My Very Good, Very Bad Cat

by Amy Newmark

  One day, Blackjack popped in through an open window next to my computer desk and dropped a green snake onto the keyboard. It coiled, ready to strike. After I peeled myself off the ceiling, I placed the snake in a bag, took it outside and set it free.

  Once, in the middle of the night, I got up to go to the bathroom and stepped on something cold, wet and slimy. It was a fish Blackjack had snatched up from a nearby creek. Another time, I came home to find a live shrew scampering around the kitchen table.

  I slowly came to appreciate Blackjack’s unique gifts and often chuckled to myself over the wide variety of wildlife she caught. There were cicadas and salamanders and centipedes and sparrows, and once even a live woodpecker — so many critters that I started to think she was knocking off pet stores. Happily, most of the animals she brought us were still alive. Blackjack and I became a top-notch catch-and-release team.

  For a while, her favorite prey was live moths. Blackjack would step into the house, open her mouth, and out they would fly. It was a sight to behold.

  One morning, on the way to school, Emily’s younger brother, Tyler, was pulling on his shoes when he shouted so loudly it nearly caused me to careen off the road. In the bottom of one shoe was a lizard — a skink.

  We kept Blackjack’s food bowl full, but that didn’t stop her. Hunting was hard-wired into that cat’s brain.

  One Thanksgiving, her gift was more traditional. Our family was seated around the table when she came in the pet door, dragging something between her front legs. It was a dead rabbit. The scene immediately put me in mind of a cheetah on the African savannah with its fresh kill, and the loud scream coming from my wife verified that.

  Blackjack dropped the rabbit beside my chair and stared at me, as if to say, “I didn’t want to show up for dinner without bringing something.”

  A week later, she trapped one of my neighbor’s geese under our house. The goose was big, but Blackjack was a strong cat. I heard all the commotion — thumping, wings flapping, hissing, quacking, yowling — coming from beneath the floorboards. Then total silence. I rushed outside just in time to see the goose waddle away, unharmed. A minute later, Blackjack appeared, shaking her head and looking baffled. She had met her match. Our cat never chased waterfowl again.

  After that, there was a dry spell. Blackjack took a hunting hiatus. A full month passed. Then one morning she jumped up on the bed with an exciting new gift.

  “What’s that in Blackjack’s mouth?” my wife asked, half-asleep. At that moment, a large rat plopped down onto the sheets and scampered beneath the covers.

  We both leaped up, screaming like terrorized citizens in a Japanese monster film. It was, as they say, a pants-wetting experience.

  Blackjack had a look on her face like “I think I made a mistake.” She pawed around, fished the rat out of our bed and dashed outside with it. I was in Emily’s room in seconds, explaining what had happened.

  “That’s a sign of affection,” she replied. “Blackjack thought she was dropping a sack of money on your bed, not a rat.”

  Cats are known for delivering freshly caught gifts to their human companions. Some people believe it’s a form of nurturing, much as other mammals and birds bring food to their offspring. Others say it’s because they consider us part of their “pride” and want our approval. Some experts in feline behavior speculate that cats bring us gifts in order to train us. They want to “educate” their owners in the art of hunting.

  While those explanations make sense, I’m convinced that Blackjack’s motivation was different. I think she brought our family gifts because she wanted to repay us for saving her life.

  ~Timothy Martin

  Reprinted by permission of www.offthemark.com

  Fetch

  Fun fact: Tortoiseshell describes a coat coloring found almost exclusively in female cats.

  KC is a nine-pound, tortoiseshell cat with refined tastes, at least as far as toys are concerned. Most of the cat toys I bought for her lay untouched in a box or on the living room floor. After spending bunches of money on glitter balls, spongy golf balls, catnip-filled frogs made of denim, and other expensive cat baubles that she disdained, I finally hit upon something she actually played with — those three-for-ninety-nine-cents paper mice covered with a thin coat of fur — the ones with the tails made of fuzz-covered faux leather. They came in multiple colors. These three were orange, white, and black.

  To my excitement, when I tossed one of the artificial creatures across the room, KC bounded after it. Unlike all the other toys that she sniffed and walked away from, this one she started batting around and pouncing on.

