My Very Good, Very Bad Cat

by Amy Newmark

  Every day, it seemed, we would discover a new component to our Sam’s repertoire of personality quirks. One afternoon when I was working around the house, I heard Sam meowing loudly. He rarely did this, so when it continued for quite some time, I got a little concerned and went to see what was going on. Following his voice, I found him in the kitchen, sitting on the floor, looking up intently at and having a heartfelt conversation with… the oven. He glanced over at me, then went on chatting. When he was finished with his tète-à-tète, he smoothed a whisker and headed to the sofa for a nap. Off and on after that, I would find him in the living room having the same dialogue with the drapes. He was a nut, but never boring.

  Samuel William Hill was cherished by our family for nine wonderful years. These days, he’s hanging out in heaven, keeping the angels amused, opening doors for them, I’m sure, and waiting for his family to come home.

  ~Tina Wagner Mattern

  Trained in a Flash

  Fun fact: The scientific term for a hairball is a “bezoar.”

  “You can’t teach that cat to do tricks,” a friend of mine declared, as he watched me throw wadded-up paper across the room in Flash’s direction.

  “Fetch!” I commanded, ignoring my friend’s negativity.

  Flash, short for Flash Dance Gordon, was lying where the sun came into the room and warmed the carpet. He yawned and stretched, then rose to his feet and nonchalantly walked over to sniff the paper.

  “Told you so,” said my friend.

  “Fetch!” I repeated, throwing another paper ball his way.

  Now more awake, Flash pounced upon it, batted it around, threw it in the air and then flopped back down on the carpet, totally disinterested.

  “Ha, ha, ha!” said my friend. “Is that all he’s got?”

  “Roll over, play dead!” I instructed, and Flash closed his eyes.

  “At least he got that one right!” crowed my friend.

  But over the course of the next few months, I worked with Flash on a daily basis, sure that he could, and would, follow direct commands — especially if I found the right reward to motivate him.

  The motivation came unexpectedly during a trip to the vet to find the root of his persistent cough.

  “Since he’s a long-hair,” said the vet, “he’s predisposed to getting hairballs.” She handed me a tube about the size of a large tube of toothpaste. “Squirt a little of this down his throat as often as directed. You’ll only need to give him about half an inch of this medicine at a time. You can start right now.”

  Tentatively, I removed the cap. I’d had to wrestle Flash to the ground and hold him between my knees to give him his worm pills, and I wasn’t all that keen on showing the vet how inept I was.

  I wondered if I should put it on my finger or maybe try to hide it in his food. Instead, I gave Flash a pat on the head, then held the tube in front of him and squeezed a little out. Flash got one whiff of the medicine and went ballistic — in a good way! He licked the medicine right off the tube, and then pawed at it, trying to get me to give him more.

  “It’s got a cod-liver-oil base,” said the vet, smiling and nodding. “Most cats love it.”

  Happily, I took Flash home and let him out of his travel crate. I set the tube of medicine on the dining table and went into the kitchen.

  When I returned, Flash had the tube on the floor and was trying to get it open. He’d obviously gotten on the table, which he’d been trained (with a squirt gun) not to do. And there he was, rolling on the floor, pawing at the tube as obsessed as a junkie after drugs.

  I started to yell at him, but then I realized that I might be able to use his desire to get more medicine to my advantage.

  A few weeks later, when my friend came over for coffee, he asked if I’d had any success “training” my cat.

  “Of course,” I replied. “Would you like a demonstration?”

  He laughed. “Flash already knows how to play dead,” he answered, observing my cat snoozing away the afternoon in the sunshine.

  I nonchalantly went to the cupboard where I kept the hairball medicine and let the cupboard door bang as I slipped the tube into my pocket, unobserved by my friend.

  Flash was instantly on high alert and came running to me.

  “Sit!” I commanded. And Flash sat. “Beg!” And he sat up straight with his front paws in the air in front of him.

