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

by Amy Newmark

  ~Anatole France

  Three days after moving my daughter cross-country from the warm waters of Florida to the Rocky Mountains of Denver for college, she said, “Mom, I miss my dogs.” I understood. Life without a pet is different, and Sofia’s beloved yellow Lab, Dino — who had been her friend since kindergarten — had passed away earlier that year. I went online in search of a local place where we could visit pets and possibly adopt one.

  While online, I noticed a place called Denver Cat Company. There, people could meet and play with rescue cats available for adoption in the area. Since I would be leaving soon, and my daughter would truly be on her own, we decided to take a taxi and visit the cats.

  We were greeted by a lovely young woman whose demeanor reminded me of a friendly librarian. People were mingling with the cats, some of whom were curled up in a window seat, sleeping lazily in the sunshine. Our first official cat greeter was a big, black shorthair named Alata. She reminded me of my first college cat, Beepers, who lived to be twenty-two years old. Beepers saw me through college graduation, my first jobs, my first firing, a marriage, two children, and she coexisted with many other animals who passed through my life, including Sofia’s beloved Lab.

  Alata was gentle and playful, but we didn’t want to separate her and her tabby brother, so we continued to mingle with the other cats. And then we saw him, an orange tabby.

  “Doolittle gets his name from the fact that he does little,” his card read.

  Having had many cats over the years, the ones that did little ranked very high on my favorites list. He was napping, of course. He had curled his large body into a tiny cat bed and was blissfully unaware of who was stroking his downy head. While he remained purring, I called my daughter over to meet him.

  He stretched to greet her, but a rather possessive calico that had taken a liking to me began to bat him, despite him being twice her size. His reaction — priceless. Rather than fight back, he just kept his eyes closed and backed slowly into the corner away from her wrath. As she got closer, he lifted himself so that he was standing on two legs, with his eyes still closed, paws up against the corner of the window. When she swung one last time, he simply leapt over her and onto the floor, heading to the food bowl.

  Now we could see Doolittle’s big copper eyes, too. We were smitten. The kind “librarian” approached and offered Sofia an application for adoption. Doolittle was a house favorite that had been passed up for adoption once before. With his gentle ways and ordinary tabby colors, he was frequently overlooked. As it turned out, though, he did tricks. For treats, he would leap off the stairs in a sort of somersault.

  At first, Sofia was hesitant to apply. “What if I don’t get accepted as a parent? What if I do? Can we afford him? What if my roommate doesn’t like him? What if he’s afraid of us?” I realized at that moment that adopting this cat was exactly what she needed to do — to grow her confidence and mature — but I knew the decision had to be hers. Together, we filled out the forms, figuring she could make the final decision if her application was accepted.

  We spent a bit more time with Doolittle, taking pictures. Even when a small girl of about four crunched his tail while he was eating, Doolittle never swatted at her. He simply let out a meow and touched her little foot with his paw as if to say, “Excuse me, but that hurts.” And then he went back to eating. We left that day with a bit of hope, but also a bit of trepidation about whether or not this adoption would happen.

  Two weeks went by, and I had returned to my Florida home after a weepy goodbye at the Denver airport. Sofia and her roommate seemed to be settling in. Then, I got an excited call.

  “Mom, I need you to tell me what to do. I qualified for Doolittle. I can adopt him. Should I?” Those of us who have had an older teen live for this moment — that time when your child, who “knew it all” before going off to college, suddenly wants your opinion! But Sofia had called me while I was in a crowded Orlando restaurant, and I blew it.

  “I can’t tell you what to do. This is your new family and your new life. He’ll be a big responsibility, but as pets go, cats are great companions. No one knows for sure how they’ll act or if it will work out, but you won’t know if you don’t try. My advice is to take your roommate to meet Doolittle. If they like each other, do it.”

  I knew she needed this big, furry beast in her life, but I didn’t want to tell her what to do. I didn’t tell her that Doolittle reminded me of the cat that Sofia had loved when she was a little girl. Rascal was a huge, brown tabby I had adopted a few years after Beepers, and he became my favorite cat ever. He was loving, cuddly, and kind, and when Sofia came along, he slept in her crib and let her dress him up and carry him around like a doll. He died when she was only five years old, and I cried for days. Something about Doolittle’s demeanor almost made me feel that Rascal was with us again, to be reunited with Sofia.

