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

by Amy Newmark

  Humans can learn a lot from animals. Animals do not take nature for granted. They appreciate the beauty, stability, and rapture our world provides. I learned a lot that day. A rowdy cat, adopted from a shelter, and a thick snowfall proved to be good teachers.

  Today, I enjoy looking up at a starlit sky or crunching through autumn leaves. And the next time Memphis is blessed with snow, I’ll be right in the middle of it, bundled up, shivering, and taking pictures. And I’ll be sure to bring in a snowball for Libby Lou to chase around the hardwood floor.

  ~Sharon Rene Dick

  Bruni

  The cat has too much spirit to have no heart.

  ~Ernest Menaul

  I walked into my local Humane Society to start my volunteer shift. My co-worker was filling out the paperwork for a new resident in the cage in the corner. “Meet Bruni,” she said. “Be careful, though. He’s not happy.”

  That was a huge understatement! Malevolent, yellow eyes stared back at me as I peered into the cage. When I took a slow step toward him, a whirlwind of black-and-white fur, claws and teeth charged toward the front of the cage. Instinctively, I took a step back and looked over at my co-worker.

  “Jeez! Not happy is right! What’s his story?” I asked.

  “He was owned by an elderly Italian man who passed away,” she said. “Sadly, there is no family member willing to take him.”

  It’s a story that shelter personnel know only too well. Cats make great family pets, and they can also be wonderful pets for elderly people on their own. Unfortunately, most people don’t think about the possibility of the cat outliving the elderly person, and many cats, like Bruni, are surrendered to shelters when their owners pass away.

  “Let’s give him a few days to settle in,” I said. “We can re-assess him again after he cools down.”

  Well, a few days turned into weeks. There was no cool-down in sight. Bruni showed no signs of surrender. He glowered at anyone who dared approach his cage and terrorized the shelter staff. Most new cats that came into the cat shelter cower in the back initially, but then become comfortable with their surroundings and the shelter within a few days. Bruni offered a real challenge. Not only was he angry, but he was very frightened, too. All he had known in the first years of life was a quiet home with his owner. Now, he was caged, surrounded by anxious, stressed cats. He was a sensitive boy who needed help.

  That’s when my work with Bruni began. I tried all the tricks I had — sitting beside his cage, talking to him, tempting him with treats, attempting to engage him with toys, even bringing in a friend to speak to him in Italian. Nothing worked. He would glare unblinkingly at me, his black ears flattened to his head, daring me to put one finger inside the cage. I sighed. “You are not making it easy, are you, Bruni? You need to be the sweetheart I know you can be.” Time was of the essence, too. The longer Bruni stayed at the shelter, the more stressed he became. At this point, Bruni was unadoptable.

  I was willing to try anything to get Bruni out of his angry shell. I spoke with other volunteers, veterinarians, and cat experts, and all of them told me the same thing. Patience is what I needed, and I would find the missing key to Bruni’s heart eventually.

  Then, it happened. I was preparing his food one day, and on a whim, I decided to give him some soft food. There’s always a shortage of money at an animal shelter, so soft food is usually given only to kittens and nursing mothers. But I was at the point when I was willing to try anything. I put the soft food in his cage and sat beside him, steadily talking to him. He growled softly at me the whole time he ate. I considered that a victory. At least he wasn’t trying to rip me apart!

  On day three of my soft-food experiment, I walked into the cat shelter to start my shift, only to hear a soft pinging sound. My co-worker gestured to his cage and said, “Your boyfriend wants you!”

  I looked over to see Bruni, solemn eyes blinking at me, his claws gently tugging on the bars of his cage.

  I quickly went into the kitchen and prepared more soft food. As I walked toward him with the dish of food, he started to purr and rub against the bars. Joy flooded my heart. He was on his way to being a loving, happy cat!

  After our breakthrough, we were inseparable. I would let him out of his cage, and he would follow me around the shelter. I would pick him up, and he would sit on my lap as I did paperwork. If I stopped giving him attention, he would meow and gently bump his head against me as if to say, “Don’t stop yet!”

