Schultz frowned, then nodded. “Sure. I would give him to you, but he belongs to the kids. Me, I don’t like cats or dogs.” He ended with a laugh that sounded more like a grunt.
Ignoring his statement, I lifted one of the kitten’s front legs. “Just as I thought.” I exclaimed. “This is an unusual cat. He’s very special. You’re lucky.”
“What’s so special about this here cat? He’s as ordinary as they come. I got him free from a guy at the shop.”
I had to quickly concoct a believable story, one that the big man would accept and also ensure a safe future for the gray cat. “Free! Wow! You can’t beat free, especially for a cat of this quality. I studied about cats with a local vet and learned a lot.”
“Quality?”
“Well,” I paused, pretending to carefully examine the kitten, “I’m not sure of his actual dollar value, but you’re going to be proud of this cat.”
“Why?”
“Look at these paws.” I held one up for his inspection, “Feel the muscles in his leg. He’s young now, but he’s going to grow up to be a very strong cat.”
“You think so?”
“Yes,” I continued, knowing I had his attention. “Look at these erect ears and those eyes. Did you know he can see 180 degrees?”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means, he may be looking at you, but he can see something slipping up on him, to the left or right, from the corner of his eyes. We can’t do that.”
“Yeah, that’s for sure,” Schultz chuckled.
“Feel his fur! This is special fur. God designed it to attract the sun during the winter to keep him warm. It’ll keep him cool during our hot summers.”
“Well,” Schultz said with a grin. “I ain’t gonna argue with God.”
“This cat will grow up to be plenty smart,” I assured him. “He already respects you. He’s going to give you lots of love.”
“That’s silly.”
“No, not silly,” I said. “You know Charles Dickens?”
“Charles Dickens?” Schultz appeared to be in deep thought. “Sure! You mean old Charlie at the Six Gun Café down at the corner?”
“No,” I laughed. “A different Charles Dickens. The famous English writer. You know what he said?”
“No, what?”
“He said, ‘What greater gift than the love of a cat.’”
Schultz laughed deeply. “He got famous for saying that?”
“No. He’s famous for writing stories like A Christmas Carol. You know, the story about Scrooge.”
“I saw the movie,” Schultz announced. “Scrooge was a mean dude until a bunch of ghosts showed him around. Then he became a nice guy, kind of generous.”
“Exactly!” I complimented. “Dickens believed that the love from a cat is a wonderful thing. And that’s what you’ve got. I don’t know why, but this cat loves you. He may save your life someday.”
“You think so, huh?”
“Sure do. Every now and then we read in the paper where a cat wakes up the family when their house is on fire.”
Schultz began to stroke the kitten’s head, who responded with a strong purr.
“See there,” I said. “He’s purring for you. Means that he loves and respects you.”
“Guess he is a pretty good cat.” Schultz nodded his neckless head.
“Sure, he’s good and smart. You have been working so hard you never had time to notice him. Your kids discovered how smart this cat is, I’m sure.”
“Yeah. Them kids are smart.” Schultz held out his hand while cuddling the kitten to his chest with the other. “Well,” he said, “thanks Johnson. You come visit sometime. I want to learn more about this here cat of mine.”
“I’ll do that, Schultz.”
“Come on cat,” he said. “We gotta get home. Time for lunch.”
When Schultz and his cat reached the end of the driveway, he turned and waved. “Thanks again!” The kitten was staring at me from the man’s massive shoulder. It might have been my imagination, but I thought I saw the cat wink at me as they walked away. My promotional pitch had only played a small part in converting Schultz. The kitten’s purring at just the right moment had sealed the deal. Either way, that kitten and I now had a new friend. At least I hoped that would be the case.
A few days after my conversation with Schultz, a couple who were out for a morning walk stopped by to tell me that they had passed Tough Guy’s house and saw him holding his gray cat. They were surprised when Schultz told them how special his pet was. “Guess no one is going to argue with Tough Guy,” the neighbor said, “but that cat sure looked ordinary to me.”
I smiled. “If he says that cat is special, maybe it is, at least to him.”
About a week before we were to move to our new home, I walked over to visit Schultz. He was busy installing a new mirror on the passenger side of his truck. We talked a few moments, and as I turned to go, I noticed his gray cat asleep inside the truck.
“Looks like you got a friend there,” I said.
“Yeah,” replied Schultz. “He thinks he’s my helper, but really he sleeps most of the time.”
A warm feeling of success came over me. I knew then I was successful. Tough Guy and his cat were friends and as his “helper” the cat’s future as a member of the family was complete and guaranteed. I had worked on the hunch that even tough guys can have a soft side. Finding it and working with that side is the key. The cat provided the key.
CHAPTER 8
We Move
“Letting the cat out of the bag is a whole lot easier than putting it back in.”
Will Rogers
TO GET TROOPER INTO HIS travel crate required a lot of energy and luck. I knew he associated the crate with a trip to the vet, since he had never been anywhere else in it. Even though he was peaceful when with Doctor Marg, like most cats, he didn’t cherish a trip anywhere.
