by Amy Newmark
Several days later, I realized that almost every day she had been asking to be let out at 1:00 p.m. and always wanted the front door instead of the back door she normally used to go to the yard. As a busy housewife and mother, I hadn’t been paying much attention, but I realized this had been going on for a while, and I had no idea why. Therefore, the next time it happened, I watched out the front room window to see what Marmalade was doing at one o’clock every day.
“Marm” meandered down the front stairs and out to the city sidewalk — then just sat there. About three minutes later, she flopped down and rolled over so her belly was showing.
“This is weird,” I thought. “She never does that unless she wants to be petted — but there is no one there.” I looked up the street — no one; I looked down the street — no one. Wait — on the sidewalk just crossing a block down from our house was a group of about fifteen young adults from the nearby group home for young adults with Down’s syndrome. They were out for a walk with their chaperone.
As they approached, I could hear, “There’s the kitty; there’s the kitty,” coming from multiple mouths. When they were close enough to touch Marm, she lay quietly while each person took a turn petting her. This took quite a while, and obviously these teens were very comfortable petting her and talking to her. When everyone, including the chaperone, had given Marm a petting and a belly rub, she turned over, stood up and gave herself a shake, then meandered back up the sidewalk to the front door where I heard her scratching to be let in. As I opened the door, I watched the group continue on their walk down the street.
It had been a breathtaking experience to see.
The next day, at the same time, I watched it happen again.
After a few more days of this, I needed to find out how long this had been going on, so I went out just as the last few were giving Marm the required petting, and asked the chaperone.
What I was told was both interesting and humbling. Our wonderful cat had been doing this every weekday for months, and these young adults thought it was the highlight of the walk to be able to have a chance to pet her.
How she had come to understand that these young people would enjoy petting her and could trust them, only God knows.
Marmalade had the most loving and caring personality I have ever seen in a cat. She would cuddle any of the family when they felt sad, and she would lick away the tears and purr in their ears until she had made them feel better. To see that she extended that love to others was incredible.
~Shirley K. Stevenson
Finding Peace Together
Fun fact: Cats love their owners just as much as dogs do; they just don’t show it in the same ways.
“Muffins is at your house and safe,” read the text from my friend, Nikki, which came along with a picture of an orange Tabby perched on one of my kitchen chairs.
“Great,” I thought to myself. “I can only imagine how this is going to go.”
Muffins had belonged to Nikki’s horrible neighbor, who left him outside, barely giving him food or water. The woman had recently moved away, leaving Muffins to wander the neighborhood to completely fend for himself. My husband had a co-worker who was looking to adopt a cat, but couldn’t take him in for a few weeks, so we agreed to foster him in the meantime.
It’s not that I didn’t feel bad for the little guy. I wanted him to find a good home. But never having owned a cat in my life, I really didn’t see this going well. I didn’t dislike cats, but I couldn’t imagine ever bonding with one like I could a dog. They all just seemed so arrogant and aloof.
To top it all off, I had still never gotten over losing Berkeley, my beloved dog who had died almost a year earlier.
When Berkeley was diagnosed with cancer at not quite six years old, the veterinarian told us it was too aggressive to cure. Instead of allowing myself to be consumed with sadness, I spent the next four months using all my energy to make Berkeley’s life as wonderful as possible, taking her on countless trips to the dog park and the ice-cream stand. But once the cancer became too much for her and we had to say goodbye to our sweet girl, I suddenly had nothing to do with my grief anymore. I had spent most of the year in a deep depression, angry that she was taken so soon and convinced I had somehow failed her. I would dream of her regularly, and the feel of her downy fur under my fingers always felt so real, that waking up was always a disappointment.
By the time I got home from work the day Nikki dropped off Muffins, he had taken to hiding behind one of the living room chairs. Our dog, Rain, took somewhat of an interest in our new houseguest, but curiosity quickly turned to fear after too many claws-out swats to her nose when she would try to sniff around the chair.