  My heart was in dangerous territory. I was falling in love with Bruni, but I knew that as much as I loved him, we couldn’t be together. He needed to be the only animal in a household. He really disliked other animals, and at that time, I had three dogs and a cat! I tried not to think about Bruni being adopted, but I knew the day would come when I would have to say goodbye.

  Finally, I got a call that I was dreading. “Don’t come in today,” my co-worker said. “A retired couple is coming in to take a look at Bruni. Jill, they’re perfect! He’ll have the best home.”

  My heart sank. I loved him, but I also wanted him to be happy.

  “Okay, Jude,” I answered. “Make sure they’re worthy of him.”

  When I hung up the phone, I cried. Out of all the cats I cared for at the shelter, he was the one who stole my heart.

  When we received a phone call from Bruni’s new people, my trepidation about his adoption vanished. “He walked right out of his carrier like he’d been here his whole life,” the owner said. “Right now, he’s napping with my husband on the sofa. Bruni is a real sweetheart. We love him.”

  It’s been over ten years since Bruni was adopted and I still think about him. He was my toughest assignment and also my greatest teacher. He taught me that patience is indeed a virtue.

  ~Jill Berni

  The Turtle Tabby

  You will always be lucky if you know how to make friends with strange cats.

  ~American Proverb

  For thirteen years, I worked in a low-cost, no-kill veterinary clinic as a registered veterinary technician. We were located in a poorer area of Hollywood, California, and numerous animals were abandoned at our hospital. We would patch them up and get them adopted. We were pretty good at it, too!

  Under rare circumstances, however, an adoption would not work out, and the animal was returned to us. There were many reasons — sometimes valid and sometimes ridiculous. One cat, for example, was returned to us five years after her adoption, because the owner was pregnant and feared the cat “would suck the breath” out of her new baby. Telling her this was a myth didn’t faze her.

  The returned cat, named Jasper despite being a female, was a healthy, shorthaired black, gold, and white striped tabby, a bit on the chubby side, but with huge emerald green eyes. She was a bit prickly in temperament, and that combined with the fact that she was now six years old, made her difficult to place.

  We all set about marketing this new cat. No one seemed interested, and Jasper seemed to get more impatient the longer she languished. I would let her out at night to give her some exercise and a semblance of freedom, hoping she’d settle in to clinic life.

  Fat chance of that. She snapped at us when we cleaned her cage. When we let her out, she would approach other cages and snarl at the poor patients inside. Ever the opportunist, she would reach her arm through the cage doors and steal food from the occupants. She was honestly a bit of a stinker as cats go.

  Back then, we had a client who brought in her three hand-sized box turtles regularly for exams. Our vet treated reptiles, and these were very healthy creatures. Marcela always carried her precious charges in a pink plastic tote bag. Each turtle was ensconced in its own little, hand-sewn polar fleece sleeping bag. The bags were different colors: turquoise for Pierre, red for Francois and purple for Nicola. I could never keep them straight. Marcela was an older French woman and slightly eccentric. She spoke with a heavy accent I had difficulty understanding at times.

  My co-worker, Leah, was French and fluent in the language. She and Marc
ela hit it off, so I generally let Leah deal with the quirky woman. I specialized in the cats, and Leah was the reptile expert. At some point, Leah told Marcela about Jasper.

  Marcela had recently lost her old cat and was open to getting a new one. She fell in love with testy Jasper. Marcela decided she wanted to adopt Jasper, rename her Bebe, and assign her to be her new turtle guardian.

  Leah was enthusiastic about the idea, although I remained skeptical. Leah had mastered the art of placing our “comeback kids,” the animals that were returned, but her adoptions rarely worked out. I didn’t like the idea of changing Jasper’s name, as it was the only thing she had left from her previous life, and besides, the entire concept sounded weird.

  “Cats don’t care about turtles,” I said. “Cats are snuggly, and turtles are — well, what’s with the sleeping bags anyway?”

