by Amy Newmark
“He’s not a cat,” I laughed, as we watched Comet race up the ramp and on the play stand with the other goat kids. “He’s a goat — at least he thinks he is.”
The question was always the same. Every summer when we sold the kids, well-meaning goat experts arrived and informed us that unless you’ve got a huge barn with plenty of room, cats don’t belong with goats. We had never heard of such nonsense.
Comet was a couple of years old when we rescued him from the pound and placed him with our miniature goats, hoping he’d do what cats do — keep the barn free from rodents. While the barn was tiny, the goats had an enclosed play yard fenced floor to ceiling, which kept them safe from dangerous critters.
Comet, with his mellow-golden eyes and his silky black-and-white fur, fit in perfectly with our three dwarf goats. On his first night in the barn, I checked on him, expecting to find him asleep in the loft. Instead, I found him nestled with Arby, our Nigerian dwarf, purring away. Not only did he cuddle with the goats, he played with them, ate their hay, nibbled their grains and drank from their water bucket instead of his bowl.
People had warned us the goats would butt him to death, but they didn’t. We’d also heard that during kidding season, the mothers would attack him for fear he would hurt their babies. Nope. We’d even heard that with him around we should expect a reduced milk flow come milking time. Wrong again. In fact, it was the opposite. Comet’s goat buddies trusted and loved him — after all, he seemed like a goat.
My husband had built a long wooden ramp that led to a double-tiered wooden play stand out in their play yard. Comet and the goats loved racing up the ramp as fast as they could, and jumping off the stand over and over. Sometimes, they had battles on the stand, butting each other as they played king of the hill. Comet held his own and fit right in.
Each spring, when the goats gave birth, Comet introduced the new babies to the wonderful racing and jumping game while the mother goats chewed their cud and got a much-needed break. At night, I’d often find him curled up with one of the kids instead of the mothers.
While I milked the goats, Comet patiently waited with the rest of the kids for his share of the warm, sweet milk they slurped out of the same pan. Inseparable, they had a great love for each other. Sadly, when a new set of kids got sold, Comet moped around with the mother goats that mourned their lost babies.
Throughout the years, we saved a lot of money milking and making cheese, and during those years the goats became our dear pets. Unfortunately, when the price of hay reached an all-time high, we couldn’t afford our goats anymore.
Thankfully, my husband worked with someone who had a huge field where they could eat, roam, and live out the rest of their days in a happy, peaceful place. Not only did I cry when the goats left, but poor Comet was lost without his friends. For weeks after they had gone, he searched the barn, letting out a hauntingly mournful meow that broke our hearts.
We brought Comet indoors, but he would have none of that, and so he remained in the barn. Eventually, the crying stopped, and he adopted a routine of chasing mice, watching birds, and keeping me company while I gardened.
But Comet was never the same. He resumed being a cat. As if in continuous mourning, he never raced up the ramp again. Instead, he slowly waddled up it and flopped on the play stand where he rolled over and sunbathed, begging for a belly rub. Comet’s racing days had ended.
Many years later on a sunny autumn day, Comet became ill. Suddenly too weak to walk or eat, or even lift his head, we had to carry him as the day wore on. He was going downhill quickly. With tears in my eyes, I said my final goodbyes to my old companion and thanked him for being such a wonderful friend.
As Comet struggled with his last breath, my sons arrived and said their farewells to this gentle soul who had graced our barn for so many years. None of us could imagine life without him.
After my sons finished, all eyes watched in awe as Comet raised his head, meowed, and raced up the ramp. Surrounded by love, he died on his play stand.
If humans can experience their deceased loved ones arriving and helping them transition through death, why not our sweet-spirited pets?
There is no doubt in my mind that Comet’s loving goat buddies — who had passed away long ago — had arrived and raced Comet up the beloved ramp one last time as they escorted him across the great rainbow bridge. His life could not have ended in a more beautiful or meaningful way.
Although we hated losing him and will always miss him, we rejoiced knowing that Comet — who thought he was a goat — had joined his dear goat friends once more.