  Then I threw a wad of paper across the room, and Flash retrieved it. My friend’s eyes got big, and his mouth gaped open.

  “How in the world…?”

  But Flash knew the routine, so as soon as he dropped the wadded paper in front of me, and without any commands, he instantly rolled over — twice — and then began head-butting me and meowing.

  “Roll over, knuckle-bump, and speak,” I said in a rush, laughing. “You’ve got to wait till I tell you which trick to do, Flash Dancer!”

  “But how? Why? I don’t believe it!” said my shocked friend.

  “Cats are smart,” I replied, retrieving the tube from my pocket and squeezing a little of the gel directly into Flash’s mouth. “It hardly took him any time at all to train me.”

  ~Jan Bono

  King Murphy

  Fun fact: In the Italian version of Cinderella, the fairy godmother was a cat!

  Murphy was regal from the start. Even at the shelter his aloof attitude set him apart from his cage-mates. He was long-legged and long-haired. He confidently cruised up to the cage door and looked directly into my five-year-old daughter Bridget’s eyes. He was unperturbed as the attendant pulled him from the cage and deposited him into the arms of his new valet. No scared kitten mewling from him — he purred contentedly on Bridget’s lap as we motored to his suburban palace.

  As the weeks and months passed, Murphy grew bigger and fluffier, and he fell in love with us despite his haughty manner. A visit to the vet confirmed what we had already surmised: He was a Maine Coon cat. He followed us everywhere, learned how to retrieve, and gave kisses on command. We were amazed at how intelligent he was. He was as big as a small dog, and his antics were quite dog-like as well. His size astonished us. His full weight held steady at twenty pounds.

  Particularly unnerving was Murphy’s more feline penchant for perching. He would resourcefully find his way to the tops of open doors and lie lengthwise on the narrow frame, his bulk evenly distributed and perfectly balanced. He would survey his kingdom, patiently wait for visitors to enter, and then surprise them as they passed with gentle smacks on their heads with his large paw. Even more disturbing was his nightly trapeze act on the exposed beams of the cathedral ceiling in our bedroom. He would begin the show with a jump to a tall dresser, a quick hop to the top of the door and then a perfect mount onto the beam. We would watch his progress along the bar. He would pause above the bed and, after a few seconds of staring down at us, he would perform a perfect dismount, solidifying his place as the king of the bedroom. Instead of applause, his reward was our reaction as we scattered when he dropped from the ten-foot-high girder onto our bed!

  His most loyal subject in the family was Bridget. She swaddled him and walked him in her doll carriage. He would lie beside her as she read or watched television. He slept on her bed and sat beneath her chair at meals as she dropped morsels of her dinner for him.

  His favorite activity was playing Barbie with her. He would crawl among her dolls’ extensive wardrobe and nose out outfits that Bridget would promptly put on Barbie. One day, I heard her giggling uncontrollably. She was in the kitchen standing by Murphy’s water bowl, watching him play with something in the water. When I looked in, I saw a tiny pair of Barbie panties being swirled around in the water. Through her giggles, Bridget exclaimed, “Mom, he’s washing Barbie’s clothes!” Murphy laundered Barbie’s unmentionables from then on. Each time Bridget opened up her doll cases, Murphy was right there, pawing around in search of Barbie’s underwear.

  Murphy’s quirkiness reached new heights one rainy afternoon. I was preparing dinner, and Bridget was playi
ng upstairs in her bedroom. I overheard Bridget stating firmly, “Okay, it’s my turn,” then “Okay, you go.” Knowing she was alone in her room, I ran upstairs, wondering who was playing with her. Sitting opposite each other on the floor were Bridget and Murphy. The Pretty Pretty Princess board game was spread out between them. The game requires a player to spin a basic flat spinner, move a playing piece the appropriate number of moves, and put on or lose jewelry pieces as directed.