  “Marcela has already bought new toys, food and a litter box,” Leah countered.

  I sighed. “She may be overly optimistic,” I said. This adoption would be a disaster once the woman realized what an ornery cat she was getting. I couldn’t fathom the green-eyed monster getting excited over turtles in sleeping bags. She could even harm them.

  I glanced over to Jasper, who returned a look that seemed to go right through me. “This whole idea is ridiculous. I’m against the adoption,” I said. “Besides, does Marcela really want a cat? All she seems to care about are her turtles.”

  On my next day off, Leah released Jasper to the persistent French woman. I was furious she did this behind my back and waited patiently for the cat to be returned. I only hoped Marcela wouldn’t fall ill to cat-scratch fever in the meantime. I also worried if Jasper was getting enough attention in a home that was all about turtles.

  Jasper, renamed Bebe, came back two months later. To my surprise, she was merely boarding overnight with her three turtles while their house was being exterminated. Jasper/Bebe hadn’t changed a bit in attitude. Only now, she had taken on a new protective streak.

  I stood before her cage, trying not to let my mouth hang open. The cat nested atop her turtles like a hen would sit on her eggs. She swatted at me when I tried to reach into her cage. I had to cajole her into letting me feed her turtle babies, which she allowed once she first sniffed the leafy greens. Bebe had become a cat with a job, which is exactly what a cat like her needed. She took it seriously and demanded everyone else do so as well. I found myself swallowing every negative word I’d ever uttered about the adoption.

  It was one of those ironic, symbiotic relationships. Reptiles need heat, and by sitting atop them, Bebe provided this, as well as security. At home, she herded her charges and kept them within the boundaries of the yard. She then spent her nights curled up on Marcela’s bed.

  Jasper and the turtle lady turned out to be a match made in heaven. I learned a valuable lesson from the fuzzy feline. Adoptions will always be a crapshoot, but it’s wise not to prejudge too much. You never know what will work. In the end, Jasper/Bebe had found her perfect home.

  ~Terilynn Mitchell

  Settling into Siblinghood

  Cats are mysterious folk. There is more passing in their minds than we are aware of.

  ~Sir Walter Scott

  I was scrolling through social media when my eyes suddenly grew wide at a photo my friend had posted of a black-and-white kitten. “I found this twelve-week-old cutie pie in a grocery-store parking lot,” my friend wrote. “The shelter is overflowing, so I’m fostering her until we can find her a forever home.”

  I brought the phone closer to my face, squinting to study this tiny tuxedo kitten with big soft ears, long white whiskers, and a mischievous grin that melted my heart. I could practically hear her purring through the screen.

  Her right eye was being treated for an infection, but other than that the vet had given her a clean bill of health.

  Seeing this lost and lonely kitty reminded me of the first stray I ever encountered. I was six years old, playing in my front yard, when a scruffy, scratched-up, shorthaired tabby limped by. When he saw me, he didn’t dart off the way most animals do. Instead, he stopped, dropped, and rolled, stretching out on the grass in front of me. His fur was matted with blood and saliva, and his eye was crusted shut. But his purr was strong, as was his effect on my six-year-old heart. I scooped him up and went running inside.

  “Mommy!” I yelled as I cradled the tomcat close to my chest. “This kitty needs us!”

  For the next forty-five minutes, Mom played nursemaid, using tweezers to remove claws from the kitten’s head, and cleaning his wounds with a warm washcloth and some ointment. As she worked, I thought of names for my new kitty.

  “Can we keep him?” I pleaded as I stroked his paw. “I think we should call him Furry.”

  I spent the remainder of my childhood lugging that cat around like a sack of cherished potatoes. Sometimes, I draped him over my shoulder. Other times, I picked him up under his armpits. His body went limp, his torso slumping over my forearm as his hind quarters swayed back and forth. The epitome of tolerance, Furry let me dress him in doll clothes and push him around in the stroller. Not once did he scratch or squeal. In fact, his face oozed contentment.

