by Amy Newmark
I was going to call the exterminator the next day. But early that morning, the dogs and I rushed to the kitchen when we heard loud noises coming from there. All six cats were meowing, hissing, and growling. They were in a semi-circle under the kitchen table, facing the corner of the back wall. In that corner, standing barely three inches tall on its hind feet, with its front paws waving and its teeth bared, was a very ticked-off mouse. He was ready to take on the world. The cats all faced him, but remained a good six to twelve inches away from the fearsome creature.
I finally gave up on my eight ineffectual pets, grabbed a dishtowel, and threw it over the mouse. Then I picked him up in the towel, put him in a mason jar, and released him far from the house in the field.
When I got home, the cats all surrounded me, rubbing against my legs and purring. Then they dashed to the kitchen and sat looking expectantly at the cabinet where I kept the kitty treats — as if they had done something amazing by holding the horrible monster at bay until I could grab him.
Even though they didn’t do what cats are supposed to do, I had to admit that they did outdo the mouse trap and the sticky paper, so I guess they did do something right — even if it took six of them to corner one tiny field mouse. I gave them a handful of kitty treats — and accepted our new reality. The alpha animal of the pack was the mouse.
~Joyce Laird
This Is Who I Am
A cat has absolute emotional honesty: human beings, for one reason or another may hide their feelings, but a cat does not.
~Ernest Hemingway
The first time he did it, we thought it was a one-time thing. My husband and I were cooking dinner, and we heard this guttural screaming coming from the bathroom. We ran to see if Boo Boo Kitty was okay, only to find him dragging a towel he had taken off the rack. He had it in his mouth and was tripping over it as he carried it through the kitchen. He was howling like a fire alarm.
Boo Boo was a crazy cat that we adopted from our local shelter. Every animal we’ve had came with its own bit of kookiness, but Boo Boo was by far the most unusual. He didn’t pay much attention to us at first, apparently because he had this obsession with dragging anything fabric through the house. He would get into our closets and pull shirts, pants, and sweaters from the hangers. He would grab blankets off our beds and run through the house screaming, as if to say, “I’ll save you. Come with me!”
Boo Boo didn’t care who saw him do it, and I knew it could happen at any time. That’s what made him so lovable. One afternoon, I was lying on the couch watching a movie with him curled up on my chest when the doorbell rang. Boo Boo took off because the doorbell always scared him. It was my day off, and I hadn’t cleaned the house yet, but at least I was dressed and looked decent enough to answer the door.
My neighbor had a big smile on her face as she handed me a plate of her gorgeous cookies. “Are you busy?” she asked.
“Hi, Anna! No, of course not. How sweet of you to bake for me!” I motioned for her to come in while saying a silent prayer, “Please, God, help Boo Boo Kitty be on his best behavior.”
Anna, a lovely older woman, lived across the street. She would often invite me over for tea and some of her homemade Italian cookies. Her teacups looked like they should have been in a museum, as did everything else in her house. On the other hand, I liked to think of my house as having that “lived-in” look — comfortable, like an old pair of sneakers.
Anna never had a pet, so her house didn’t have scratched-up furniture or fur balls hiding in all the nooks and crannies like ours did. She did everything with grace and perfection, so I was always a little hesitant to have her in my house.
I saw Boo Boo Kitty run into the bedroom as I invited Anna to sit down. Unfortunately, the bedroom was where he got into the most trouble.
We were having a delightful conversation at the kitchen table when I heard the howling begin. I tried to ignore it even though I knew what was coming.
“How’s your garden doing this summer?” I asked Anna. Boo Boo’s howling was getting louder and closer to us.
“My tomatoes are bigger than last year,” she said, trying to hide her obvious concern over what she was hearing.
“Oh, nothing better than homegrown tomatoes,” I said. I could feel the sweat beading up on my forehead.
Boo Boo was now emitting his primal scream as he dragged a pair of my husband’s pajama bottoms into the kitchen. He must have grabbed them off a shelf. This particular day, of all days, he had the pajamas I had given my husband for Valentine’s Day — with Cupids and hearts all over them.
