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

by Amy Newmark

  Lylah was not a cuddly girl. Her medium-long fur was like glistening satin, and she quickly established her panther-like credentials by becoming the best mouser of our four cats. She was mischievous, always poking her nose into places that were supposedly off-limits. Our gang of four routinely spent their days exploring or lounging in the sun. But Lylah was a bit of a lone wolf, more interested in chasing lizards or field mice, climbing a tree, or rolling herself up in a carpet.

  Our three other cats didn’t always cozy up to Lylah, but that suited her just fine. While not interested in cuddling, she was very loyal to me. Every morning, she’d lick my face until she was satisfied that I was sufficiently groomed to face the world.

  The years passed, and our furry family changed. Lylah lost her three feline companions and our dog wasn’t really a suitable substitute. After a respectful period of time, we adopted Koka, a rambunctious kitten who turned out to be more of an annoyance than a partner. Lylah was not a happy camper.

  Then, to make things worse, came our move from California to Michigan. The furniture went by van, Charles took the dog in his car, and I piled the two cats in mine. Off we drove, stopping along the way in motels that allowed pets. Everything went well until our fateful stay at Motel 6 in Laramie, Wyoming.

  As we loaded the cars to leave Laramie, Charles opened the door to let our old dog out. I loaded Koka into his crate, and then turned to gather up Lylah, but she was nowhere to be found. She had slipped out beside the dog, quickly disappearing into a vast, open space behind the motel that was being excavated for a new development.

  I was frantic. Charles put Koka and the dog in the cars, and then joined me in walking for hours searching for Lylah. Broken-hearted, we finally had to leave in order to meet the van with the furniture at our new house. We gave the office manager a description of Lylah and left my phone number.

  Lylah had been wearing a bright, pink collar and tags, and was (blessedly) microchipped. I called the registry, Home Again, to report her missing and provide our new address in Michigan. Next, I contacted the Laramie Animal Control officer and designed a flyer, which was circulated electronically to all the vets and rescue groups in the area of the motel.

  We prayed a lot. Lylah was a resourceful girl, an accomplished outdoor explorer and hunter. She had run away from home a few times over the years, and after posting flyers and searching our neighborhood, we recovered her every time. Yet this was different; we were driving in the opposite direction from where she had seen us last.

  We continued checking in with Home Again and Laramie Animal Control several times a day from Michigan. The days stretched into weeks, and we could only hope Lylah would be found by some loving person who would turn her into the shelter, or adopt and love her for life.

  Then, we got the call. Lylah had been found! According to the shelter director, Lylah had returned to the room we vacated after she tired of her great adventure. The door had been left wide open by the cleaning staff one day and she apparently slipped in thinking that we were there. When the door was closed, she was trapped without food or water, except for what she got from the toilet bowl.

  Days later, the room was rented to another guest who asked for a pet-friendly room so he could enjoy the evening with his dog. As he related later, when he opened the door, a beautiful black cat with huge amber eyes was sitting on a chair staring at him. He shut the door and ran to the office.

  “I didn’t mean a room with a pet already in it… I brought my own!” he exclaimed. The manager quickly realized that it must be Lylah, and contacted Animal Control. They successfully captured her and turned her over to the shelter, where the director was almost as thrilled as we were.

  Springing Lylah from a Wyoming shelter while we were ensconced in our new Michigan home turned out to be a bit of a challenge. She had to be checked out by a vet and then crated in an appropriate carrier. Then they had to find a volunteer to take her to the airport in Cheyenne… an hour’s drive away. They found that amazing volunteer, who worked with dog rescues and was used to shuttling lost pets. He drove an hour from Cheyenne to pick her up, boarded her overnight at his home, and got her on a plane to Detroit. Home Again made all her travel arrangements and paid for her flight… all part of their service, as she had been found over 500 miles from our home. Amazing!

