My Very Good, Very Bad Cat

by Amy Newmark

  We stopped briefly at the kitchen sink. “See how this shines?” she asked in her sweet southern accent. The gleam of the stainless steel was only slightly less than that in her eyes. “I expect to see it look just like this the next time I come. And I’d better never see any bits of food in the trap.” She smiled pleasantly, but I wasn’t fooled.

  At that most inopportune moment, Kitty rounded the corner with a trill. Mrs. Pitt stiffened. “You know,” she stated, “no pastor has ever had an animal in the parsonage before.” She wrinkled her nose and sniffed.

  “Yes, I know.” I shot her my most engaging smile. “I’m so grateful that Kitty has been allowed that great privilege.”

  Kitty was sixteen, my beloved black cat since I was eight years old. I had pleaded with my husband to ask that he be allowed to come with us to North Carolina, and pity for the new preacher’s wife had somehow swayed the parsonage committee to allow him to live with us.

  Apparently, that decision was made over the objections of Mrs. Pitt.

  Kitty obligingly gave Mrs. Pitt’s legs a friendly swish with his tail, and she recoiled. “I don’t like cats,” she said, stating the obvious. I gave Kitty a gentle shove toward his food dish in the pantry, and he was distracted enough to leave her alone for the moment. Our tour over, Mrs. Pitt marched to her giant Oldsmobile and left, although I didn’t believe for a moment that Kitty was truly welcome in the parsonage.

  “A cat is always on the wrong side of a closed door.” Garrison Keillor’s wry observation was proven right. Endless trips to the patio to let Kitty in or out made life tedious, and we surreptitiously replaced a window in the basement with a pet door. I didn’t plan to let Mrs. Pitt see it. Kitty was most pleased with his new freedom and explored the nearby woods like the predator he was.

  Our first Christmas in the parsonage brought my debut as a hostess. The Women’s Missionary Fellowship always had a party at the parsonage, charmingly dubbed a “carry-in dinner.” I smiled at the name, unaccustomed to the differences in some terminology in the South. I slipped in the substitute term “potluck” one day, and Mrs. Pitt glowered. I would forever be a hapless Yankee.

  Mrs. Pitt’s words during our tour rang in my ears as I scrubbed, dusted, and polished everything in sight, especially the sink, before the party. I wanted everything to look perfect. With only minutes to spare before the ladies arrived, my last act was to banish Kitty outdoors. I felt a little twinge of guilt because it was cold, but reasoned that he was used to being outside. He stood at the patio door, meowing and glaring at me, but I shut the blinds.

  I shooed my husband out a few minutes later since the party was “ladies only.” Giving me a peck on the cheek, he squeezed my hand and whispered, “Good luck.”

  A few deep, cleansing breaths were all I had time for before the doorbell rang with the arrival of the first guests. The fireplace crackled with warmth, cranberry-scented candles shone, and my Christmas tree was a glowing masterpiece. The ladies toured the entire house, as I knew they would, and I was confident that every square inch was spotless.

  Mrs. Pitt’s arrival was the cue to begin, and she placed her trademark sweet-potato pie on the buffet table with a flourish. Following a brief prayer, the ladies began to fill their plates and gathered to enjoy the meal.

  The parsonage had a large dining room, but there were so many women that a few had to be seated in the living room, balancing their food and drinks on tray tables. Their gentle conversation and kind compliments about the beauty of our home helped me to relax, lulling me into a false sense of security.

  In the last-minute rush, I had forgotten to latch the door to the basement. I didn’t realize my mistake until I heard a familiar yowl coming up the stairs. I nearly knocked the contents of my tray to the floor as I flew across the room trying to beat Kitty to the door. I was too late.

  I screamed when the mouse, still writhing, was dragged across my feet. Kitty ran by me so fast that I missed him when I tried to grab any part of him, even his tail. He trotted into the living room, proud to show off his most recent catch. When he rounded the corner, pandemonium erupted.