I still tried to act like nothing out of the ordinary was happening even though I felt like I was having an out-of-body experience. I kept babbling, “Boy, you’ll have to give me the recipe for these cookies, Anna. They’re fabulous!” She was, of course, ever the polite lady and thanked me for the compliment while shifting her eyes toward the cat. Boo Boo dropped the pajamas at her feet as if to say, “Here is a wonderful gift for you, Anna!” He looked so pleased with himself. Meanwhile, I was trying to figure out how to explain this situation to a woman who seemed perfect in every way.
We continued to chat as I tried to hide my embarrassment. I snatched up the pajamas and was pretty sure my face was redder than the hearts that covered them. I explained that Boo Boo was a shelter cat, and we had saved his life by adopting him. I went on to say, “I really love pets, but sometimes they can be kind of quirky.” I just kept chattering, and I think I even told her about all my childhood pets. I couldn’t stop talking. At this point, Boo Boo was rubbing on Anna’s leg, leaving a large patch of gray fur on her crisply ironed, navy slacks.
While I was embarrassed, Boo Boo was just the opposite. He was unabashedly sharing himself, with all his quirkiness. He didn’t care that he was dragging pajamas around the house and screaming. It was as if he wanted to say, “This is who I am, and I want you to know me.”
I thought later to myself, What a great way to be. Boo Boo taught me a lesson about not trying to be someone you aren’t. I shouldn’t have been embarrassed just because I had a weird cat.
My neighbor stayed for quite a while that day, and I thought she would never come over again, but she did several more times. I’m assuming she liked coming over because she could let her hair down and relax a bit in our way less than perfect home. She seemed to enjoy Boo Boo’s crazy antics. I know he liked her, too. He wouldn’t have given heart-covered pajamas to just anyone.
~Marijo Herndon
When Dad’s Away, the Cat Will Play
Time spent with a cat is never wasted.
~Author Unknown
I remember that warm summer evening when it all began. “Look, Mom, there’s a kitty!” My younger daughter pointed toward the empty lot next door. An orange cat crouched down, spying through the grass. Madison jumped up.
“Wait a minute.” I held my finger to my lips. “We don’t want to scare him.”
I inched toward the cat. “Hey, kitty-kitty.” Big green eyes stared back at me. “It’s okay, kitty.”
The cat straightened and meowed. Slowly, I reached for him. His body arched as I slid my hand across his back. He was friendly. I scooped him up and carried him back to the girls. He purred every step of the way.
“Don’t let him go! I’ll get him a piece of ham,” Taylor said as she ran to the house. But this cat had no desire to go anywhere. He was quite content with all the attention.
“Can we keep him, Mom? Please?” Madison clasped her hands together as if in prayer.
“You know Dad is allergic. There’s just no way.” The cat rubbed his forehead against my leg. Surely, this sweet kitty belonged to someone. “His family is probably looking for him,” I said. “We don’t want to get too attached.”
But the girls ignored that advice. By the end of the night, they had named him Toby.
It wasn’t long before Toby became a regular visitor at our house. Every day, I spotted him sitting in the sunshine on the front steps with at least one of my
girls. Someone always fed him, played with him, and showered him with attention.
We checked with neighbors, hoping to find his owner. Everyone knew about the “friendly, orange cat,” but no one knew where he came from.
By the end of summer, our next-door neighbors decided to adopt him. It was the perfect arrangement. Each day, he came by for a visit. Every night, the neighbors brought him inside. They even called him Toby.
While Toby charmed his way into our hearts, he also wanted to make his way into our home, especially on cold, dreary days.
“I think we have a stalker.” I smiled at Madison and pointed to the window. Toby propped his paws up against the glass and gazed into the house.
“It’s freezing out there,” Madison said. “Can’t we bring him inside?”
Toby peered in hopefully. I shrugged. “I suppose,” I said. “Just keep him on the rug — and be sure to vacuum when you put him back out.”