  Soon, a game developed between the two of us. The first time it happened, I was watching TV. I felt her familiar head-bump against my shin. Like always, I bent down to scratch her back, but this time I noticed a neon orange mouse at my feet. I tossed it down the hall, and just like a dog, KC went tearing after it. After batting it around for a bit, she brought it back and laid it at my feet. Again I threw it. Again, she chased. My kitty had discovered the game of fetch.

  The game soon progressed to another level. Normally when KC felt it was time for me to awaken, she would leap onto the bed and plant herself on my chest, making sure she was the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes. This particular morning, something was a bit different. She walked across my chest and sat next to me. When I sat up, I understood why. Falling from my chest onto my lap was a little white mouse with red felt eyes. KC stared at me expectantly as if I should be able to read her mind. I flung her toy out the bedroom door and down the hall. Digging her back claws into my leg, she used my lap as a springboard, narrowly missing what could have been quite a painful injury to me.

  I plopped back onto the bed. Less than a minute later, she pranced back into the bedroom, her favorite toy in her jaws. She leapt onto the bed and dropped the folded paper with only a little fuzz remaining (it hardly resembled a critter anymore) onto my chest. Without sitting up this time, I again threw the orange mouse out the door. Again, she gave chase.

  Like most cats, KC enjoys routine. After a week, our game of fetch had become a ritual. Some mornings, I’d wake up to find a mouse on my chest, around my feet or next to me. Sometimes, I’d have to do a little searching and find it in a fold of the bed sheets. Usually after the third round of toss-and-retrieve, she’d get lazy, and I’d find it on the floor next to the bed.

  One morning, I was woken as usual by paws walking across my chest. As KC passed, she dropped her toy onto the bridge of my nose. In a semiconscious state, I picked up her toy, ready to fling it out the door, but something was off. This was a little bit heavier, and the fur felt way too soft. I opened my eyes, and realization struck. This was not a toy. Nor was it inert. A live mouse twitched in my fingers.

  Normally, I am not all that squeamish, especially around mice, but the shock and surprise made me hurl that mouse harder and faster than any toy. Of course, KC tore after it.

  As I sat on the edge of my bed, waiting for my heartbeat to return to something close to normal, KC pranced back in and dropped the mouse, now dead, at my feet. I didn’t know if it was the cat that finally did it in, or my throw, but two things I knew for certain: One, I had mice in the house, and two, my little kitty was a darn good hunter.

  ~David Fingerman

  An Embarrassment of Riches

  Not-so-fun fact: Raptors, predatory birds, have been known to attack, injure, and even kill cats left outdoors unattended.

  I cringed when I caught sight of Henry, my large-and-in-charge orange Tabby, emerging from the tall grass. He had something hairy, scary, and disturbingly rodent-like in his mouth. “Oh, goody,” I grumbled to myself, bracing for the inevitable. It would seem that Henry was bringing me another of his gifts.

  My magnanimous Henry was a pound cat for the first ten months of his life, but you’d never guess it from his imperious airs. He wasn’t named after any historical monarch either, but he turned out to be a bit of a tyrant just the same. Henry is the king
of the castle and ruler of all surrounding territories, which includes our back yard and the large, vermin-inhabited field just beyond it. The poor resident critters will forever rue the day that Henry moved in. Their feeble attempts to hide are no match for his sublime patience and stealth.

  Through the kitchen window, I watched Henry prance toward the house with his glorious catch. Then he noticed the dog, Jed, and slowed his pace a bit. Changing course, he detoured past the dog, shamelessly flaunting the evidence of his superior hunting skills. He sashayed back and forth, his head held so high I wondered how he could see where he was going. The dog, for his part, actually seemed impressed. Instead of indulging in his customary game of chase-the-cat, Jed stood at attention and just let his feline friend strut his stuff.

  Finally satisfied, Henry turned and headed for the house, big fuzzy rodent in full view. It was now my turn to step up and get what was coming to me… literally. But Henry’s gift never made it that far.

