by Amy Newmark
By springtime, I noticed Max could not bear to see me leave the house. He would come after me, ready to pounce, claws and all. He also had to have my undivided attention whenever he was awake. Max helped with everything I did around the house. On laundry day, Max was fascinated by watching the washing machine fill up with soapy water. He sat on the dryer watching me drop the dirty clothes in one by one. Each shopping day, he would sit on the kitchen counter with his head in each grocery bag to see what I had bought. He was constantly getting into mischief — until the day came when I had had enough. We needed to make some changes.
When Ed came home from work, I sat him down. “Max needs a playmate,” I stated emphatically.
“He has one… you.”
“I need him to have a playmate other than me. Let’s go back to the shelter and find him one.”
Ed looked at me as though I had lost my mind. “What?”
The next morning, we drove to the Humane Society of the Treasure Coast on a quest for a female about the same size and age as Max. This time, it was Ed’s choice, and he picked a sweet, longhaired, black-and-gray girl. We named her Mandy. Lily was long forgotten.
It took a few days for Max to adjust to this new intrusion and for Mandy to acclimate herself to her new surroundings. Then one night, around four o’clock in the morning, we heard what sounded like a herd of elephants racing through the house. We both woke up at the same time. Ed whispered, “I guess the adjustment period has officially ended.” We laughed and went back to sleep.
Max and Mandy became attached to each other and to us. Max favored me, and Mandy attached herself to Ed. I believe they knew who chose them. Either way, they have been a blessing to our home.
Last year, we lost Ed to cancer. Mandy looked for him for weeks. I would often find her sitting on the arm of his recliner, waiting for him to come and sit with her. Slowly, Mandy became my lap cat. We sit together every afternoon and evening while I read or watch television. Max still owns me, but he has been gracious enough to share my lap with Mandy several times a day. I always knew deep down that “Ol’ Blue Eyes” would one day grow into a fine gentleman despite his quirky personality.
~Catherine Ancewicz
Happy Hour
People who love cats have some of the biggest hearts around.
~Susan Easterly
I had just lost my second cat in a few months and I knew I needed time to grieve. On the other hand, I hated coming home to an empty house. When I saw the shelter’s ad in the Sunday newspaper and its picture of a beautiful, tortoiseshell cat available for adoption, I told myself it was too soon. And yet, over the next couple of days, I kept looking at that ad: “Sweet as a lump of sugar, Ellen DeGeneres is available for adoption.” Ellen DeGeneres, the cat?
When I couldn’t resist any longer, I called the shelter to see if Ellen was still available. She was, and off I went to get her.
Sharon, the owner of the shelter, had named all the furry residents after famous people. There was a tall gray male named Einstein, as well as Lance Armstrong, Tom Hanks, and a peach-and-gray calico named Oprah. And there among the many cats was the lovely, little tortie named Ellen DeGeneres.
After an interview with Sharon and a pile of paperwork, I headed home with Ellen. Sharon had suggested that I put her in a small room and let her adapt to the house slowly, but as soon as I opened the cage, the small cat stretched and walked straight into the living room, confidently taking ownership of her new home.
A few minutes after I got home with the feline Ellen, the real Ellen DeGeneres called the shelter live from her show to ask how she could help get the cat adopted. Her assistant had seen the newspaper ad. Sharon tried to reach me, but I was busy telling my mom about my new cat and didn’t hang up until about five minutes before the show’s taping was scheduled to end. As soon as I ended the call with my mom, Sharon called and told me to call in to Ellen immediately.
I was patched through to talk with Ellen (the human) about bringing Ellen (the tortie) home. She thanked me for adopting a shelter cat and asked how things were going. She also warned me that Ellen the cat would no doubt be very interested in happy hour. And she is indeed, only of course cats are nocturnal creatures, and so Ellen’s happy hour with her catnip socks generally occurs around five in the morning.
