by Amy Newmark
Something definitely changed that day because Mouse approached Peaches later and licked her ears. The holidays were approaching, and we all had something unexpected to be thankful for — harmony within the household. An uneasy truce had been replaced with acceptance, by a feline who ended up showing compassion and courage when we least expected it.
~Troy Seate
Miraculous Mira
A cat is a tiger that is fed by hand.
~Vakaoka Genrin
My child’s cry split the air like a sonic boom. We were having our usual Sunday morning biscuits in front of cartoons, just like we did every week. I had run to the kitchen to grab napkins while my husband handed out the food. In that quick moment, life went from happy and peaceful to terror-filled — at least until I returned to the living room.
My husband was in his customary place on the floor with tears of laughter streaming down his face, while my youngest son battled for his life… well, his biscuit. One of our new kittens, rescued from a storm drain during a flood, was inching her way across the living room with the biscuit wrapper in her mouth. The biscuit itself was about the same size as her, and she was moving slowly. But my son couldn’t seem to get the paper away from her. His older brothers had joined their father in gales of laughter, and I couldn’t help giggling myself.
The sight of this tiny kitten backing across the floor with a wrapper almost twice her size and a biscuit that weighed as much as she did filled our entire family with mirth. I just wish we’d had the presence of mind to snap a picture.
And this wasn’t the only time Mira proved herself to be a food thief. One of her favorite items to abscond with was pizza. Even as a baby, she would try to drag pieces of pizza larger than herself out of the box. At some point, the boys figured out how to stop her, so she no longer got very far. Still, though, it was entertaining, if not exactly sanitary.
But that wasn’t all there was to Mira. As she got older, she showed herself to be more and more like her grandmother, a calico that always seemed not quite completely cat-like. She didn’t resemble her progenitor in appearance; Mira was a gray-and-black tabby with a white underbelly. But she had that same sense of family, of willingness to look out for people, that Kali had possessed.
Late at night, with the children in bed, my husband and I would sit in the living room and play video games or watch movies. We’d keep the lights off and burn lightly scented candles to provide a peaceful atmosphere. Always, Mira would join us. She’d rub her soft fur against our faces and then trot off down the hall to the boys’ room. We watched on numerous occasions as Mira moved from one bed to the other, giving each child a gentle nudge with her head. She’d sniff them, and then she’d choose one to lie beside for a while. Throughout the night, she’d move from one child to another, resting a bit with each one.
Several years later, we moved to the neighboring town. The house was old and sat beside a cow pasture. In the spring, the scent of privet dominated the yard, and when it ceased to bloom in the hotter months, the odor of cows permeated everything. But it was a great place for the cats to roam, and Mira loved it. More than once, she chased the cows through the pasture, though we always wondered what she’d do with one when she caught it.
It was during this time that our family movie night was disturbed by a rattle and crash in the kitchen. Our Chinese food sat before us on the carpet, and we wondered why the aroma of General Tso’s Chicken Shrimp Lo Mein hadn’t attracted our resident food thief. Regardless of the meal, we could always count on Mira to be right there, doing what she could to commandeer some for herself. Our assumption was that she was outside doing cat stuff, so we let it go and set some aside for her.
Crash. Rattle. Thud.
We all looked at each other.
“What was that?” our oldest asked.
Their father sighed. “I’ll go look.”
He climbed to his feet and headed for the kitchen, but he didn’t get any farther than the dining room. He stopped and jumped backward, and I was on my feet in a moment, food forgotten.
“Get the door open!”
It wasn’t his words that spurred me to action, but the tinge of fear in his voice. I hopped across the living room, telling the boys to stay put, and wrenched open the front door. My husband passed me and opened the screen door that led outside from the porch.
“What…?”
I didn’t get out the question.
Mira trotted out of the kitchen with a water moccasin in her mouth.
The snake was about four feet long and squirmed in her grasp. Black, shiny skin reflected the light, and the scent of reptile filled the living room. But no matter how much it wriggled, Mira held on tightly. She looked straight ahead to where we’d opened the way for her and carried the moccasin out of the house and into the yard.