Muffins eventually emerged into the living room. I can’t say he was a holy terror, but this cat meowed incessantly, constantly messed up the blinds on our windows and didn’t seem to understand that my laptop wasn’t meant to be walked across.
Two weeks went by, and we learned that my husband’s co-worker was interested in a female cat only. A couple of other leads on a home for Muffins also fell through. By this time, Rain’s anxiety caused by this feisty feline was making her physically ill. She had always been a skittish dog, and the fear of constantly wondering if Muffins was waiting around the corner, ready to attack, was taking its toll.
This cat had to go.
Even though I wanted Muffins out of my house in the worst way, I wasn’t heartless. I wouldn’t take him to the pound or turn him out on the street like his awful first owner, but I was exhausting all efforts by contacting every animal-rescue group in the area, desperately trying to rehome him.
In the meantime, I took Rain to the veterinarian to see if there were any solutions to calm her nerves.
“We are fostering this cat right now until we can find him a home,” I told the vet, trying to explain why Rain was so out of sorts.
“Sweetie, he already has a home,” the kindly vet responded gently.
“Oh, no,” I said. “Absolutely not.”
Over the next week, the anxiety medicine prescribed by the vet did seem to help. Rain also started to assert herself, letting out a firm growl whenever Muffins would overstep his bounds.
With Rain steadily turning back into her old self, I guess I began to relax, too. Muffins really wasn’t so bad. In fact, he was pretty adorable to watch while he was rolling around on his back with his paws tangling around the string attached to his furry toy mouse. And I have to admit I enjoyed it when he would fall asleep on my chest in the evening when my husband and I were watching television. I couldn’t exactly say I loved him, but I had learned to like the little guy.
A few weeks later, Berkeley appeared again in my dreams. Somehow, even in this dream state, I knew it was just a temporary visit. I gathered her in my arms and buried my face in her fur.
“I’m not letting you go, baby,” I cried. “Mommy is right here.”
When I woke up the next morning, I found Muffins nestled in my arms, looking up at me with his big green eyes. I wiped away my tears and rubbed the top of his head as he purred with contentment.
“Hey, little guy,” I whispered. “Mommy is right here.”
After that morning, I found I could think of Berkeley and smile instead of cry. Her life may have been short, but it was full of love — something that Muffins’ life had lacked for so long.
No one could ever replace Berkeley or change what she meant to me, but I finally realized the same goes for Muffins.
A few months later, when I took Muffins to the vet for some shots, I happily told the doctor that he was right.
This sweet little kitty has found a home.
~Emily Canning-Dean
My Hunter Cat
Fun fact: Cats are called “obligate carnivores,” which means they must have meat to survive because it has nutrients their bodies need.
Neighborhood Cat Burglar
Fun fact: Bengals, Munchkins, Pixiebobs and American Bobtails are more likely to be attracted to shiny objects an
d steal them.
Who is three years old and has red hair and extra large toes on his front paws, which aid him in his kleptomania? Our neighbor’s cat, fast-fingered Uther Pendragon (named in honor of King Arthur’s father) alias Klepto Kitty, has everyone laughing but his owners!
His pet parent, Preston, is an artist who understands creativity, but what his cat does goes way past creativity into the art of criminology. As good parents, Preston and his wife, Barbara, raised their children to be model citizens, but they never expected their cat to become a delinquent and go “a stray,” becoming the neighborhood’s cat burglar. What led Uther into this life of crime is a mystery.
“This has being going on for years!” laments Barbara with a hint of a smile. “We wake up to various stolen articles — washcloths, tea towels, children’s hats, dog toys, lots of socks — but Uther specializes in gloves. After breakfast, he goes back through his cat door and returns with the matching glove to the one he stole before breakfast! He has misappropriated dozens of matching pairs. His thievery is a full-time job!”
