured myself a cup, he kept following me around, meowing insistently, and trying to get at my cup. At first, I thought, What a pest! Then I had an idea.
I went back to the kitchen and found an old dishrag. I poured some coffee on it and dropped it onto the tile floor. Immediately, Oliver began to roll around the floor with the rag, purring delightedly. Apparently, coffee was his catnip!
I wouldn’t say that we immediately became besties, but Oliver did tolerate my presence after this incident. I referred to him as my “stepcat.” He was always really Diana’s cat, but he gradually became more cordial to me. When I would greet him after work with a “Hey, Oliver,” he would nod in my direction and give me a short meow. I always had the feeling that he knew exactly what I was saying at any given time.
Then one night several years later, as I sat in the recliner, Oliver hopped up on my lap, stretched out diagonally across my chest, and laid his head on my shoulder. He stayed for several minutes, letting me pet him and purring in my ear. That was when I knew I had finally won him over.
Not long after that, Oliver became very sick. After a few days of vomiting, we took him to the vet and learned that poisoned gluten from China in his cat food had caused his kidneys to fail. We took him to the animal hospital to flush out his kidneys to see if they would rebound. However, our vet had already put two cats down that week for the same problem, so he was not optimistic. He left some time open for Oliver’s final appointment and waited for us to call.
We didn’t make that call, though. After about a day and a half, the animal hospital called and said to come get Oliver because he was doing better. This did not mean, however, that he was in a better mood.
Upon arriving at the hospital, we heard him before we saw him. You could hear that howl from the lobby. His eyes were huge, and he was not letting anyone get near him. But he was alive, and to us, that was worth the hassle and the vet bills.
Oliver lived another seven years after this incident. In his old age, he developed diabetes, and had to take insulin injections, which he allowed me to administer without complaint.
His body finally wore out at the age of fifteen. When we finally did take him to the vet to have him put to sleep, he was still growling, being fractious to the very end. Even so, that crabby, old kitty did manage to do something I never thought possible: He turned me into a cat person.
~M. Scott Coffman
Mad Max
Cat people are different, to the extent that they generally are not conformists. How could they be, with a cat running their lives?
~Louis J. Camuti
It had been three years since my husband Ed and I had pets. Our Sheltie, Casey, had been with us for almost fifteen years. He was the last of a long list of four-legged family members. When he passed away, we said, “That’s it. No more pets.”
In 2008, we experienced our first tropical storm as new residents of south Florida’s east coast. That got me focused on how I wanted to live, and after the storm, I said to Ed, “We need a pet. The house is too quiet, and I have gone too long without one.”
“Are you sure?” he asked. “It would tie us down again.”
“I’m sure.”
Ed had his reservations, but I was determined to get a cat from the Humane Society of the Treasure Coast. The storm had reminded me that a dog would still have to be walked, no matter what the weather was like.
We agreed to get just one cat. One Sunday afternoon, while Ed was working, I drove to Petco in Stuart, where the Humane Society had dogs and cats for adoption. On the drive there, I pictured a sweet, female, shorthaired cat. I would name her Lily. Ed would instantly f
all in love with my sweet Lily. Just the thought of it made my heart warm.
I entered the store and started scanning the cages that the shelter had brought, looking for my Lily. As I surveyed the kittens and cats, I locked eyes with a young cat with brilliant blue eyes. It was love at first sight!
The nice lady from the shelter came up to me. “Looks like Ol’ Blue Eyes likes you. Would you like to hold him?”
“Him?” I wanted a her. But I couldn’t take my eyes off this handsome, little guy with his beige-and-brown long hair and the dark mask on his face that surrounded his blueberry eyes. Forget Lily, this little guy is definitely coming home with me. “Yes, I would love to hold him,” I said as I smiled.
He and I bonded instantly. After the paperwork was completed, I shopped for necessary supplies. Finally, we were on our way home. I learned that my new cat was a Snowshoe/Ragdoll mix, and he was a year old. Realizing he had some Siamese in him, I understood his chattiness as we conversed on our ride back to Port St. Lucie. The first thing I told him was that a name change was in order. I wanted one to match his personality, but it might take an adjustment period before the right name came to me.
Ed loved our new addition to the family as soon as he met him. “He is definitely unique with that mask on his face,” he commented. “It makes his eyes so blue.”
In the days and weeks to come, our blue-eyed boy settled in. You could say he took over the house. Cat toys were scattered everywhere, and I became his new playmate and wrestling partner. His abundance of energy never ceased and his quirky personality became more and more evident. We finally found a name to match his antics… Max. Mad Max to be exact. Max was funny, loving and exhausting.