She promptly dropped it in front of the steps and returned to the living room for some of our Chinese dinner. I guess she thought she’d earned it. We agreed.
Life with Mira was like that. She loved the boys fiercely, though it seemed, sometimes, like she was a bit confused that their kittenhood lasted so long. And don’t think for a moment that she hesitated to treat them like her own. She’d swat them on the nose, the ankle, or whatever body part she could reach if she thought they needed to be disciplined. She continued to guard the house against snakes wriggling in through the kitchen sink drain, and she was always there with a soft purr or an encouraging head-butt whenever anyone in the house needed her.
~Lissa Dobbs
Gingham, the Hero Cat
Cats are cats… the world over! These intelligent, peace-loving, four-footed friends — who without prejudice, without hate, without greed — may someday teach us something.
~James Mackintosh Qwilleran
I’d never had a cat and never thought about having one, but how could I say “no” to the adorable child holding the box? It was a gift at the end of a wonderful school year. My eager third-graders huddled around, waiting to see if I’d accept it.
In the box were two six-week-old kittens curled up fast asleep. One was a calico and the other a gray tabby. I was assured they would grow up to be wonderful mousers. I sighed. Me and my big mouth. Just last week, I had told my third-graders about the mice in the straw bales skirting my trailer. In the box was their answer to my problem. I took the box and forced a smile. My students cheered. Soon, there were two litter boxes with two bags of litter, two water dishes, and two food dishes with two bags of kitten food adorning my desk.
Throughout the afternoon, the kittens dozed on and off. But when they were awake, they fussed and spit at each other in their box. They didn’t seem to like each other despite being littermates. They’d fight until they wore themselves out. Then they would curl up as far away from each other as they could and fall asleep. At the end of the day, I carried the box home while my students trailed behind carrying the kittens’ gear. The kittens slept soundly at opposite ends of the box. When we reached the trailer, my dog, Sasha, joined the parade. Up the steps and into the trailer we went. The children quickly dropped the kittens’ things and hurried away. I didn’t have a clue what to do next.
The calico didn’t get along with Sasha or me any better than she did with her brother. So a friend of mine adopted her. I named the friendly little guy who remained Gingham, and he was soon bedmates and best friends with Sasha. I always smile when remembering Gingham pouncing on Sasha’s tail and waiting for a ride. The two of them spent a great deal of time together, and that became their favorite game. Sasha would lie down on the tile floor, and Gingham would pounce. As soon as he was stretched out on Sasha’s tail, she would begin sweeping it back and forth. Even when Gingham was full-grown, Sasha still managed to give Gingham a ride on her tail.
Gingham, Sasha, and I shared many adventures over the years. One of the most amazing began quite innocently.
Late one night, I woke from a sound sleep and heard a light siss. I figured it was Gingham wanting out, so I told him “no” and ro
lled over. Sasha nudged my hand, and I reassured her with a pat on the head that all was well. I snuggled deeper beneath the covers and buried my head under a pillow. I dozed until I heard a thump. What on earth? Groggily, I uncovered my head and peered at the bedside clock. It was 2:00 a.m. Another thump. It was Gingham jumping at the bedroom door. He hated being locked out. When I didn’t want to play with him or have him bite my toes, I’d just shut the door. But he’d never knocked so loudly or continuously before. Usually, he took “no” for an answer and went to the couch.
“Okay, okay,” I muttered as I reached out and cracked the door. In he flew. “Settle down, or back out you go,” I told him.
He raced around the tiny bedroom, jumping from the bed to the dresser and back. Sasha poked her head up from her spot on the floor at the foot of the bed. She grunted and settled down. Gingham took off out of the room. I had such a headache and felt so groggy that I was about to close the door when in streaked a gray tabby fur ball.
“Gingham, knock it off.”