  When we picked up Lylah at the Detroit Metro Airport, she was noticeably thinner. She was greeted by a very happy kitten and dog, not to mention the overwhelming affection Charles and I showered on “Miss Adventure,” as we took to calling her. While she enjoyed the views of her new world from the many windows in our Michigan house, she never again appeared interested in venturing out into the world. That, and her new habit of drinking water from the toilet bowl, were the only reminders of her Wyoming travels.

  First rescued at ten weeks of age, Lylah was rescued again at age fourteen. If cats truly have nine lives, I wonder how many she had before the two she shared with us. Lylah, our “Miss Adventure,” will always be remembered as one of a kind!

  ~Sue Ross

  Hospitality Cat

  Meow is like aloha — it can mean anything.

  ~Hank Ketchum

  I was a half-hour late starting my morning baking routine at our family-owned bed-and-breakfast. I rushed to the back room and pulled out my mixing bowls and ingredients. Then I froze. Oh, no! Mouse droppings! I grabbed everything and dashed to the kitchen to shove the dishes in a disinfecting wash. Then I raced back and scrubbed the table and counters. Ugh! I could not ignore this situation. I double-checked the food containers to be positive nothing had gotten to them. Everything looked clean once again.

  Crisis averted, I managed to get breakfast ready on time. After morning coffee with our guests, I set out to start the laundry. While I worked, I thought back on my unwelcome find from the morning. Our B&B is along a river in rural Washington. It is common to see a variety of animals, but none of them should be in my pantry!

  Later that afternoon, I sipped a glass of iced tea while scrolling through social media. A pair of big, green eyes caught my attention. The eyes belonged to a cat. Not a kitten, but a young cat. His eyes spoke directly to me: “I will solve your dilemma.” No, I thought to myself. We can’t do that. Our bed and breakfast has a no-pet policy. What would we do with a cat?

  As my day continued, I couldn’t erase that little face from my mind. I gave in and called the number on the notice. After a brief phone conversation, I announced to my family we were going to meet a cat. We piled into the car and started our hour-long ride to the remote hunting lodge where the cat lived. I attempted to downplay the situation. “Don’t be too hopeful,” I said. Maybe this cat wouldn’t work out. We required him to be an expert mouser, but he also needed to stay away from the guests and out of the guest rooms. As we drove, I relayed what details I knew about the cat.

  He was six months old. He had no name. It appeared he was a skilled hunter, which is why the family that owned him needed to get rid of him. The cat needed rescuing. They lived in an area with an abundance of rattlesnakes. The cat had been seen hunting the snakes. He was young and naïve and didn’t know that playing with rattlers could be the “curiosity that killed the cat.”

  We arrived at the turnoff for the dirt road that led to the lodge and bounced along over the rocks and ruts. Once we arrived, we piled out of the car and knocked on the door. A young lady answered. “We’re here to look at the cat,” I told her.

  “Come in,” she replied. “I will try to find him.”

  Soon, she returned with a huge, magnificent, tabby-striped, allboy cat in her arms. We approached to pet him. Not impressed, his facial expression said, “Who are you people, and why are you touching me?” He was not mean, but it was obvious he wanted nothing to do with us. I had been sure our connection would be instant, so I was disappointed. After a quick family talk, we agreed to take him on a trial basis. We needed him to hunt mice. It would be better if he was somewhat aloof and didn’t want to interact with the guests or u
s. Silent, but deadly — that would work!

  Thus, the cat we named Oliver came to live with us.

  He did hunt mice. In fact, I never saw one in the back kitchen after Oliver arrived. Hunting mice was Oliver’s passion, but greeting and taking care of our guests became his life mission. Within one week of his arrival, he had the B&B schedule memorized. He showed up at check-in time to scope out the petting potential of the new arrivals. We provided specific guidelines to our guests regarding our no-pet policy and emphasized that these rules included Oliver. He had other plans. He felt positive it was his responsibility to examine each room as guests were bringing in their luggage. Maybe he wanted to make sure there was nothing that could potentially harm them hiding in their rooms. We worried our guests might find him annoying, but they did not, and he soon became very popular. Pictures and stories of him popped up on Facebook and in our guestbook. Our social-media friends and followers enjoyed the pictures I posted of Oliver. People dropped by during the day just to meet him.