“Uther may be smarter than we give him credit for, as none of what he stalks and brings home fights back — so he is never clawed or injured. If a neighbor leaves anything outside that fits into Uther’s mouth, he claims it and carries it home. The oddest thing is that when I am gardening and lay down my gloves Uther is not the least bit interested in them.”
Their other cat is a shy, innocent black female. Thank goodness she is a “normal” cat and in no way Uther’s accomplice. Sometimes, Uther tries to look innocent and blame Natalie for items that mysteriously show up… but we have his number! He can’t fool us with those big yellow eyes.
Uther knows about cat doors, so Barbara’s greatest fear is that one day her thief is going to expand his territory, house-breaking through neighbors’ cat doors. Then what? What if his keen senses help him pull off a daring heist, and he carries home expensive, sparkly items? Then she and Preston might be in legal trouble. Imagine explaining “what the cat dragged in” to a judge and jury!
Uther is a Humane Society rescue. He appeared to be a gem at the time. Little did they know he would grow into a cat burglar. He was neutered as a kitten to stop him from roving after female felines, but how can they stop this kind of extracurricular criminal activity?
Preston sacrificed one of his artist easels to help alleviate the guilt of owning and feeding, i.e. enabling, the neighborhood’s cat burglar. Preston attached three crossbars to the easel and glued on a dozen clothespins to display the cat’s loot. The easel sits at the end of their driveway, adorned with gloves, socks, and other purr-loined items for the neighbors to retrieve.
“The oddest thing,” said Barbara, “is when three understanding neighbors came by to collect items off our ‘wall/easel of shame.’ They mentioned that, at one time, they too had an orange cat that stole from neighbors!” Do you think the theft gene and his feline-onius behavior is in the orange cat’s DNA? If so, it is a good thing Uther was neutered.
The sign above the loot-filled easel reads:
Please retrieve your things.
Our cat collects what you leave out.
He is a Cat Burglar!
Check back often.
SORRY.
Like the rest of our neighbors, we have learned that when things “disappear,” we’d better take a walk over to Barbara and Preston’s house and check out their easel!
~Mary Ellen Angelscribe
Jupiter, My Not-So-Vegetarian Cat
Fun fact: Even if kittens lose their mothers, who are normally their hunting teachers, they still have a natural instinct to chase and catch fast-moving small items.
I’d never wanted a pet. I worried I’d make a dog unhappy by leaving it locked inside our house alone, or that I’d lose a cat to a coyote. And then I moved to the country. Everyone in our rural neighbourhood had cats or dogs (or both). And all of them seemed to be living a happy, free-range life.
My sons were desperate for a pet of their own — preferably a cat. My excuses for turning them down were endless. How were we going to give attention to a pet when we could barely look after ourselves? What would happen when we went on holiday? Who was going to deal with the litter box?
But the biggest issue was this: How could we feed it meat when we didn’t eat it ourselves?
The tipping point came a year after we moved in, the day I pulled a mouse out of my running shoe thinking it was a crumpled-up sock. We’d been overrun with rodents — and their droppings — since the moment we’d arrived in our new home. I’d tried my best to claim our space with a humane trap: a catch-and-release contraption that didn’t work at all. I’d actually watched a mouse stroll into it, lap up the peanut butter bait, and then saunter back out smacking its lips.
The mice were winning the battle. We needed an animal on our side. It was either a cat or a hinge trap that would snap the invaders in half. If we were going to stay in the house (moving wasn’t really an option), mice were going to have to die. And with relentless logic, my family convinced me it might as well happen as part of the circle of life.
We strapped ourselves into the car and headed for the SPCA, the wide grins on my boys’ faces never wavering despite my constant reminders that “I wasn’t making any promises.” The scene that greeted us was overwhelming — so many creatures cramped into a tiny space that reeked of cat pee and kibble. I had no idea how to care for a pet or what to look for in a cat. But I knew we weren’t leaving without one. I had to give one of these animals a home.