He raced around again, jumping on the bed and then the dresser. I groaned and put down my head. “Ow,” I complained as Gingham began biting and tugging at my feet through the covers. I kicked, wondering at his weird behavior and why Sasha wasn’t more upset. “Geez,” I yelped, feeling my hair being pulled and pulled. I bolted upright. “Stop it, that hurts!” The room spun, and I stood dizzily at the side of the bed. Something was really wrong. I held onto the bedroom doorframe, and Gingham began biting my toes. “Gingham, have you gone completely nuts?” Then I heard the siss again, only louder. I staggered down the hall to the kitchen. The siss was coming from the stove!
Gingham kept biting my toes. “Okay, okay. I get it.” I was starting to realize I might have a gas leak. I grabbed the phone and called Al, the volunteer fire chief.
He wasn’t happy to be so abruptly wakened and snarled, “What is it?” Quickly and hysterically, I told him about the siss.
“Get out now!” Al yelled, fully alert.
I headed to the back door. “Sasha,” I called when she didn’t appear. Gingham was gone, too. I staggered to the bedroom and saw Gingham biting at Sasha and pouncing on her, trying to rouse her. I grabbed Sasha and half-dragged her to the back door. Gingham kept biting her tail. With the door open, I saw Al at my propane tank turning off the outlet valve.
“Hurry!” Al shouted.
I pushed Sasha down the stairs and onto the grass. Once we were safely out, Gingham quit his frantic actions and jumped in my arms. WHOOSH! The last of the propane caught on fire as it reached the automatic pilot lights on my stove. Al rushed in with a heavy-duty extinguisher.
Beyond Al, I could see the wall behind my stove blazing. Several blasts from the extinguisher did the trick. Thank God Al had turned off the propane on his way over. More than that, I thanked God for Gingham. With the bedroom door closed, I wouldn’t have heard the gas leak. Sasha and I were so groggy from breathing in the gas that we would have been asleep when the stove blew, and the propane would have continued to feed the fire.
That little cat, an unwanted gift from my students, saved our lives. He was a true hero. The next day, he was happy with a few extra liver treats as a reward, but I would have given him the world.
~Sharon F. Norton
One of a Kind
Kittens are angels with whiskers.
~Alexis Flora Hope
My six-year-old daughter held out her hands to me with a hopeful look on her face. “Can we keep it, Mama?” she inquired sweetly. I looked in her hands to see a teeny, furry, black animal, barely breathing and not moving at all. It was a kitten, its eyes barely opened, and not even mewling. I was certain it would not survive the night, and furthermore, where had it come from?
Knowing there was a feral cat colony in our neighborhood, I had to ask my hopeful daughter, “Sweetie, where did you find this kitten? You didn’t take it from its mama, did you?”
“No, Mama,” she replied. “The neighbor’s dog was loose, and I went out to help catch it. This little kitten was on the porch. I think maybe the dog had it. It’s not dead, though. It moves sometimes.”
Whether the mother cat had been moving her brood and lost one or the neighbor dog had gotten them, I never found out. But this baby kitten became the newest member of our family, even though I dreaded telling my children that it would likely die before dawn.
The kitten survived, and despite my misgivings, and with the assistance of the veterinarian and the pet-shop personnel, we learned to feed, burp, and wash him. We had to teach him to “go potty” and basically everything else required of a cat. Soon, the lump of fur began to have a “look” that reminded us all of a baby mouse. Therefore, his name became Mouse. Not a very regal name, admittedly, but it stuck.
Because Mouse was so dependent on the family for everything, we took him everywhere with us. He traveled in a large Rubbermaid tote lined with towels that he couldn’t escape from. He had his own diaper bag that held baby bottles and formula. He even had a travel-size litter pan. We brought him to visit my parents in another state, tucked safely in his tote, and he became a fixture at every family event for quite some time.
Little Mouse grew into a lovely, sleek, black male with large, green eyes, and it seemed that he had decided to be the overseer and protector of those who had saved him. He would often sit up high on a ledge or windowsill and “survey his domain.” He would choose the lap of one of us each night, and we remarked more than once that he was “making his rounds.” When one of us was sick, Mouse would not leave that person’s side until he or she felt well again. It was clear that we were his people.