Sharon wasn’t kidding about Ellen’s sweet nature. I call her the Buddha cat because she has absolutely no hunting instinct, and I’m one of the very rare human cat owners without scratches on her hands or arms. I can play with string, catnip toys, and crunchy balls with no fear that my hand will become a target. And all creatures, creepy and otherwise, are safe in our house. Spiders, ants, and even a mouse that shared our home for about a week have remained unharmed by Ellen.
Although my cat Ellen’s famous connection to the wonderful comedian was written up by the local paper, I didn’t think much about it as we settled into our lives — at least until I was at a professional meeting with a colleague who mentioned the story about my famous cat. One of the other scientists at the dinner brightened and said that she’d seen the show on which Ellen DeGeneres had featured Ellen the cat.
It has been almost twelve wonderful years since I adopted Ellen from the shelter. In the intervening years, she’s flown on a plane for our move to Boston and been driven three thousand miles across the country when we moved to California. My sister came along to help me on that trip, which I called “Two and a Half Girls Hit the Road.” Besides her occasional attempts to lie across the dashboard, Ellen spent most of her time during the long drive in my sister’s lap or sitting on top of her carrier in the back seat, watching the country roll past.
After several years in California, Ellen and I finally returned to Portland, Oregon, where we started our journey together so long ago. Ellen is almost fifteen now. I’m hoping she’ll be one of those twenty-something-year-old record breakers. I’ve become very spoiled by the companionship of a sweet-natured cat with the famous namesake and a rather early-morning, “happy hour” habit of playing with her catnip toys.
~Laurel Standley
One Clever Kitty
There is no more intrepid explorer than a kitten.
~Jules Champfleury
The abandoned kitten lay stretched out across my husband’s hands. Paul fed the newborn — her eyes not yet open — with a tiny bottle from our veterinarian. Our children named her Stripes after the dark, symmetrical lines that ran from her face down to the tip of her tail. Despite the lavish attention the kids paid to our little kitty, she selected Paul as her special person.
Paul was an early riser, and Stripes kept him company each morning while he ate breakfast. When he returned home from work at night, Stripes ran to him and demanded attention. Paul would caress her as she lay on her back, stretched out the same way she’d done as a newborn.
When Stripes was three years old, we moved to a new home near a Dairy Mart. The convenience store was just across the street — kitty-corner from us, so to speak — and Paul walked there for milk twice a week. Paul began to notice Stripes trailing him to the store — always at a distance. He worried about her crossing the busy street, but when he tried to catch her, she always remained just out of reach. The kids were never able to snag her, either. Whenever Paul left for the store, Stripes slipped out the kitty door or hid in the bushes, waiting to follow him.
Stripes would sit outside the Dairy Mart and wait for Paul. Other shoppers noticed the kitty waiting patiently beside the doors. They would laugh at the sight of a cat sitting by the entrance of a milk store.
The clerks began asking Paul, “Did you bring your kitty cat with you today?”
“I don’t bring her,” he’d say. “She follows me!”
Whenever Paul returned from the store, Stripes jumped up on the bench beside our refrigerator, sniffing at the milk jugs as he set them inside.
One day, Stripes grew even bolder. When Paul came out of the store carrying two gallons of milk, she trotted in front of him in a zigzag pattern.
Stripes pawed at his legs, even snagging his jeans. He tried to ignore her and walk faster, but she thumped against him and meowed noisily. Then she plopped onto the sidewalk, right in his path, almost making Paul trip. She seemed to be demanding a ride home.
Finally, Paul relented. He rearranged the jugs and picked up Stripes. He must have been quite the sight, balancing a kitty draped over his shoulder, as well as two gallons of milk.
The next time Paul walked to the store, the kids and I sat on the porch to watch. As soon as he crossed the street, Stripes shot out of the bushes beside our house. She galloped along the sidewalk and across the road. Once Paul was inside the store, she trotted over to the large glass doors, sat down, and daintily licked her paws.