  Out of nowhere, a dark shadow appeared in the sky, rapidly gaining on the unsuspecting cat. An opportunistic raven had spotted a chance for an easy meal and, in true raven mode, he wasn’t about to let this one slip away. He swooped in from behind, delivering a well-aimed smack to the head with one deft wing. Thwap! Henry didn’t know what hit him! He yowled and jumped straight into the air, his legs pedaling wildly beneath him. The mouse tumbled from his gaping mouth and was instantly snatched up by the bird. Henry could only watch, dazed and confused, as the crook made off with his precious prize.

  Poor Henry! He’d been burgled by a bird! Oh, the shame of it! And what was worse: the whole embarrassing thing had gone down right in front of the dog. If dogs could, Jed would have been laughing like a hyena. As it was, he certainly had one of the biggest doggie smiles I’ve ever seen. And what did the regal Henry do in his moment of mortification? Did he lose face, feel small, eat crow? Not Henry. He just plopped down on his roly-poly rump and started to groom himself. I guess he figured, if you’re going to look bad, you might as well look good doing it.

  ~Emily Johnsen

  The One That Got Away

  Fun fact: When it hunts, a cat’s most highly refined sense is its vision.

  Dawn had barely broken when sudden thumping noises, followed by shrill chirping, woke me from a deep sleep. Instinctively, my critter-radar engaged. I knew some creature that shouldn’t be inside my house was huddled on the floor just beyond my husband’s side of the bed. But early-rising Chuck had already left for work, leaving me to face the interloper on my own.

  Gradually, as sporadic thumps and squeaks continued, my foggy brain detected the soft jingle of our male cat’s bell-studded collar. After rescuing Hector from a farm as a kitten, we quickly discovered his hunting skills were top-notch. And, just as quickly, we invested in colorful, snap-on, jingle-bell collars to give the woodland varmints and birds a fighting chance.

  “He’s a herder,” our neighbor informed me when I complained of Hector’s propensity for nudging an animal long distances before taking its life. Our neighbor promptly nicknamed him Killer. Much as I detested Hector’s pastime, I grudgingly admitted that the moniker fit.

  Over time, our savvy kitten learned to stalk his prey in silent, snakelike fashion. But that particular morning in my bedroom, Hector’s enthusiasm for the game obviously overrode his desire for stealth. Although I couldn’t identify the victim by its chirp, its unnervingly high-pitched squeal led me to suspect the critter was very small. Peering over the edge of the bed, I tried to see what it was. But the room was dark, my vision was blurry, and my glasses were downstairs on a kitchen windowsill. Squinting, I barely made out a tiny glob on the rug. A baby mouse, perhaps? A giant bug?

  Groaning, I rolled back in bed to consider my options. I knew how this game played out. At the moment, Hector was reveling in the fact that he was worrying the critter right under my nose. But the minute I made a move to rescue it, he’d clamp down hard and run away, ending its fragile life in an instant. I was surprised the creature wasn’t history already. With deep regret, I decided to let nature take its course. The poor little guy was probably half-dead. Surely the chirping would soon cease.

  It did not.

  Finally, I took another tack. Rolling off my side of the mattress, I grabbed a book from the nightstand and warily crept around the bed toward my cat and his prey. Hector, of course, knew exactly what was going down, having seen this ridiculous maneuver countless times in the past. But this time, in his cockiness, he delayed a split second too long before lunging for his prey. And in that split second, I threw the book at his flank, successfully knocking him a few steps sideways, and affording me just enough time to come between him and his quarry. Miffed at his game’s interruption, Hector glowered at me from the doorway as I surveyed the tiny brown spot lying, unmoving, on the carpet.

  “I should probably just end your suffering,” I murmured sadly.

  Much as I hated the thought of smooshing it, I also hated the thought of it scurrying off to die somewhere secluded indoors. I’d had enough mice expire in the walls of a prior home to realize that even tiny critters, once defunct, emit a powerful stench.

  Still bleary-eyed, I crouched down and retrieved my book. But having never heard this particular kind of chirp before, I was curious to see the strange creature up close before eradicating it. Book in hand, I edged steadily nearer, prepared to strike if it made a run for it. Inches from my target, my eyeballs finally adjusted — and recognition dawned.