  Screams echoed from the walls, and women scrambled to climb up onto the furniture. Some women simply froze in fright, forks poised in midair as their brains tried to comprehend what they were seeing. My first instinct was to call for my husband, but then I remembered he had been banished. I was on my own.

  Ignoring my fear, I scrambled to grab Kitty, latching onto his furry belly with ferocity. He was so startled that he dropped the mouse, which then wobbled off toward the couch in a last-ditch effort to survive. After a few steps, he fell over, succumbing to his injuries. Perhaps he was just scared to death.

  Eerie quiet descended upon the room as every eye turned to Mrs. Pitt. Her expression was inscrutable. I wondered what it would be like to have to be packed and gone before New Year’s Day.

  The corners of Mrs. Pitt’s mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. Instead of a glare, I saw a twinkle in her eye.

  “Oh, y’all,” she drawled, “just calm down. We said it was a carry-in dinner.”

  ~Rhonda Dragomir

  Asleep on the Job

  Fun fact: Veterinarian and author James Herriot once said, “Cats are the connoisseurs of comfort.”

  Arriving home from work one day,

  I thought I’d find my cats at play.

  Instead, I found a quiet house,

  A house as silent as a mouse.

  Dear Pete was sleeping, safe and sound,

  but brother Twink was not around.

  I checked in all his usual spots,

  but did I see him? I did not.

  I found him, finally, asleep on a boot

  in the back of a closet. Oh, what a hoot!

  His wide body straddled the boot on each side

  with his head in the hole as if trying to hide.

  My laughter awoke him. He looked up and yawned,

  then raced to the kitchen as dinner-thoughts dawned.

  I started to follow but heard a strange squeak,

  an odd little sound… in a strange little speak!

  I picked up the boot, and deep down I spied

  a poor frightened mouse cowering inside.

  My Twinkie had done what a good cat would do.

  He’d chased that wee mouse straight into a shoe!

  Unable to reach the mouse deep in the toe,

  Twink opted to catnap on top of his foe.

  I carried the boot to some shrubs in my yard

  and set the mouse free, scared but unscarred.

  Gone in a second, it never returned,

  and from my cat, Twinkie, that day I learned:

  If you can’t catch a mouse, then you must guard its trap.

  But don’t let the hunt interfere with your nap!

  ~Wendy Hobday Haugh

  The Moth Hunters

  Fun fact: A group of grown cats is known as a “clowder.” A group of kittens is called a “kindle.”

  One evening, after a long day of classes, I was home relaxing and reading in our living room. I had inadvertently let a moth in with me, which flitted about aimlessly. Several of my cats had noticed, and their interest was piqued. It continued to float about, as moths do, but unaware that four hunters sat in a circle below, waiting patiently for it to come closer.

  The cats worked in tandem, two calling for the hapless bug, the other two prepared to capture their quarry. Samantha, a plump orange Tabby, and Coco, a Siamese with piercing blue eyes, alternated calling for the bug. Samantha chittered like a mouse might, while Coco caterwauled. Somehow this seemed to entice the moth to glide lower and lower until it was in range of the two designated monster slayers: Sammy and Kitticus. Sammy was a loveable, black-and-white, high-maintenance fluff ball and not a very adept hunter. Kitticus was also black and white, but unlike Sammy he was a wily, patient stalker with a goatee and the attitude of a Roman gladiator.

  As the moth flew lower at the beckoning of the two criers, the two
hunters waited for it to fly low enough to be captured. This, of course, was where Sammy was not an asset to the team. Each time the moth flew halfway down to them, Sammy would bolt and jump into the air, flailing wildly at the moth and almost never connecting. This would cause the moth to fly high again, forcing the group to repeat the process. Each time, without fail, Sammy would repeat the same error, which engendered dirty looks from his hunting party. At one point, Kitticus, who never jumped early from his position, whacked Sammy several times on the head when an attempted assault caused him to land right on Kitticus’s head.

  This process went on for ten minutes with the same results every time. It was four cats versus one tiny moth and the moth was winning.

  Then Murphy, the fifth cat, entered the room.