We waited to see what would happen. Sure enough, when Paul emerged with the milk jugs, we saw Stripes dance in front of him. She even rolled onto her back, reaching for his legs. Surrendering, Paul set down one jug and picked up his furry friend. She cuddled his neck as he picked up the milk, steadied his load, and carried her home.
We all ran to greet Paul as he walked up the driveway, Stripes riding contentedly on his shoulder.
“I can’t imagine why this kitty is so obsessed with your milk runs,” I said to Paul. “I never feed her milk. It’s not supposed to be good for cats.”
A guilty expression crossed my husband’s face. “Actually,” he said, “I feed her the little bit of leftover milk from my cereal every morning.” I pulled the cat gently off his shoulder. “You are one clever kitty,”
I cooed to her. “I think you figured out that Papa goes to the store to buy you milk!”
“Mama!” one of the kids cried. “She needs a treat for being so smart!”
And from then on, every time Paul and Stripes returned from the Dairy Mart together, our milk-loving kitty was rewarded with a spoonful of her own.
~Janny J. Johnson
Who’s Your Mama?
Cats know how to obtain food without labor, shelter without confinement, and love without penalties.
~W.L. George
When I was growing up, we always had pets — mostly dogs, but an occasional cat. I happen to adore cats, but I married a dog lover who was dead set against getting a cat. So, we had no pets.
That situation continued… officially. But one hot St. Louis morning, while I was outside watering the plants, I made friends with a stray black female cat. As a teacher, I was off for the summer, so when my husband would leave for work in the morning, I would invite the cat into our apartment. She would spend the day with me. In the afternoons, I would lie on the couch and read, and she would sleep on my belly. Before my husband came home from work, she would go back outside.
One day, as we were reading and sleeping, I felt movement in her belly and realized she was pregnant. From then on, I called her Mama Kitty. Each day, I felt more and more movement. One morning, she was nowhere to be found, and I figured she had given birth. I knew she would have hidden the kittens and herself in a safe place, so I searched all of the areas close to the apartment.
I found missing bricks in a wall between apartments and saw there was an opening. When I called to her, she answered, but would not leave her babies to come to me. So, every day for the next six weeks, I left food and water for her. My husband knew nothing about any of this.
One evening, as I was lying on the couch reading, I heard the glass storm door rattle as though someone was shaking it. There stood Mama Kitty with a kitten in her mouth. I opened the door. She brought in the kitten, set it down, and went back to the door. She brought me a total of five kittens, and when she went back to the door, I assumed she was going to fetch kitten number six. Wrong! She took off. I guess she figured since I had taken care of her, I would take care of her kittens.
Of course, my husband was home, and I had to admit what I had been doing all summer. It goes without saying that he was not pleased. We lived the rest of the summer with five adorable kittens scampering through the apartment, getting themselves into all sorts of mischief. I promised my husband that I would find homes for all of them once school started, and when school began I put out the word on the school grapevine and found homes for all five within a week. I tried to talk him into keeping one, but no such luck, although later on in our marriage we adopted two strays.
Periodically, I would see Mama Kitty outside, but she would no longer come to me, no matter how much I sweet-talked her. I had fulfilled my purpose to her satisfaction, and she valued her independence more than she wanted a home.
~Sandy A. Reid
Hide and Don’t Seek
Some people say that cats are sneaky, evil, and cruel. True, and they have many other fine qualities as well.
~Missy Dizick
It had sounded so easy, and at first it was: cat-sitting for friends on vacation. Not housesitting… cat-sitting. With a nice home, neighborhood watch, police patrol, and the latest in alarm systems, my friends certainly didn’t need me to watch the house. I was there for one purpose only — to keep Tony company while his humans were away on vacation.
It was easy. The first three days, whenever Tony woke from a nap, he and I would play with his favorite toys, especially the “birdie” on the string swinging from a stick. Tony was a regular guy: regular in using his litter box, regular in eating and drinking, regular in sleeping and playing.