~Jill Burns
Nip’s Throne
Fun fact: Cats instinctively cover their waste in the litter box to prevent predators from figuring out where they live.
I was in the back of the house folding laundry when I heard some tinkling noises in the big bathroom down the hall. As a mother, I knew where my kids were, and as a wife I knew where my husband was. And I knew they weren’t home. Immediately, and with great apprehension, I peeked in the door. It was Nip, squatting on the toilet with his back to the door. I don’t remember what I said or what noise I made, but I do remember Nip turned his head toward me, gave me his best look of aggravation, jumped down and ran out of the bathroom.
Of course, I wanted to talk to him about it, but he would have none of that. He meowed at the back door, so I let him out. But I wanted to know how he knew the toilet was the place to pee. He was in the bathroom a lot with me (mothers never go to the bathroom without someone hanging around), but I never told him what I was doing. And even if he heard the sound of tinkling water, how did he grasp what it was and why I was doing it?
I would have thought that training a cat to use the toilet would at least require a discussion on the merits of such behavior. And, as all cat-lovers know, training a cat is usually futile. They end up training you to give them treats for minimal exertion on their part.
I remember one night when my husband David was calling Nip in for the night. I could hear him cajoling Nip with treats, a new toy mouse filled with catnip, and all manner of things. Nip just sat there on the other side of the driveway and stared at him. It was as if he had suddenly forgotten how to get from there to the back door.
Next thing I knew, David had gone out there, picked him up, and brought him into the house.
“You know you’re going to be doing that from now on, don’t you?” I asked.
“Not after just one time,” David said confidently.
I never said “I told you so,” but the cold, hard fact is that Nip never came to the door at bedtime again. He was instantly trained to wait for somebody to come and get him.
But I digress. Back to the toilet. Nip continued to use the toilet from then on, but he hated to be interrupted and would quickly jump down. I wanted to get a picture, so I would look for my camera when I heard him in there. It would have to be a quick shot, but I was determined to get at least one good picture.
Finally, I had to put my camera in the bathroom and leave it there. And it still took — no kidding — about a year before I finally got the shots I wanted. I got lucky — you can see the stream. Proof positive finally captured by my camera!
I had to have extras made. My mother framed one and showed it to everybody who came to her house for any reason. She called Nip her “grandcat.”
I really miss old Nip. We’ve had a parade of cats over the years, but Nip was one of my favorites. He was sweet, loving, and smart. He loved to be kissed on the top of his head, which happens to be my favorite place to kiss a cat. He loved to sit in my lap, purring to beat the band. And, unlike the two human males living in the household, he never dribbled on the toilet seat.
You just can’t ask for more than that from a cat, can you?
~Carol Weeks
Angel the Water Cat
Fun fact: Most cats hate getting wet, but the Turkish Van cat likes water because its ancestors in Turkey’s Lake Van region often cooled off in lakes during the very
hot summers there.
Every cat has its little likes and dislikes, its own eccentricities. I grew up with cats; they were all completely different, and I loved each one for those differences. However, my current cat, Angel, a beautiful, white shorthaired cat, makes me laugh like no other cat I’ve known, due to her enjoyment of being soaked down.
It is often said that “dogs have masters, but cats have staff.” I certainly feel that way every time I use a faucet in Angel’s presence. She makes it clear, in no uncertain terms, that if the tap is turned on she must have her fair share of the water — not to drink, but to bathe in. She waits for me to wet my hand and then glide it down her body from her furry head to the tip of her tail, sometimes repeatedly, until she looks as if she has been in for a swim.