  Murphy was a unique cat. If Kitticus was a Roman gladiator, then Murphy was the grand champion of the Coliseum. He was a brawler by nature; when one of the other cats did something he didn’t like, he would let them know. Most of the cats, except Kitticus, seemed to fear him — keeping their distance and respecting his space. Kitticus would often scrap with Murphy, like some contest for dominance, but would lose every time. You could sense the respect Kitticus had for Murphy.

  Murphy was also the most able hunter of all five, despite his long orange hair being a disadvantage. Yet, he seemed to have no interest in the moth. He took in the situation, watching all the cats for a few minutes (after their brief pause upon seeing him, of course). He then jumped up on top of the old-fashioned box television and curled up, watching the peons beneath him continue their attempts to get the moth.

  By this point, the moth was about halfway from the doorway to the television, where the king himself was sitting. He yawned and stretched, rolling onto his back in the process. He slung his head over the front of the TV, watching them all upside-down, seemingly amused by their display. The debacle continued, but this time Kitticus nearly snagged the moth because Sammy had finally developed enough patience to let it fly low enough. A few more minutes passed, and the moth now floated in front of the TV, about three or four feet from the screen.

  Murphy sat up and watched the moth with an intensity he hadn’t exhibited before. Samantha and Coco called for the moth, their mouths watering for this delectable meal they had all spent the last half-hour trying to get. The moth descended as before, with the four waiting patiently below, but this time they would not get their chance. Murphy dove from the top of the TV and caught the moth between his front paws, dragging the poor creature down to earth and crushing it beneath him. Before the other cats could react, he ate it. The look on their faces was priceless! They all seemed so dejected. Here they had expended all this energy trying to hunt the moth, and yet Murphy accomplished it all in seconds while he lounged about almost the entire time.

  Samantha walked past him, looking at the ground and dragging her feet like a two-year-old child who doesn’t want to go to bed. Sammy hissed at Murphy and went upstairs. Coco complained and complained and complained until Murphy turned and swiped the air near him; that made Coco flee the room. Kitticus sat motionless, staring at Murphy with a look of hatred in his eyes. Murphy locked eyes with him, and the two remained that way for five minutes until Kitticus decided to leave. That was one of the last times they were all together.

  Now, several years later, only Kitticus is still around, but that night with the moth has given me a fond memory of each of those special companions and their unique personalities.

  ~Sean V. Cronin

  Shadows

  Fun fact: Cats can become addicted to chasing shadows or lights. It’s like hunting prey that they’ll never catch.

  At first, I wasn’t sure what my cat, named Kitten, did when she hid herself away in the front hallway. I would peek around the corner and watch as she stared at the bare wall. She sat with her tiny pink nose against the beige drywall, her striped body alert and her brown eyes entranced.

  Every night, at roughly the same time, she positioned herself in the hall. Patiently, she would wait. For what, my family and I did not know, until one night when the sound of scraping claws and scampering paws sent us rushing into the hallway. That was the first night we noticed the shadows.

  Brilliant golden beams danced across the dark hallway. Kitten trailed them as they billowed along the wall and rolled along the floor. She tried to catch them in her little paws. As excitedly as if she had discovered a new toy, she chased the illuminated shapes until they faded away. Engulfed in darkness once more, she would gape at the spot where the shadows had at one time brightened the hall.

  Kitten had come to learn the sound of my mother’s car pulling into the driveway every night after work. She knew where to position herself so that the beaming headlights of the minivan would reflect through the front window and create the dazzling light show she anticipated every single night. The sound of a car venturing down the street would send her scurrying to her spot, sometimes just as the last shadow dwindled away.

  She waited for the show of shadows as excitedly as a child waits for a fireworks display. Her body was still and unmoving, and not even the prospect of a crunchy treat could pull her away from her favorite spot, lest she miss the first light pass along the wall.