  Sofia did adopt Doolittle, and he bounded out of his crate and into her heart the day she brought him home. He loves to cuddle with Sofia, and he follows her around the house, telling her all about his day. He defends her from any bugs that enter the apartment and greets her friends when they visit, just as Rascal had done many years before.

  Going off to college away from home is hard. I’m so grateful to Denver Cat Company for bringing Doolittle into Sofia’s life. And the feeling that Sofia has her own “Rascal” now, in Doolittle, makes my days of missing her just a little bit easier.

  ~Keturah Mazo

  For the Love of Maggie

  In ancient times, cats were worshipped as gods; they have not forgotten this.

  ~Terry Pratchett

  From the day we met, Ralph and I were like peas and carrots. We enjoyed the same things, talked until our jaws hurt, burst into laughter over the silliest nonsense, and each thought the other hung the moon. It was almost perfect, except for a slight difference of opinion.

  I wanted a cat.

  He didn’t.

  “What do you have against cats?” I demanded.

  “Grandma’s cat bit me when I was six. I don’t like them.”

  “You’re such a baby,” I giggled. “Most kitties are wonderful.”

  Over the next few months, I used every sales technique I knew to get him to say yes.

  He wouldn’t budge.

  Then one day, a stray calico appeared on our front porch and helped me close the deal. She was carrying a heavy load: a tummy packed so full of kittens that we could feel her belly writhe as they jostled for space.

  “I think Dorothy would be a nice name,” my new husband remarked, stroking her fur as the mom-to-be snuggled against him.

  Amazing.

  A few days later, Dorothy made us grandparents, and our home was never cat-less again.

  Six years ago, we adopted a nineteen-pound gentle giant named Simon. White with black spots, he’s gorgeous and a world-class cuddler.

  If Simon had a résumé, his profession would be “surface tester.” Moving from chair to bed, sofa to floor, Simon is all about comfort.

  For the first few years, he was alone much of the day, but didn’t seem to mind. We made it up to him by showering him with love when we returned from work.

  Then, out of the blue, Simon began to mope. I knew he wasn’t sick because he ate like a horse. He groomed himself fastidiously. And he certainly didn’t lack for attention.

  But something was off. He’d stare out the window for hours. Playtime didn’t interest him.

  “Get him a friend,” suggested my friend Aimee. “He’s probably lonely and bored. Imagine being the only one in the house who understands what meow means.”

  She had a point.

  After a ninety-second family discussion, we went to the animal shelter to find a buddy for Simon. A volunteer led Ralph and our daughter Julie through the cage area, while I was directed to the Kitty Kat Room. Inside was wall-to-wall adorableness. I sat down, and I was claimed within seconds by a young tabby named Sid. He purred, bumped my chin, and settled into my arms. Of cours
e, my heart melted.

  I was about to announce that the search was over and I’d found Simon’s soul mate when Ralph and Julie barreled through the door making the same claim.

  Sid’s competition was a ten-month-old female named Maggie. She had big green eyes, long white whiskers, and black fur with white spots — the opposite of our white-fur-with-black-spots Simon.

  “Please, can we take her home?” Julie begged.

  When she heard the word “home,” Maggie poured on the charm… for them. But she wouldn’t let me near her. After fifteen minutes of coaxing, I was over it.

  “C’mon, guys, she doesn’t like me. I found a sweet, little boy next door. Let’s get him.” Their distraught faces made it clear that we weren’t adopting Sid.

  “I hope you like me better when we get home,” I muttered, loading her into the car.

  When Simon met Maggie, his inhospitable growl conveyed the message that his home was his castle, and interlopers weren’t welcome. Undeterred by his rudeness, Maggie strolled across the drawbridge and made herself comfortable.