  This kitten also looked sweet, and I hoped that if we adopted her, my younger son, Trevyn — who was the same age I was when we took in Furry — would build those same kind of wonderful memories with a cherished pet. My older son, Kyler, already had his own memories with our twelve-year-old red tabby, who we adopted when Kyler was two. Just as my parents allowed me to name Furry, I let Kyler choose a name for his kitty. Since he was obsessed at the time with the big, singing purple dinosaur, he picked the name Barney.

  Just like Furry and I, Kyler and Barney became great friends. They spent hours together assembling puzzles, playing ball, getting drinks from the sink (well, Barney drank from the faucet as Kyler brushed his teeth), and — my personal favorite — co-napping. Kyler never fussed about taking a nap if his kitty took one with him.

  I worried, however, that having been an only pet for the past decade, Barney might not be thrilled with a new, fuzzy addition to the family.

  “So,” I said to Barney, as he came lumbering into my den like a giant jungle cat, “what would you think if I brought you home a sister?”

  He yawned and turned his head to one side, which is the same response I get from my husband when I ask him what he wants for dinner.

  When I posed the same question to my sons, they were immediately on board. So, off we went to adopt our kitten, whom we named Daisy.

  When we got home, I braced myself for an ugly match of hissing, growling, swatting, and spitting. But none of that happened. Instead, the cats touched noses, and then followed that with lots and lots of butt sniffing (apparently, that’s not only a “dog thing”). Mostly, however, Barney sat back and watched as Daisy pranced and pounced around the room, purring after every pounce.

  The look on Barney’s face said, “That kid has a ton of energy! I really must teach her the power of the nap.”

  Over the next several days, I watched as the two cats formed a true brother-sister bond — the kind where siblings are simultaneously repulsed by and drawn to each other. Daisy, desperate for a feline playmate, repeatedly batted at Barney’s twitching tail each time he ambled by. Unfazed by the fact that her new brother was three times her size, she often hurled her entire body on top of his, wrapping her paws around his torso like a sumo wrestler. Miffed, Barney turned his cheek as if he were brushing off a pesky mosquito, and she slid to the floor.

  Although Barney could have easily avoided her by securing a hiding place under a bed or in a closet, he insisted on staying in the same room as this little dynamo. It was as if he was trying to solve the riddle: “What’s black and white and bounces all over, but is not a ball?”

  Their behavior reminded me of how my children fight like cats and dogs (or, in this case, cats and cats) but still remain fiercely protective of each other. For instance, my sons scuffle on a regular basis, but should o
ne of them ever get bullied, teased, or shoved by an outsider, they declare: “Nobody lays a finger on my brother! Nobody but me!”

  The evolution of this feline friendship was fascinating to witness. One second, the cats were side-by-side, munching from their matching food dishes. The next, Daisy was ambushing her bro from behind. Later on, the two were passed out alongside each other on the back of the couch. Moments later, however, Daisy woke up from her snooze and began gnawing on Barney’s foot just for the heck of it. Paw whacking and wild wailing ensued.

  This type of “hot and cold” behavior went on for several weeks as the new siblings navigated the parameters of their relationship. Then one day, Daisy curled up in Barney’s cozy cat bed and fell fast asleep. When Barney happened upon her, I could see the wheels in his head turning.

  If there had been a cartoon bubble floating above his orange fluffy noggin, it would have read, “What is this little twit doing in my comfy space?”

  Barney then moseyed over to Daisy’s food dish and started scarfing up her kitten chow. It was “tit for tat” at its finest.

  When Daisy awoke and spotted her brother devouring her meal, she popped right up and ran to her dish. Barney then circled back to his bed and shot her a look that communicated, “You have much to learn, small fry.”

  As he stretched out in the bed Daisy had warmed for him, her eyes screamed, “Drat! I’ve been foiled!”

  I just chuckled. Clearly, I had worried for nothing. These two had seamlessly settled into siblinghood.

  ~Christy Heitger-Ewing

  Doolittle

  Until one has loved an animal, a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.