Madison arranged a blanket on the rug and made him a bed. Toby snuggled in, his paws pushing in and out with a slow and steady rhythm. “See,” Madison whispered, “he’s not hurting anyone.”
“If Dad sneezes during supper, this is the last time Toby comes in.”
Dad didn’t sneeze, so as the temperature turned colder, we became bolder.
“Can we take Toby downstairs while we watch a movie? I’ll keep him on a blanket. I’ll even vacuum later.” Madison held Toby next to her cheek and gave me an exaggerated grin. Outside, the wind howled.
“I suppose,” I said, crossing my arms. She and Toby disappeared downstairs. I followed later.
About halfway through the movie, Madison jumped up and pressed the mute button. “Is that the garage door?”
My middle daughter gasped. “Dad’s home! Put Toby out!”
Rather than boot the cat outside, Madison scooted him into a closet just as we heard footsteps coming down the stairs.
“Hey, I’m home,” Curt called out. I pictured Toby, confused and stuck in a dark closet.
Please don’t meow. Please don’t meow.
Curt walked across the room, stopped by the closet, and leaned against the door. “What’s for supper?”
“Um… chili,” I said. “It’s ready. Let’s eat.” As Curt turned toward the stairs, a little white paw reached out from under the door. But Curt hadn’t seen it. Madison and I looked at each other and exhaled in relief.
Then one night, the girls and I went to a school program. Just as the sixth-graders kicked off their version of “Hot Cross Buns,” my phone vibrated. I glanced at the text message on the screen: “Why is this cat running into our house?”
Uh-oh.
My phone buzzed again. “Obviously, someone has been letting it in the house. It acts like it owns the place.”
I leaned over to Taylor. “We’ve been busted. Dad knows we brought Toby into the house.”
“What? How?”
I shoved the phone into my purse. “Let’s just say that Toby let the cat of the bag.”
My girls and I had done a good job keeping that little family secret. The only problem was, we forgot to tell Toby. In the end, we learned a valuable lesson: Tell the truth — or someone will tell it for you. Even if that someone is a friendly, orange cat.
~Sheri Zeck
The Cat That Wouldn’t Hunt
While the cat’s away, the mice will play.
~Author Unknown
When we moved from Delaware to Florida in the late 1970s, our first order of business was to search for a building lot and get started on our house. The thin walls of apartment living added pressure, and we quickly found a lot in a subdivision not far away. It was within a bicycle ride of our apartment, and I enjoyed the exercise and visiting my husband Jim daily at the building site. However, after we moved into our new home, we found the neighbors a little too close. Within two years, we were again looking for a lot a little farther out in the country.
We fell in love with rolling hills and fields of corn. Soon, we found our perfect building site in a small, new subdivision among maize and horses. Within nine months, we were moving again. Farmland abounds in Delaware, and we felt right at home almost immediately. We loved the country atmosphere, and the closeness to shopping and all the other perks our new town had to offer.
Even a kitty found us — a stray someone must have dropped off — so now we were a family with an animal living in the country. Perfect. We named our kitty Fetcher, because Jim taught him to fetch pecans when he rolled them across the floor. Fetcher would pick them up in his mouth and bring them back every time.
One night, I was awakened by the tinkle of piano keys, and I attributed the ghostly music to Fetcher. I rolled over and went back to sleep, only to be awakened again a short while later. I got up to investigate and was surprised to see Fetcher sleeping at the foot of the bed. Now I was wide-awake and tiptoeing toward the piano. Fetcher slept on.
I saw and heard nothing, so I went back to bed, hearing no more music the rest of the night. I figured Fetcher, being the smart cat we knew him to be, was playing tricks on me.
Over breakfast the next morning, I heard the keys tinkle again. This time, I was looking at Fetcher and knew it couldn’t be him. Jim said, “Mouse.” Yes, it was harvest time, and we had a visitor. Unfortunately, he had found our piano, a spinet. Jim got busy removing the top and looking down into the inner workings, but he couldn’t find a mouse. Next, he removed the front above the pedals, but all the work was for nothing. And where was Fetcher all this time? Sleeping.