In fact, he was so regular and on schedule that I felt concern on the morning of day four, when his litter box was still as clean as I’d left it at bedtime, his fresh water and food were undisturbed, and his toys were untouched. He’d not only failed to show himself, he’d not even made a sound.
“Oh, no,” I worried aloud. “Something’s happened to him!”
I began my search with the usual “Here, Tony. Here kitty, kitty, kitty.”
Nothing.
He couldn’t get out, so he had to be in the house. But where?
I crawled on tops of cabinets and looked down behind. I lay on the floor under furniture and looked up. I pulled curtains aside and looked around.
Still nothing.
I’m usually calm, but I could feel my heart racing.
I walked through the house shaking the container of treats that usually brought Tony running.
Nothing.
I walked through the house with an open can of cat food — his favorite kind, salmon.
Nothing.
I walked through the house, jiggling the birdie on the string.
Nothing.
Then it hit me: Get on the Internet!
Grabbing my laptop, I typed in, “How to find a hiding cat?”
Presto! An answer.
But wait, hundreds of people before me had asked the same question, and hundreds more had answered. One brought a measure of solace by saying they’d had their cat three years and still couldn’t find her hiding place.
Every minute counted, but I read enough to see the top three answers were:
1. Rattle the jar of favorite treats.
2. Open a can of favorite food.
3. Shake a favorite toy.
All things I’d already done!
Hours passed, and I was nervous beyond belief. My blood pressure was rising, and I didn’t even have a blood-pressure problem.
By now, my hands were shaking, and my knees were weak.
In desperation, I prayed, “Lord, I’ve done all I know to do. These folks will die if they come home next week and something has happened to their beloved Tony. Please, help me find this stupid cat.”
Then it dawned on me: Cats like to be alone and prowl. I would pretend I had left!
After turning off the TV, I opened and shut the outside door, but quietly remained inside, hiding.
It wasn’t thirty seconds before I heard a “thunk” when Tony came out of hiding, jumping onto a metal filing cabinet before landing on the floor and prancing in smugly to his food, water and litter box! I declare he was grinning.
A few days later, when my friends came home and I related my adventur
e (without saying it had surely shortened my life), they said unconcerned, “Oh, he does that all the time. Guess we should have told you.”
~Kathryn J. Martin
The Alpha Mouse
Cat: a pygmy lion who loves mice, hates dogs, and patronizes human beings.
~Oliver Herford
We had a visitor. There were holes in the items in our cupboard. Plus, there were telltale droppings in the cabinets adjacent to the kitchen sink.
This had never happened in the history of our household before. The feral cats in the neighborhood were our first line of defense, and I assumed that our six house cats were catching any mice that actually made it inside.
But the evidence was there.
I tossed out everything the mice had touched and put everything else in large, sealed cans or glass jars. Then I scrubbed down the insides of the cupboards and drawers. After that, I laid down new, clean shelf paper.
After all that work, I was dismayed to find droppings on the clean paper the next morning. This mouse obviously had no fear of my dogs and six cats! It was going to be up to me to catch the little guy and let him go outside.
I bought the best “critter-friendly” trap I could find and set it up under the sink, filled with mouse-tempting munchies. The mouse enjoyed the buffet without ever setting off the trap.
Next, I called my friend who lived in a more rural area and asked her what she did. She said she used a type of flypaper trap for mice. She told me that she had a lot of mice around, even with her cats and dogs, and these traps were a humane way to catch the little critters. When they became stuck on the paper, she put on garden gloves, picked them up, and carried them out to the field, where she turned them loose.
I bought flypaper and put it in all the areas the mouse had visited. The next morning, all the sticky paper traps had been turned upside-down, but no mouse was glued to any of them. I had met my match.
I would have to get someone to come in and catch the little bugger. I hated to do that because I knew the exterminator would kill him, but I was now between a rock and a hard place. I couldn’t have a mouse inside our cupboards, and my cats didn’t seem to be a deterrent.