  “HECTOR HOBDAY HAUGH!” I shrieked, jumping to my feet and chasing my cat down the hall. “BAD BOY!”

  As Killer frantically dove for the stairs, I flew back to my bedroom, flicked on the overhead light, and emitted an exasperated wail. There at my feet lay not a tiny mouse or a giant bug, but one of my son’s $2,000 hearing aids.

  Apparently, Josh had forgotten to turn his pricey micro-machine off at bedtime. As a result, it sat on a shelf all night, emitting just enough of an intermittent high-pitched squeal to attract the interest of our farm-bred feline. Knocking the hearing aid to the floor, Hector herded it as he would any small animal the full length of the hallway connecting our two bedrooms, eager to show off his latest acquisition.

  Although the hearing aid was damaged and required repair, I found it hard to hold a grudge. Hector was just doing what he’d been born to do. Besides, he wasn’t the only seasoned hunter on the prowl that morning. Between my cat’s sharp ears and my own dull vision, we’d both come dangerously close to destroying the device. Fortunately, the same innate curiosity that drove Hector to stalk that chirp in the first place ultimately compelled me to take an up-close look at the tiny thing before smashing it with my book.

  ~Wendy Hobday Haugh

  My Nanny Cat

  Fun fact: Whether you’re a “dog person” or a “cat person” usually depends on which pet you had when you were growing up.

  Worst Cat Ever

  Fun fact: Cats love to sleep on their humans’ beds and clothes because they smell like their favorite people.

  “I hate that cat! Elvis peed on my bed!” my son Logan screamed. He stormed into the family room — a stained pillow in one hand, a bunched blanket in the other. The unmistakable stench of cat urine permeated the room.

  “Don’t say that! He’s the best cat ever!” my daughter, Kaitlin, snapped back. She scooped up Elvis, cuddling him against her, his head resting on her shoulder.

  I glanced at Kaitlin and sighed. Seriously? I was firmly on Team Logan with this one — that cat was so naughty. But piddling on some-one’s bed was outrageously wicked — even for Elvis.

  “More like the worst cat ever! He’s on a pee-spree,” taunted Logan.

  “Hey, guys, enough. Everybody calm down,” I intervened.

  “Why does he do that?” demanded Logan.

  I could only shrug.

  Who knew?

  The truth was, we knew very little about Elvis. A year ago, Kaitlin had pleaded, “Can we get him? He’s so sweet!” cuddling the
large brown Tabby cat snuggled in her arms.

  I remembered the Humane Society lady saying sadly, “That’s Elvis. He’s an ‘owner surrender’ — they had a new baby, and he wasn’t getting along with it.”

  In my naiveté, I had responded, “That’s too bad,” looking at my three kids and wondering how anyone could get rid of the family cat just because they had a new baby. Wasn’t there enough love for both?

  Well, my question was answered shortly after Elvis arrived home with his two cat companions, Mack and Twix. I was certain we had absolutely, without-a-doubt, positively chosen the three most wonderful cats in the world — they were perfect in every way.

  For two weeks anyway.

  Then the piddle problems began. Mysterious, ghastly-smelling puddles started popping up all over the house with alarming frequency. Initially, it was a mystery who the culprit was, but before long Elvis was caught tinkling on Logan’s duffel bag.

  I was at my breaking point.

  I spent one morning scrubbing all three litter boxes, completely changing out the litter and spraying them with a special, no-odor, cat-loving, end-all-piddle-problems spray. I aired them in the sun. I put fresh mats under the litter boxes. I added a fourth litter box to our collection. And I was almost done. I could practically taste the cup of tea and see the first sentence of my book — a well-deserved break.

  “Mom! Elvis peed in my beanbag!” Logan’s angry voice ricocheted across the house.

  My break vanished — the daydream abruptly ended by the errant bladder of a truly naughty cat.

  “No, this cannot be happening — again — still — whatever!” I silently fumed. “Kaitlin! Now I know why Elvis was really at the Humane Society! Problem with the new baby? I’m sure there was — he was probably peeing all over the new baby!” I ranted.