  For the first month, their spats were endless: tussling, swatting, and hissing. Once, when Maggie snatched one of Simon’s catnip mice and dashed upstairs, he looked at me with bewildered eyes as if to say, “Why are you doing this to me?” One thing was certain. Our gentle giant was no longer lonely.

  Maggie was a constant source of amusement, from her bowlegged sprints down the stairs to her sneak attacks on Simon while he was testing surfaces. She lay on her back like a dead bug as she watched TV, and licked the ice cubes bobbing in everyone’s glasses but mine. Ralph and Julie lavished love on her and spoiled her rotten. I was permitted to feed her, but that was it.

  Every attempt to show her affection was met with a firm rebuff. If I tried to pet her, she’d allow me to lightly touch the tip of a whisker or brush my finger over a tiny white paw before running away. I would cuddle with Simon and coax her to join us. She never did. She was so cute that I couldn’t help but adore her, but a mom-and-daughter relationship appeared hopeless.

  Then one day, I was cleaning out a drawer and came across Maggie’s adoption paperwork. I opened the envelope and began to read. The intake volunteer had written “suspected abuse.” Maggie’s former owner was a woman. Her cage tag was also included. It stated that she was “due out” two days after we adopted her. Due out. My eyes filled with tears of pity.

  When Julie found Maggie, she was frightened and unwanted. She wasn’t in the Kitty Kat Room with Sid and the more adoptable cats. If we hadn’t come along when we did, she’d have likely taken a sad, one-way trip across the Rainbow Bridge like so many before her. Perhaps in some small way, I reminded Maggie of her former owner and she couldn’t trust me. It never occurred to me that events from her past might have been what kept us from becoming friends.

  I knew what to do! Ralph brushed Maggie each night before bed, which was the highlight of her day. She’d wiggle around as he tickled her tummy and preen as he smoothed her fur. It was Maggie’s idea of heaven. The next evening, I got the brush and sat down on the sofa. Maggie saw the brush, jumped onto the sofa, and meowed. I put the brush in front of her and she sniffed it and began rubbing her head against the bristles. Then she inched closer to me with an expectant look in her big green eyes. It was an invitation and a miracle. With each stroke, her impenetrable walls began to crumble.

  Now Maggie follows me everywhere. She curls up next to me as I watch TV; she lies by my chair as I write. She drops a catnip mouse at my feet, expecting a game of toss and fetch. She wants the ice cubes in my drinks and burrows under our sheets at night.

  I can’t scoop her up and cuddle her as I do Simon. That’s not who she is. There’s still a line that I’m not permitted to cross, but at last my Maggie loves me. And the love of a cat is a beautiful thing.

  ~Michelle Close Mills

  Purr-fectly Paired

  We quickly discovered that two kittens were much more fun than one.

  ~Allen Lacy

  My middle son loves animals. For years, he wanted a pet — and not just any pet. He wanted a furry pet. But with infant twins in the house, taking on the responsibility of a pet wasn’t high on my priority list.

  However, when the twins turned three, we decided it was time. After much deliberation, we decided to adopt a kitten. We saw a flyer posted by a lady who rescues stray cats. She had found tiny kittens under a car, and she was now ready to give them away to their forever homes. Perfect! I took my four boys over to pick out a kitten after school. One kitten. One sweet little fur ball. Or so I thought.

  We went to the cat lady’s home and played with the kittens, trying to find the one that would be the best fit for our family. But as we talked with her, it became clear that she was not willing to give us just one kitten. We had to take two. Two? I had just gotten used to the idea of one pet! “Single-cat syndrome,” she said. “Go home and look it up.” Sigh.

  So I looked it up. Apparently, single-cat syndrome was a real thing. Many kittens who grow up without a feline playmate can develop an aggressive personality. Nipping and clawing at children can become commonplace, not out of meanness necessarily, but out of an instinctive desire for cat-play. Kittens bite, wrestle, and pounce on each other. It’s adorable! But when a cat decides to bite, wrestle, and pounce on a child — not so adorable. All of a sudden, having two pets seemed less like a burden and more like a blessing.