  The winner earns the most jewelry and wears a tiara as his or her prize. This certainly seemed like an appropriate game for our kingly cat. As I watched from the doorway, I noticed a necklace hung around Murphy’s neck. Bridget spun the spinner, moved her piece and put on a ring. She then told Murphy it was his turn. To my surprise, he reached out his paw and hit the side of the spinner. Bridget moved his piece and put his earned bracelet on his paw. She then spun again as Murphy calmly sat across from her watching her move. She again said, “Murphy, your turn,” and I was astounded as he delicately pushed the spinner and Bridget moved his piece. I watched in awe as this game played out until the end when Bridget eventually won. She was ever the gracious princess and thanked her King Murphy for playing the game with her.

  Murphy has been gone a while now, but the joy and love he brought into our lives will never be forgotten. We now have a Golden Retriever, Charlie, who seems to have inherited Murphy’s quirkiness and love for our family. I am, as ever, prepared to be amazed.

  ~Ann C. Kenna

  Bell Ringer

  Fun fact: Many cats don’t like closed doors and will meow or paw at the door to get you to open it.

  TB was a gorgeous black cat with soft fur and huge golden eyes. He was such a deep black color, that at night, when he would stand up on his hind legs at the screen door quietly mewing to be let in, all you could see were those huge golden eyes floating in the dark looking exotic and rather magical.

  When we found him as a kitten, he was really tiny, alone and hungry. And though warm and affectionate, he was still fiercely independent in that very cat-like way.

  My husband and I loved TB, but we were a little worried when I became pregnant with our first child. I’d heard many scary tales about how cats could be a danger around infants, so when our daughter was born, we did our best to keep them apart. But tired new moms cannot be everywhere at all times. One night, exhausted, I fell asleep in the chair in the baby’s room. When I awoke I found TB curled up in the crib near the baby’s feet. Both of them seemed perfectly content, and I realized that maybe I’d been overthinking the cat-danger thing.

  Another time, I was in the kitchen cooking and heard the baby cry, then stop crying and start laughing. I went to check on her and found TB licking the bottom of one of her bare feet, soothing and calming her the way a mother cat would lick a kitten to comfort and clean it.

  The two of them grew very fond of each other. I couldn’t believe the rough handling TB would allow eighteen-month-old Becki to put him through. She would sit on his belly, tightly hugging his neck with one arm, while pulling his tail up on the opposite side to wrap around her and, to my utter dismay and bewilderment, she would often chew on the tip of his tail. Becki pretty much used old TB like her own live rug, shawl, and teething toy!

  But TB took it all in stride without flinching, a master of quiet suffering and calm endurance. We’d tell Becki she had to be nice to the kitty and be careful not to hurt him, but TB never seemed to mind or complain.

  Then, as our family grew in numbers of children and other pets we found that TB also got along beautifully with our parakeet, dogs, and gerbils. In fact, when the gerbils would escape their habitat, TB would help us round them up, herding them in our direction so we could catch them and return them to their home. TB never bit them or so much as ruffled a lick of fur on their little bodies. He really was an amazing creature.

  He did these things and many others with the greatest finesse, but one of the best tricks he ever did was learning how to ring the doorbell.

  From time to time, I would hear the doorbell ring and go to answer it, but there would be no one there. I’d open the door to see who it was and TB would run in!

  I didn’t make the connection at first, but one day I happened to look out the window when the doorbell rang and, to my total amazement, there was TB hanging onto the screen door and leaning way over to push the doorbell button!

  Later, we figured out how TB must have learned this little trick. He would see someone come to the door and touch that spot — to ring the doorbell — and the door would open. At first, when the bell rang and the door opened, he’d just run inside with whoever rang the bell. But, over time, he figured out that if he touched the same spot that people touched to get in, the door would open, and he could come in all on his own.

  Sadly, he is no longer with us on this earth, having lived a long and happy life. As for us, although we’ve loved and lost many cats over the years, all of them wonderful creatures, TB’s spirit and cleverness made him an extra-special cat.