  Oliver took what he perceived to be his duty seriously, making sure that everybody came downstairs for breakfast at 8:00 sharp. If they were late, he positioned himself outside their door and waited. He followed guests up and down the stairs and took time to make himself available for petting therapy if needed. Petting always culminated in a reward of a deep, rumbling purr. For those who desired something rougher, he pounced, wrestled and played, but always kept his claws pulled back so he didn’t hurt anyone.

  As the days rolled on and summer turned into fall, our B&B reservations slowed. Soon, tourist season would end for the year. One morning, we had no overnight guests for the first time since Oliver had arrived. As I went through my morning chores, I could see Oliver running up and down the stairs. I wondered what he was doing. Then I stepped outside and looked up from the stairs toward the guest rooms. There was Oliver sitting on the deck above me with his head poking through the banister railings. He stared off into the distance, and then glanced at me and made a miserable little cry. Now I understood the problem. It was past 8:00 in the morning, and no people had come for breakfast. No guests were in the rooms. Oliver was searching for “his” people. He appeared confused and perplexed. Poor Oliver.

  It has been almost a year since Oliver came to live at the B&B. He has learned to accept that sometimes there are no guests to pet him in the morning. He has achieved great success hunting mice. He has spent long “night shifts” patrolling the property and protecting his loved ones. But he has also captured the hearts of all who meet him.

  Oliver is the embodiment of sociability. He puts the guests first and is ready to do his part to make their stay at our B&B special and memorable. Oliver is our very own hospitality cat.

  ~Connie Nice

  Mr. Princess

  As anyone who has ever been around a cat for any length of time knows cats have enormous patience with the limitations of the human kind.

  ~Cleveland Amory

  Growing up, one of the best things that ever happened to me was when my mother brought home Princess. She was gorgeous, a fluffy Creamsicle-looking cat with big, blue eyes and a sweet disposition. Only, when Princess went to her first vet appointment, we got a bit of a shock. Princess was a prince! But the name stuck. He was thenceforth known as Mr. Princess: household pet and my best friend. I could tell plenty of stories about him, but there’s one that I return to, year after year. It happened when my sister Kiah was in diapers.

  From the time she could walk, Kiah was nicknamed Houdini. The name was apt; she escaped every restraint we could devise, from car seats to high chairs. This included clothing. And despite child-locking every door on the house, she always seemed to get past those as well.

  One blistering hot August afternoon, we decided to go for a swim. The pond was only a few minutes from our house, a short drive.

  It did very little to cool us down, so once we were back at the house, we sat around in nothing but our swimsuits. Kiah was in her diaper. Even Mr. Princess lounged on the windowsill, looking uncomfortable. However, in our haste to get out of the heat and back into the house, my mother had left her wedding ring on the wooden swing set at the pond. Naturally, when she realized this, she flew from the house, promising to be back in a matter of minutes. We all nodded lazily. Even that little amount of movement felt like work.

  I remember how pleasant it felt, lying on the couch with a warm breeze floating over me. I was drowsy after our dip, so much so that I was asleep almost as soon as I heard the back door slam to announce my mother’s departure. And I would’ve stayed asleep there, under the fan, if Mr. Princess hadn’t started howling.

  I woke immediately. He had a deafening meow on a good day — even the vet called him a “talker” — but this was different. He was clearly agitated.

  But we were hot and lazy, and my father yelled at Mr. Princess with as much energy as he could muster. The cat kept yowling, pacing the windowsill and getting louder by the second. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Something was very, very wrong.

  Absently, I noticed that Kiah was no longer in the room.

  Dad kept yelling, but Mr. Princess was screaming by now. I made my way to the window, hoping that I could calm him down by stroking his back or scratching his chin, but I was wrong. When I got to him, he was staring out the window, and for good reason.

  My sister was toddling into the middle of the road, wearing nothing but her diaper and her curly, red hair.

  The world stood still for a moment, with my cat slashing at the window screen, and my own shriek piercing the air.