  “Great,” said the cat lady when I told her our decision. “One for each of your twins, after all.” We went to pick them up while the older boys were in school. Surprise! Two furry pets! We named them Vader and Obi because Star Wars is the thing in our house these days.

  That night, after the kids were in bed and the trauma of a new place started to diminish, the kittens came out to do their thing. They pounced. They chased. They wrestled. They were so happy and cute! Then they curled up right next to each other and went to sleep in companionable comfort. No single-cat syndrome here.

  I understood. I had seen it before, after all. My twin boys are the best of friends. They invent games that no one else understands. They pounce. They chase. They wrestle. And ever since my twins were babies, they have been my best sleepers. Like most twin mamas, I laid them side-by-side in the same crib when they were tiny. Somehow, they knew they had their best friend there, and they slept easily and peacefully in that comfort.

  Yes, having two cats has been wonderful for the cats’ sakes. But having two kittens has been particularly wonderful for our family, too. For one thing, the cat lady was right — one for each twin. Daytime playtime with the cats is even-steven, which is a nice benefit for twins.

  There are much deeper benefits, as well. For instance, my twins and their brothers have learned how to care for the cats collectively and as individuals, in a way that would not be possible with just one in the house. There’s no competition for who will take care of Vader or who will play with Obi, as I feared there might be. Instead, I’ve watched the boys learn empathy by gauging what the cats’ unique moods may be. Sometimes they’re playful, sometimes cuddly, and sometimes they just want to be left alone.

  And because both cats may not be feeling the same way at the same time, the kids have learned to respect each one individually. This is a valuable life skill that will translate to dealing with humans for years to come. And it’s especially helpful in a household that contains twins, who naturally tend to be seen as a “set” when they actually are not.

  Having our cats has helped all my kids learn selflessness and responsibility, as well. The cats share bowls and litter boxes, much like my twins share clothes and cups — out of convenience. Therefore, my kids trade responsibility for the cats’ food, water, and cleanliness, forcing them to take turns and think about equality and service.

  Getting two kittens was definitely the right decision for our family. The cats are happy. The people are happy. And we’re even more keenly aware of something we already knew — having two is never a burden; it’s a
lways a blessing.

  ~Melissa Richeson

  Old Cat New Calling

  There are many intelligent creatures in the universe and they are all owned by cats.

  ~Author Unknown

  Petey first came into the clinic where I work as a vet tech for a “sick kitty appointment.” His orange-and-white coat was very thin and had black flakes like he was flea-bitten — but he had no fleas. He was emaciated and his eyes were slightly sunken. The tests showed he had developed diabetes and had other issues.

  A new family member — a firstborn human baby sister — had recently been introduced to his household, and Petey had gone on a hunger strike. He was fading day by day. He had lost five pounds from his twelve-pound body. His owners were frantic. They had tried everything.

  Days later, I looked at the schedule for the next day of appointments. I saw Petey’s name in purple. Purple in our clinic means euthanasia. My heart sank. That night I was unable to sleep; I woke my husband begging to keep him. My husband pointed out the obvious: we had two big dogs and that wouldn’t be a good environment for Petey to rest and recover.

  I went to work the next day with a heavy heart. Around lunchtime, I finally broke down and told my co-workers what was on my mind. They all agreed with my plan. I called Petey’s owner and asked her if she would surrender him to me.

  Luckily, his owner answered the phone and was elated at the call. There might be hope for Petey! His mother of nine years had been weeping for days and seeking solutions for months. I could tell that she was grief-stricken and just didn’t know what to do. I also knew that I could help, and that this kitty still had a future.

  The first step in Petey’s recovery was to keep him at the hospital for a few weeks. I had to get his insulin regulated if he had any hope of being adoptable. I was basically stalling while getting the word out to clients about him.

  After a while, I got tired of seeing Petey caged up. One of my co-workers let him out one day, but we all knew that the boss would probably not be okay with another clinic cat. We already had one who lived there full-time. Nevertheless, we let Petey stroll around, and my twenty co-workers and I acted as if nothing was different. We made no effort to point him out to our employer, Dr. Greg. We pretended the cat was invisible. Dr. Greg said nothing, and we did not ask what he was thinking.