This peculiar habit started innocently enough. One day, in my kitchen, she was bathing herself with her tongue, as cats do, and I decided to help her out. Cats have a hard time reaching the top of their heads during their daily (hourly) bathing regimen, having to utilize the classic “wet side of paw, turn head, and slide dampened paw up and over ear” manoeuvre. It is fairly effective, with the added bonus of making them look totally adorable while executing this move (and don’t they know it!). I figured if I put a bit of water between her ears, I could help the process. I hoped that she wouldn’t dislike the added H2O and bolt. To my delight, she seemed not only to like the addition of water to her ablutions, she even showed her appreciation by giving me a lick or two as I withdrew my hand. (This may have been a hint that I needed a bath, too, but I don’t think so.)
Having seen that she didn’t mind a friendly rub of water between the ears, I did it whenever I thought of it. Then I noticed that whenever I was at the kitchen sink, she seemed to appear out of nowhere. One day, in a hurry and deciding to dissuade her a bit from this baptism-like activity, I took a whole handful of water and rubbed it down her back. Far from discouraging her, this increased the vigour of her bathing as she tried to use up every drop before it dried, energetically licking herself on one side and then the other.
That’s when things got out of hand. She discovered that I used the faucet in my bathroom even more frequently than the one in the kitchen — every morning, at the same time! One day, she arrived before I had soaked down my face for my morning shave, sat at my feet and watched expectantly. Not making any connection to past kitty water activity — humans can be so dense at times — I continued my shave until she let out a very loud “meow,” clearly wanting something.
As she is a fairly quiet feline, I knew something was up. Was it the water? I decided to give her the old water pat-down to see if it would placate her. It worked like a charm. She moved away a foot or two and happily bathed as I shaved. After a few passes over my foamed-up, stubbly puss, I looked down to find my expectant pussycat back at my feet waiting for a second soak-down. I ignored her, believing that she was still “wet behind the ears,” and continued my shaving. When she meowed again, I capitulated and gave her another soaking, stem to stern. Satisfied, she moved off and energetically went to work making the best use of the water. This continued until I had finished shaving.
This is now a daily ritual. Even if Angel is nowhere in sight when I turn on the bathroom faucet, I see the tip of her white tail in the bathroom mirror as she crosses hurriedly behind me to take her place at my side and wait for the first of many soak-downs, which she expects at regular intervals.
There has been one addition to this routine: She comes into the bathroom when I am in the shower and waits until I draw back the shower curtain. There is something very disconcerting about being naked and soaking wet and finding a cat waiting for you. Of course, I usually burst out laughing at the sight of my favourite feline anticipating my exit from the shower stall; it never gets old. And, of course, if I hesitate in the slightest before providing her with her customary watery pat-down, I hear about it. Loudly!
Cats have staff, and that staff better be quick about it!
~Kevin L. Dobson
Houdini’s Ribbons and Bows
Fun fact: Try hanging lemon- or orange-scented air fresheners in your Christmas tree to deter your cat from climbing it.
“Not again,” I grumbled as I watched our ten-month-old gray Tabby, Sergeant Tibbs, go through the heaving motions of coughing up a hairball. He’d padded out from beneath the Christmas tree to hunker down in front of me for the delivery of his gift. I groaned. Right on my family room carpet! Couldn’t he do that outside?
But this particular present wasn’t coming up easily, and Tibbs’ body undulated more forcefully with each larger heave. “Hmm,” I thought, growing nervous about his apparent difficulty.
Finally, after one last, huge contraction, our new family member managed to rid himself of the material causing his system so much distress. My mouth flew open and my eyes widened as Tibbs briefly investigated his undigested present: a golf-ball-sized wad of gleaming, partially chewed and salivated, multi-colored metallic Christmas ribbon.
“Oh, my! Chris, Parker, Cory!” I shrieked to my husband and sons as I bolted from my rocking chair to rescue the gooey gob from possible re-ingestion. The three sprinted to my side as I stared in shock at Tibbs, who gazed up at me with his innocent-looking, emerald eyes. Then he stood, licked his lips, quickly groomed his whiskers, and sauntered away.
“Look at this!” I demanded as I waved the ball in front of them. “This is what the cat just hacked up!” Three pairs of cornflower-blue eyes peered at the colorful, slimy wad, and three heads simultaneously snapped around to give me a horrified look. Then the raucous laughter started.