  There were cars out there, and they went too fast on this road. Mom and Dad always said as much. How could I get there fast enough?

  I ran so fast out the front door and onto the asphalt that my feet burned. I felt like a streak of lightning. And when I got to Kiah, she was nearly to the center line. I scooped my gurgling sister into my arms and sprinted back into the house, my heart thumping.

  Even once we were inside, I was shaking. I couldn’t let go of her, even when she fussed and pushed against me with her little limbs. Mom was going to kill us when we told her.

  She didn’t, though. That night, she held Kiah in her lap a little longer than usual, and she fed Mr. Princess a whole can of tuna along with his normal food.

  There is one big reason why my sister turned seventeen this summer, and that is Mr. Princess. He was a pretty cat with a silly name, but he saved her life. I have never stopped being grateful to him for that.

  Mr. Princess died peacefully in my arms last year after fifteen years as my best friend. He was there for me through breakups and disasters, through high school, college, my first job, and even a car accident that we both came through unscathed. When I held him for the last moments of his life, I realized how lucky I was to have been his person.

  There will never be another Mr. Princess.

  ~Stormy Corrin Russell

  Up a Tree

  When a cat chooses to be friendly, it’s a big deal because a cat is picky.

  ~Mike Deupree

  Our rescue cat, Mouse, had been Queen of the Hill for some time when another feline entered her realm in the form of a little, orange kitty. It was a ray of sunshine for our family, but for Mouse, it was a home invasion.

  We had found the stray one rainy afternoon by our back porch. It had no tags and was in dire need of nourishment. Mouse did not share our tender feelings for the interloper, even though we had rescued her as well, adopting her from a shelter. She hissed and swatted at the tiny thing.

  The kids didn’t want to take the kitty — named Peaches for its bright, orange fur — to a shelter. Mouse would just have to adjust and learn a little humility. She’d have to share some of the attention that was heretofore exclusively hers.

  The situation remained in standoff mode for several days. Peaches quickly learned to be wary of the older, bigger cat. We all hoped that Mouse would come around eventually.

  Mouse had long since become strictly an indoo
r cat, showing little interest in the outside world other than to watch the birds and squirrels go through their antics around the bird feeder and a display of peanuts. When she wasn’t watching life pass by from the comfort of a windowsill, she was usually stretched out across the middle of a bed, drifting from one lazy dream to another.

  I wondered if she had reached the point where she would observe a rodent or a beastly bug scuttling in front of her with no more enthusiasm than a yawn. But because of Peaches, we tried to make sure unattended doors were closed, worried that Mouse’s intimidating tactics might cause Peaches to run outside. With kids coming in and out constantly, that would prove to be a daunting task.

  Sure enough, on a November day when the weather was turning cold, Peaches was nowhere to be found. After an hour of searching, my wife heard a frightened “meow” from the back yard. Camouflaged among the oranges and browns of a tree’s remaining leaves was the little pussycat, perched precariously on a high limb.

  I was called upon to retrieve a ladder and attempt to coax Peaches down. Anyone who’s ever had a cat up a tree knows that an accident is only one wrong move away. Peaches only climbed higher as I wondered how much a call to the fire department might be. Our son wanted to climb the tree, but I didn’t want a broken arm or leg to complicate the situation.

  Then, something amazing happened. Mouse, our lazy indoor cat, ventured from the house. She jumped on the tree trunk and started to climb, her seldom-used claws finding purchase in the hard bark. To my knowledge, Mouse had never climbed anything more daunting than stair steps. As the rest of us stood by, mouths agape, Mouse climbed to the limb Peaches was glued to.

  “Don’t you dare hurt that kitty, Mouse,” my wife pleaded in a bit of a panic.

  But that wasn’t Mouse’s intent. She was on a mission of mercy. She meowed at the younger cat and started back toward the tree trunk. It’s hard to say what transpired between the two felines that day, but Peaches carefully followed Mouse down the tree. My wife and I each grabbed a cat and nuzzled it before returning to the security of the indoors.