If the cat saw us preparing the crate, a great disappearing act quickly followed. Even in our small house, and considering his size, he still found inventive places to hide. An old cat-luring trick, a plate of tuna fish, didn’t work. But human intelligence and determination eventually won and we carried the unhappy friend to his crate. But that was the easy part; getting him into the crate brought great frustration for us all.
To avoid being lowered into the crate, he activated his first defense by extending four legs, rendering his flat body impossible to push in. His deep growls would have been enough to discourage a normal person from further attempts, but we knew this to be only a bluff. And it was impossible to push him in through the front, gate-like door. The larger door at the top presented the only possibility. Here, with considerable effort, we were finally successful.
Once inside he usually remained quiet for a few moments as if contemplating his situation. Did we plan to release him? Convinced that possibility did not exist, things changed quickly. The crate would shake for a minute as he tested its strength by kicking the sides. Then the growling and yowling began, which tapered off to a variety of complaining sounds, mostly cries of different volume.
On that day we were moving from our little house to “ranch property” south of Las Vegas, far away from the casinos and bright lights so familiar to most visitors. This was at a time when the Vegas real estate business was really healthy. Our home had sold quickly and with a nice profit, enabling us to make a substantial down payment on the small ranch.
With Trooper securely in his crate I carried him to my car. Before we could enter, my “Tough” friend, Schultz, came to say goodbye.
“I’d seen the moving van and guessed you would be leaving today,” he said. Then he gave me an interesting bit of information.
“By the way, I should tell you . . . I named my cat Dickens.”
“Dickens?” I was puzzled.
“Yes. After the writer guy who said something about a gift of love from a cat. You told me that story.”
“Oh, Charles Dickens,” I responded eagerly. “Dickens is a great name for you
r cat.”
“You think so?”
“Yes, for sure!”
“Well, Johnson,” Schultz said while shaking my hand, “You come see me and Dickens sometime. And bring that big, wild-looking cat of yours!”
“You bet I will, Schultz.”
And with that goodbye, Trooper and I entered the car and headed to our new home.
The ranch property spread over almost five acres and included a three-bedroom home, a pool, a guest house, and a separate one-level building that would serve as our office and warehouse. A circular driveway ran between rows of Italian cypress trees to a sheltered front porch, and then continued on to connect to an old, seldom-used country road. The abundance of trees, bushes, and desert plants dotting the land presented a perfect playground for Trooper.
The nearest home to the south was almost seven hundred yards away, with nothing but desert in between. A gully, flush with small trees, creosote bushes, and a variety of sweet-smelling sagebrush separated our property from that desert area.
To the west, directly across the road, was more desert, bordered by homes along the south and north edge. Those homeowners, I was informed by the realtor, often had horses that were safe within white rail fencing. Those ranches were four hundred yards from our front door. On our north side, stretching a mile to a highway, lay an abandoned golf course known as “Fairway to the Stars,” once owned by band leader and all-around entertainer, Louis Prima. Its elegant clubhouse had burned to the ground many years ago, and now the greens and fairway lay smothered in sagebrush as the desert reclaimed everything but the original sand traps, and perhaps a few scattered memories.
A low chain-link fence covered with vines separated the eastern section of our land from a neighbor, whose yard was littered with rusting old tractors and other farm equipment. The residents lived in a small ranch, located about two hundred yards from his odd collection and the fence. Nestled in the center of the yard, surrounded by the tractors, sat a two-story wooden building. Its red paint had faded to almost pink, but it still resembled a Midwestern barn. I later learned my friendly neighbors had grown up in the Midwest and that the “barn” provided shelter for tools, tractor pails, and an assortment of other things, which could best be described as junk. The rusting collection was the husband’s way of remembering an early life on a farm.
As I drove to our ranch that first morning I attempted to calm Trooper by talking to him softly. I know he gave my monologue attention, for he became quiet. How much he truly understood remains unknown. If I was silent he began to grumble and cry again.
I explained to the cat that we were not going to see Doctor Marg at the pet hospital, which I am sure was what he was expecting (why else would I put him in the crate?). I began to tell him about his new home with lots of trees and places to explore.
As I spoke of our future, my thoughts drifted back to our first house. So many memories must be put aside. That would be difficult because my relationship with the cat began in that house after I brought him home from the cat hospital. I had watched as he recovered from a near-death experience. We grew together as Chi and I raised him as our child.
When young, neither human nor cat can concentrate on a complex thing for long. Both are easily distracted. But somewhere along the way the development is no longer equal. The human outdistances the feline in mentality, but that doesn’t mean that the cat stops learning. There are those who believe that the cat’s behavior is based strictly on instinct, all activity performed with the absence of learning. Those people don’t know cats.
Of course, cats depend on instinct in their complex pattern of behavior. For instinct, an animal needs no training or teaching. But cats often exercise judgment, make decisions, or contemplate situations, and even create games involving imaginary prey, stalking and attacking invisible creatures.
That may be instinct, but after studying cats, especially my domesticated wild cat, I have concluded there must be a wonderful combination of instinct and creative intelligence.