“It’s not funny,” I said. “He could have died!” Then I barked instructions. Within seconds, Chris, Parker and I were on our hands and knees, scouring the floors for every miniscule ribbon scrap, strip or curl. Cory rushed to his computer to do an Internet search on a cat’s attraction to ribbons. Over a lifetime with five cats, I’d never had one eat ribbon. Yarn, yes. Ribbon, no. This was unfamiliar, dangerous territory.
I thought — hoped — it would be a single occurrence. But it wasn’t. Tibbs kept munching. And he didn’t need to see a decorated gift to know it existed. It could be carefully stashed on the other side of the house in a space he normally didn’t visit. It seemed to call to him. “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty…” Even transparent tape became a meal.
The following Christmas, I tried again to decorate gifts with ribbons and bows. What was I thinking? Every package under the tree exhibited gnawed, punctured or shredded bows and nibbled corners. Tibbs hadn’t left one present untouched. Even when I moved the packages to an area where I could keep an eye on them, he appeared like Houdini to chomp and devour. It escalated to a war of wills. No matter how much I bawled him out or flailed my arms to shoo him away, he persisted. I started imagining him plotting the destruction just to irritate me.
After bending over one day to inspect each package, and finding all of them taste-tested and damp, I plopped on the ground next to the mangled presents and heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Ah, Tibbs,” I murmured. “Why do you have to undo all of the love and work I’ve put into these gifts?”
For me, this destruction was personal. I was an expert package wrapper and bow maker. As a teenager, I took pride in my elaborate creations. I painstakingly cut every paper sheet at a perfect ninety-degree angle and folded corners like a nurse folds, creases and tucks hospital bed sheets. Each piece of tape was carefully measured and placed. I spent hours crafting handmade bows. My mom even had me wrap my own presents. She first sealed each box and then had me clothe them in rich paper and shimmering tassels and bows. Now, I cringed on Christmas mornings when my husband and two young sons tore into their presents without first admiring them. All they seemed to care about was locating the prize encased in the wrapping, not the wrapping itself.
As I breathed another exasperated sigh, Tibbs unfurled himself from his napping hideaway under the tree, crept out from under the low-hanging branches, extended each limb in an elongated stre
tch, meowed a “hello” and plunked himself down in my lap. Then he looked up at me with those adoring green eyes and gave me that what-are-you-so-worried-about-when-life’s-so-good look. I used my thumb and finger to massage the sweet spots between his ears, and his eyes dropped into contented slits. A light rumble vibrated his body.
As I massaged, my mind drifted to my storage closet, where reels of outdated ribbon languished. I cringed at the thought of the money wasted on unused supplies, even if they had been purchased on sale. I had to admit that I’d turned my talent and craft into an obsession.
“You’re right, buddy,” I said. “I do pour a lot of love into those wrappings, but it really is more about the joy the gift inside brings. The thrill I get when I see the boys’ faces light up at the discovery.” I hoisted him from my lap, laid him carefully on the floor and stood. “It looks as though my work-of-art-present days are over, my boy.”
Off came the ribbons and bows, and I devised a way to seal the paper and successfully keep the tape away from Tibbs’ searching nose. We happily delivered plainly wrapped, bowless, ribbonless gifts to our family and friends.
For ten Christmases, Tibbs delighted us as he boxed his way through and battled imaginary rivals hiding within discarded Christmas wrappings. He treated us to belly laughs when he hid in gift boxes and bags and stealthily appropriated our sixty-five-pound dog’s Christmas gift: a humongous new bed. He stole our attention when he sat gazing — mesmerized — at the gold flame spikes dancing in the fireplace. And he brought joy as he alighted on a lap to examine and approve of someone’s newly opened present.
Then one miserable November day, our precious feline’s too-short life ended. I imagined our beloved Sergeant Tibbs, who entertained and showered us with unconditional love, to be chewing ribbons and bows to his feline heart’s content without reprimand or danger.