One evening, while my husband was out for a long shift, I had put my son to bed and walked to the kitchen when I heard a bloodcurdling scream. My son was screaming, “It’s a man! He’s trying to get in! Mama, Mama!” I dashed back to my son’s room to find him in the middle of the bed, crying and screaming. He had heard scratching on his window screen. Knowing Mouse liked to survey his domain from windowsills, he threw back the curtain, thinking it was Mouse. Instead, my poor child came face to face with a man at his window.
Immediately, I called the police and my neighbors. My children and I went to a safe location in the house while my neighbors looked for the offender. Mouse came right away to comfort us, and growled at the door with every noise. Although neither the police nor my neighbors could find the man in question, there were large footprints beneath my son’s window. Clearly, there had been someone there, but we never found out who or why. Oddly, Mouse never sat on that windowsill again.
After that incident, Mouse became more determined to spend time with my son. Understandably, my son often had nightmares, so we would often end up sleeping in his room with him. However, one evening when my husband was again out for a long shift and I had worked an extremely stressful second shift myself, I fell asleep on the couch. I awoke to Mouse pulling on the neck of my shirt and screaming like a crazy thing. Once I became more awake, I realized the house was full of smoke.
It was coming from my son’s room. Mouse kept running there and back screaming. I darted into my son’s room to find that he had turned on his bedside light, but kicked it over, starting a fire right there beside him on the mattress. Thankfully, I was able to put out the fire and drag the mattress outside. We were all fine thanks to this little kitten saving us as we had saved him. Had he not woken me, the smoke would have devoured us all.
Mouse had repaid the favor, certainly, and we were more than thankful. He was now more than family; he was our hero. We treated him like the king he felt he was, and he liked it. Even when we moved to another state, Mouse maintained his vigil over us, sitting at the top of the staircase where he could see us all.
Nearly fifteen years later, our sleek, little Mouse began losing weight, no matter what he ate. A trip to the veterinarian confirmed our fears. Mouse was a diabetic. Having medical training, my husband and I decided to try to care for the little guy as best we could. We injected his insuli
n and gave him IV fluids at home. As he grew weaker, we hand-fed him from a syringe. Although we were getting his blood sugar under control, we were losing the war.
One afternoon, he began to breathe poorly. We knew we had to make the choice all pet parents dread. Taking him to the vet for the last time, we gave him the gift of crossing the Rainbow Bridge and ending his suffering. Even today, pictures of him bring us to tears, but we bask in the joy and love he gave us as well.
We now have three new kittens, all rescues. They are all wonderful in their own way. However, I know there is usually only one “Mouse” in a lifetime, and I will always remember how much he blessed us. You just can’t replicate that.
~Freda Bradley
Kitty and the Bear
Watch a cat as it enters a room for the first time. It searches and smells about, it is not quiet for a moment, it trusts nothing until it has examined and made acquaintance with everything.
~Jean-Jacques Rousseau
The bear cubs peeked through my office window every morning and tapped on the glass. The window was low to the ground, so they only had to stand on their hind legs to peer through, and peer they did. My office was at the back of the house, adjoining a small, screened porch that was in need of rescreening thanks to the antics of a large papa bear earlier in the summer. We coexist peacefully with bears in the Southern Appalachian Highlands — black bears, mostly — as well as coyotes, wolves, and an occasional mountain lion. Even in Asheville, the closest city to us, it is not unusual to hear about a high-school soccer match coming to a halt while a bear ambles across the field.
That summer, the three cubs passed our house on the first leg of a daily circuit through the woods with their mom. They always stopped and tapped on the windows and rolled about until Mama made her snuffy noise, calling them to be on their way again. They always made me smile, but they made Kitty — a handsome tuxedo cat who had adopted me when I first moved to the mountains some years before — absolutely frantic. She wanted to go out and play with them, and I wouldn’t let her, knowing how seriously mauled she could get in the name of having fun. I also couldn’t be too sure how Mama might react to another critter approaching her cubs. So Kitty ran back and forth between my desk and the back door to the porch, scratching at the door for me to let her out and letting out a sorrowful yowl when I wouldn’t.