  ~PJ

  Phantom’s Thanksgiving

  Fun fact: Most cats like their food at room temperature and won’t eat it if it’s too hot or too cold.

  The first cat I ever had, a gift from my girlfriend, was a black kitten that came into my life because his previous owner (my girlfriend’s co-worker) was looking for a new home for him. They had to give him up when they had a baby and the cat thought she was a plaything.

  Phantom would lie asleep at the other end of the couch as I watched television, but would be waiting for me in the kitchen when I got up to get a snack. I never saw him run past me; he simply appeared in the kitchen before I did. He also developed the habit of finding ways to get to the human food he wanted so much. I swore he could walk through walls (or at least pantry doors).

  Several years later, my now-wife and I moved to the other side of the country, to Los Angeles, to start a new job for me at a new school. The two of us and Phantom moved into our new home in August. My wife and I both came from big families and were used to large gatherings for Thanksgiving, so we were a little sad that we could not afford to fly back home for the holiday. Determined to make the best of the situation, we invited several friends in the same predicament over to celebrate “Friendsgiving” on that Thursday.

  As the cook in our family, I spent the early morning hours preparing the turkey and a dozen side dishes, constantly shooing Phantom out of the kitchen. When our guests arrived, we asked them to help us keep Phantom away from the food. Eventually, he made such a pest of himself during dinner that I put him in the bedroom and closed the door.

  After dinner, we left everything on the dining room table and the kitchen counter in order to go to the living room, watch some football, and relax after eating. A few minutes into the game, I heard a noise from the kitchen. With my wife and all of our guests sitting there, no one was in the kitchen, so I got up and looked down the hall. The bedroom door was open a crack.

  Moving quickly to the kitchen, I could not believe what I saw. I had carved the turkey and left the uncarved part sitting on the counter. Phantom was sitting inside the remains of the turkey, very contentedly eating around himself. He was in the act of pulling some meat off the thigh I had not served.

  “Phantom!” I yelled, startling some of the guests, who jumped up to see what was the matter. The cat simply gave me a look and kept eating. The guests, on the other hand, found it quite funny, although we now had a lot fewer leftovers.

  I finally went over and removed him from his seat in paradise, cleaned him off (threatening him with a bath later) and set to work cleaning up. By the time I left the kitchen, he was contentedly licking himself clean on the couch in the spot I had vacated, no doubt enjoying the turkey flavor.

  Phantom is gone now, but our friends still laugh about the year that we did not have a “turducken” but rather a “turkitten” for Thanksgiving dinner.

  ~Kevin Wetmore

  Bait and Switch

  Fun fact: “Comm
unity cats” are made up of feral cats, which have never been socialized around people, and stray cats, which are lost or runaway pets.

  I’ll never be smarter than a cat. I’m okay with that. Really. Every cat lover knows and accepts one simple truth: Cats are smarter than people. What’s upsetting is the extent to which cats can outsmart me.

  It all began after my beloved cat, Toonsie, passed away. Not only did I miss her daily antics, but my yard was becoming overrun with chipmunks, squirrels, and other little critters. The cat was away, and the local wildlife wasn’t merely playing; they were having an all-out free-for-all party on my property. The only things missing were itty-bitty beer kegs and mini ping pong balls.

  Getting another cat was out of the question. “We’re not having another pet in this house,” declared Prospero. “I miss Toonsie, too, but we finally got our lives back.” By this he meant that we hadn’t had a proper vacation in the thirteen years since we took her in. She got mad when we left the house, so we stayed home. Toonsie had us well trained.

  One day, I saw a cat in the yard. I had some leftover dry food and decided to leave out a dish along with a bowl of fresh water. Word along the kitty telegraph must have gotten out because, before long, I had several regular visitors. Of course, cans of wet food soon began to supplement the dry, and I had a new job directing traffic and breaking up fights among the diners.