Added to this is the trait called “copycat.” As I’ve learned, that term didn’t come about by accident. One cat simply copies or imitates the actions of another, or that of his human friend. Once Trooper watched me climb an aluminum stepladder to change a light bulb in a ceiling fan. Of course he had no idea why I was changing the bulb, but the climbing part must have looked like fun. Within a few seconds after my descent, the cat climbed up the ladder, one step at a time, smelled the replacement bulb, turned around and descended, face first, using each step. That was a great copy, only I didn’t descend face first.
A week before our move I noticed Trooper dashing about the backyard, darting between trees and bushes at full speed. I assumed he was exercising, but it turned out to be a warm up for another game he created. He suddenly stopped and walked slowly towards the concrete block wall that ran along the back of our property. A section of the wall reached a height of six feet, but another section was, for reasons known only to the builder, about ten feet high.
I had watched Trooper hit the top of the six-foot section in an effortless jump, but the ten-foot area might have been out of reach. Of course, he knew he could jump to the top of the six-foot wall and then hop up on the ten-foot section. That process did not present much of a challenge. But he had an experiment in mind. He studied the wall carefully, his head moving as if calculating the feasibility of his plan. Then, suddenly, he turned and ran directly at a redwood patio chair that sat several feet from the wall. He jumped, sprang off the chair, and sailed to the top of the higher wall; a beautiful, exciting sight, perhaps not a major accomplishment for a young wild cat. He strutted along the top, proud that his plan worked so perfectly. Instinct? No doubt, but he thought through a process and then tested it with success.
A week before the wall-jumping project, I prepared to feed the goldfish in our artificial pond. For this, I had a handful of crouton-sized bread pieces in a bowl. As usual, Trooper watched me scatter the bread on the water, the surface breaking with splashes as the fish devoured their meal. The fish were a continual fascination for the cat, who often ran along the water’s edge and smacked at the surface with his paw to watch them scoot about. I believe he still had no idea that he could turn the fish into a meal. Perhaps they were more important as a source of amusement.
On that day, I placed the bowl, half full of bread, in the shade next to the sliding glass door and went into the kitchen to join my wife for lunch.
“Look!” Chi said softly as I sat down. “That cat of yours is eating the fish bread!”
I knew he wasn’t eating the bread. Bread had no interesting smell or taste to the cat. But I watched as he filled his mouth with the croutons, then strolled to the water and dropped the bread. He sat down and, with ears pointing forward, watched the exciting show as the fish rushed to feed. A copycat, this time with a purpose.
As we prepared to move, I packed all of Trooper’s toys in a box, with another box for “Trooper’s Treasures,” the assortment of things he found in the neighborhood and brought to the house. I planned to have all of this near when I opened his crate at the new home.
To ensure he did not scamper off when the movers arrived with the heavy furniture, I enlisted the aid of Herman, a German emigrant I had recently hired as our resident handyman, to temporarily close a large “cat door” in the wall of the living room. It was a perfect opening for the cat, located next to the fireplace. The former owner used it to push firewood in from the outside. This opening sat about three feet above a concrete walkway. At this cat entrance, Herman erected a small platform to serve as a porch where Trooper could sit and study the yard before beginning a day of exploring.
As I drove up to the front porch and turned off the engine, Trooper grew very quiet. Once inside, I opened the crate and he jumped out.
“Look, Trooper,” I said as I opened the box of toys. He showed no interest. Instead, with eyes wide, he turned his head to survey his new environment.
“OK, let’s go check
out the kitchen.”
He followed me closely as we entered the kitchen. As planned, my wife had placed his dry food and water bowl there earlier. Trooper paused to lap up a small amount of water, and then he was ready to explore the entire house.
As the furniture arrived he began another investigation and spent a few moments smelling each piece. He seemed pleased—that is, not nervous—as he recognized everything.
After the movers departed, I thought it time to allow him to explore his new five-acre domain. I remained with him for the introduction, and we walked slowly side by side. I pointed out the opening in the heavy screen door to the kitchen and lifted him to the porch-like platform at the living room wall so he could see the entrance.
This inspection was thorough and required considerable time. Anyone who has walked with a cat knows that their pace is usually slow, as each thing encountered must pass the smell test. Therefore, our first inspection did not include Herman’s guesthouse or the attached office. I planned to save that, knowing he would, no doubt, discover and explore those areas sometime during the night without me.
“I’m going to the house and help unpack,” I said.
He paused, looked at me, and then turned to look at the house. Trooper understood part of what I said. I left the front double doors open so he had, for a while, three ways of entering (counting the two cat doors). A few minutes passed and we heard the familiar crunch-crunch sound coming from the kitchen. Trooper had entered through the kitchen door to enjoy his lunch.
Almost at once he realized and accepted the fact that he had a new home. Everything he remembered and loved was there, the furniture, complete with his scratch marks, Johnson and ma-ma (Chi), Yellow Bear, fuzzy rats, rope, and his food. Even the goldfish were on site, swimming in a large fountain pool in the front yard. And, most exciting, a large area with trees to climb, bushes and flowers to examine, and so many strange new smells to enjoy.
He quickly lost interest in his toys and in a few days the goldfish received only minor attention. There was simply too much to do in that big new world.
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