“That one’s gotta be a good mouser.” The SPCA volunteer pointed to a fat tomcat that looked like he could inhale me in one bite. All I could think about was the amount of food — all containing meat, something I hadn’t eaten since I’d witnessed the slaughter of my favourite rooster at the age of twelve — he was likely to consume.
“We’ll take that one.” I motioned toward a petite orange Tabby that was squirming on his back, already delighted to roughhouse with my boys.
“James,” the volunteer confirmed over the expressions of delight that exploded from my children’s mouths. The cat purred loudly in response to their jubilant hugs.
I fed James — who was promptly renamed “Jupiter James” and then simply “Jupiter” — dry cat food containing free-range chicken. At my children’s urging, I got him a few treats as well, but not the stuff Jupiter no doubt wanted most. I could not handle the wet, slimy, fishy-smelling concoctions that came in a tin. I considered vegetarian cat food, but in the end decided against it.
Cats are carnivores. And Jupiter had been welcomed into our home, in part, for his skills as a hunter. Naively, I hoped that just having a cat would keep the mice away — no death necessary.
For the first few weeks, we kept Jupiter — a former stray — inside so he could get to know his new home before he started wandering around our acreage. I referred to him as the kids’ pet and encouraged him to sleep in their beds because I wanted them to bond. Plus, I didn’t really want to bond with him myself. My excuses — even still — were endless. How could I possibly find time to groom and care for a cat? Why attach myself to a solitary creature that often seemed indifferent to us? Who was going to do all the extra laundry that resulted from a single petting session that left my black pants coated in beige fur?
But my real concern was this: What if something happened to Jupiter when we finally let him loose?
Because the truth was, this little fur ball had already purred his way into my heart. I looked forward to the feel of his whiskers against my bare leg in the morning. I loved the weight of his warm body curled up in my lap as I read. And when he tilted his head in response to my rambling? It was like he was really listening (unlike my human family members).
By the time he was ready to go outside, I’d also convinced myself that my cat was vegetarian. He liked cuddling, not hunting. And he didn’t seem too crazy about the chicken. Maybe he really could be satisfied with quinoa and kale (like the rest of my family memb
ers). Because really, how could a cute, affectionate cat like Jupiter also be a killer?
It only took two days for him to prove me wrong. That’s when the first dead mouse appeared on the doorstep.
With a shudder, I ordered my husband to remove it. And I did not praise Jupiter for the kill, even though I couldn’t help feeling flattered. He’d given us a Thanksgiving present. How was he supposed to know that our turkey was made of tofu? The way I saw it (or chose to see it), he’d saved the mouse from the torture of sneaking into our house, discovering its comforts (a warm bed in my box of spare toilet paper; a yummy dinner in my cereal bin), only to be crucified by a snap trap.
After the mouse came the decapitated bird. Then the bunny. Once, Jupiter even took out a baby gopher. Every time he leaves a prize at the door, I know it’s there before I even see it. I can tell by the toothy grin on my kitty’s face.
By now, I’ve lost track of Jupiter’s gifts. I continue to feed him the chicken — processed beyond recognition — and my husband continues to pick up the carcasses at the back door. I can’t say that I’m used to it, but I will say this: I’ve accepted our differences.
He’s a cat. He likes to hunt. And he keeps the mice out of the house, in the woods where they belong. (I try not to think too much about the ones that trespass on his territory — with deadly consequences.)
I’m a vegetarian. But I’m in love with a carnivore, and I can’t imagine my life without him. Jupiter: my not-so-vegetarian cat.
~Yolanda Ridge
Reprinted by permission of www.CartoonStock.com
An Unexpected Guest
Fun fact: The party game called The Vicar’s Cat is a traditional word game played in Britain since Elizabethan times.
Mrs. Pitt frightened me. Blue hair and stooped shoulders could not diminish the authority she wielded with just a look or word. Meekly, I followed her on a tour of the parsonage as she shared both her wisdom and expectations for the new pastor’s wife.