  Even as Kitten’s playful personality drastically changed, a side effect of the feline leukemia she was born with, her love and excitement for the shadows was a constant. Sometimes, a member of my family would purposely pull in and out of the driveway, just so Kitten would get her nightly light show. My dad liked to flicker the headlights’ high beams on and off and on again. Kitten ran and jumped and pounced and followed the silhouettes along the wall as if she herself were dancing with them.

  My mom always called home when she was minutes away from our driveway. “Get Kitten ready,” she would say.

  Kitten’s ears would perk up when I would then exclaim: “Kitten! Let’s go look at the shadows!”

  Together, we raced to the hallway. Kitten took the steps two or three at a time and skated around corners, her paws sliding from beneath her on the linoleum flooring.

  Kitten watched the shadows nearly every single night during the short year she was a part of our family. The night before we had to put her to sleep, when the leukemia had rendered her body weak and unmoving, my mother carried her into the hallway, and I turned out the lights all around the house. The street outside the window was dark, with not a car’s headlights in sight. My younger brother stuffed a miniature flashlight in his pocket and snuck out through the side door.

  Lights and shadows began to flicker and flash all around the hallway. I could see my brother’s face through the window, partially hidden in the darkness. He waved the light around and waited patiently. We all did. Kitten could no longer move. She no longer had the strength to stand on her paws, let alone chase the shadows down the long length of the hallway as she once had.

  But her eyes, big and bright and as excited as they had been when she first watched the shadows, followed them back and forth.

  ~Keri Lindenmuth

  Chasing Butterflies

  Fun fact: On average, one pounce in three results in a successful catch for a cat.

  KC, our fat Tabby, loves chasing butterflies. Fortunately for them, her enthusiasm far outweighs her skill, and they are never in any real danger. But that doesn’t stop KC. Throughout the summer, she crouches patiently and watches for anything that flies past. Some days, she resembles someone watching tennis, with her head bobbing from side to side. When the buddleia are in bloom, the butterflies are in profusion, and then it’s hard to get her to come indoors. From her point of view, there are simply too many cat toys fluttering past.

  KC is rather chubby, so there is something comical about her trying to flatten herself and move across the garden like a shadow — she generally succeeds at being a moving bump. Then comes the pounce, which shows a cheerful exuberance, as she leaps spread-eagled into the air and lands, looking around in confusion to find the butterfly. The joyful abandonment and total
lack of skill in the pounce ensures the butterfly has time to escape, and KC’s eyes dart around, seeking her long-escaped prey.

  The fact that KC is hopeless at catching butterflies does little to dim her enthusiasm, and she keeps watching, a gleeful picture of a cat totally enthralled in her activity, persisting in spite of constant failure, but having a wonderful time in the process.

  Watching her, I realize there is a lot we can learn from her: We can’t all be successful at everything, but we can still enjoy trying.

  ~Denice Penrose

  The Art of Hunting

  Fun fact: Tasmania established a program in 1997 to eradicate feral cats from Macquarie Island because they were decimating endangered seabirds. After removing 2,500 cats, the island was declared cat-free in 2003.

  As far back as I can recall, my daughter has had a special connection with animals. I remember a visit to a local zoo when I told Emily, “Look at the monkey.” From her three-year-old vantage point, she observed, “That’s no monkey, Dad. That’s a lemur.” Or the time at a farm when a bull rushed the fence and everyone stumbled backwards, except for Emily, who reached out to touch it. She has always had a love for all creatures, just like her mother.

  Needless to say, we’ve had more than our share of pets over the years, everything from mice to turtles to mangy dogs. We had a cat named Kitty who lived with us for more than twenty years. When Kitty died of old age, our family was heartbroken.

  A short time later, Emily found a black cat in the hills behind our home. It was a female, skinny and starving, that apparently belonged to no one. Emily brought the cat home, nursed her back to health, and named her Blackjack.

  Our new cat got the full treatment — a visit to the vet, a pillow to sack out on, water and food bowls beside her bed, and a daily ration of affection. In return, Blackjack began to supply us with gifts of her own. Sometimes, it was gophers or moles. Other times, it was frogs, chipmunks or bats. We usually ended up chasing them around the house in order to release them back to nature.