So we resorted to the old standby mousetrap — baiting it with bacon and peanut butter. Not wanting Fetcher to be caught in the trap, we placed it under the top lid of the piano and waited. Fetcher never realized he was the cat side of the cat-and-mouse team. He remained disinterested. After all, his food was lovingly prepared by staff every day and placed in his dish.
Several nights passed with more eerie music, and twice we rushed to look under the lid after hearing the pop of the spring, only to find the bacon gone and a lonely smear of peanut butter left on the trap. Fetcher found this mildly interesting, but soon he went back to sleep while I lay bug-eyed staring into the darkness, waiting for the next snap.
It got to the point that we considered adopting another cat — one that could earn its keep. Or maybe we could borrow one from a neighbor. Should we post a sign at the front of our development?
Feline mouse catcher wanted for the night. Must be well trained with a high success rate. Urgent. Reply to this number as soon as possible.
Or maybe, I thought, I should post an ad on Craigslist. Nothing would appear weird there.
Finally, the mouse did succumb to the trap, and fortunately we found no damage inside the piano. Fetcher never showed any interest in the rodent and wouldn’t even get near it when we tried to show it to him. Later, we learned that female cats are the better mousers. Instead, Fetcher was a retriever extraordinaire. He always ran after sliding pecans — and the grinding sound of the can opener. That cat sure had it good.
~Connie Biddle Morrison
Ringo’s Own Rescue
Prowling his own quiet backyard or asleep by the fire, he is still only a whisker away from the wild.
~Jean Burden, Celebration of Cats
My best friend and I worked with a rescue group called the Mercy Crusade, which was very active in the 1960s and ’70s. I believe the group is still around as a spay-and-neuter facility, but back then it was a group of people who fostered animals of all types in their homes until they could be permanently placed on ranches or air-lifted back into the wild, depending on their needs and the type of animal. The Crusade provided all the food and any needed veterinary care for the refugees until they were settled.
We had sheltered dogs, cats, reptiles, foxes, birds, and even a bobcat at one time. They would be welcomed by our permanent residents: our three girls, three dogs, multiple cats, one pigeon, and one iguana.
One rainy night, I had left the window open for our cat, Ringo, who l
iked to come and go from outside. As my husband and I slept, well bundled up in our blankets, I felt a vague thump on the bed. Thinking it was just one of the cats hopping up to snuggle down in the blankets, I rolled over and pulled the comforter up around my neck.
Then something suddenly dropped on my chest and touched my neck. There was something small and round scratching my face! Ringo was an accomplished hunter, so I screamed and brushed it onto the floor, thinking it was a rat. In a panic, my husband jumped up and turned on the light.
“It’s Ringo!” I said. “Another one of his hunting trophies.”
Ringo was renowned in the neighborhood for clearing our gardens of mice, rats, and gophers.
My husband looked around, but saw nothing by our bed. “Either a bad dream, or he took it back out the window,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”
He turned out the light, and I pulled the blanket back up around my neck, making sure there were no foreign objects in the folds. Then I heard it: a small “thump, thump, thump,” as if something was hopping around under the bed.
I reached across the bed and turned the light back on. Then I spotted Ringo sitting next to the bed, intently watching something. I looked over and saw it — a very tiny, totally black bunny was hopping around his feet. And Ringo the great hunter was just looking at it. Then he jumped on the bed and, purring, curled up at my feet.
My husband and I looked at the bunny in amazement. Ringo was now sound asleep and had forgotten the whole thing.
We got up, took out one of the large carrier cages, and made the bunny a home in the bedroom. The next day, the girls were overjoyed with Ringo’s gift and named him Spunky.
Spunky grew into a healthy, medium-sized rabbit. He became close friends with all the animals in the house, but particularly my iguana Freddy, who loved to sleep curled around the rabbit, with his head resting on the warm, soft fur of his back.