by Amy Newmark
I stalked off to clean Logan’s room.
“That cat is never coming in my room again!” Logan proclaimed vehemently.
“Hey, Logan, I have an idea,” I said quickly, hoping to defuse Logan’s frustration before he erupted.
Logan watched me spread one of Kaitlin’s quilts on his bed.
“No way, Mom! A girl quilt — on my bed? That’s just wrong!” He was horrified.
“I know, I know.” I held up my hand against his protests. “It won’t be forever, but maybe, just maybe, it will smell enough like Kaitlin that Elvis will stop targeting your room,” I explained.
“Oh, man,” Logan groaned, mortified by the bright pink-and-yellow quilt.
“Let’s just try it,” I suggested, crossing my fingers he’d agree.
It didn’t work.
Two years have passed and nothing has worked. I’ve tried sprays, vinegars, special reach-down-to-the-molecular-level solutions, plastic bags, deterrent fabrics, removing targeted items and, my personal favorite, numerous “there’s nothing medically wrong, must be behavioral” vet visits.
But when I am at my wit’s end, all I have to do is peek in my daughter’s room at night. When I see Elvis curled up tight against her side, on the pink blanket she spreads out just for him, I am reminded of all that really matters.
Honestly, piddle problems, in the grand scheme of life, don’t really matter.
Love matters.
Seeing the unconditional love and loyalty shared between that girl and her cat reminds me that love endures far beyond frustrations, anger, and even sheer naughtiness.
Of course, I am still shocked at how incredibly naughty Elvis is — continually.
But I am also shocked at how tremendously devoted and completely inseparable he and Kaitlin are.
Elvis may be the worst cat ever, but I feel truly blessed to have him — some days just not as much as others.
~Elizabeth A. Pickart
Co-Parenting
Fun fact: Some cats have very strong maternal feelings and will adopt other kittens or even other infant animal species as their own.
For what seemed to be the millionth time, my two-year-old ran through the house, crying, “Rosie, Rosie!” Only this time, he added something to it: “Give that back, Rosie!” I peeked out of the kitchen to ask him what was going on, and he told me his kitty had stolen his toy soldier. I found her hiding behind a piece of furniture, quite calmly playing with his soldier and waiting expectantly for him to find her again, for that was what Rosie did. When she wasn’t busy trying to convince (in no uncertain terms) her grown kitten to leave the nest, or spending time with her brother, she was taking care of her new kitten, which happened to be my son.
Now, you must understand something: When I say that our cat Rosie officially adopted my son as her new kitten, I mean that she literally and quite effectively adopted him. From the moment my son was brought home from the hospital, Rosie kicked her old kitten to the curb (he was nearly grown) and declared herself surrogate mom to the fascinating newborn. She would attempt to lick him clean, becoming disgruntled and pout when I wouldn’t let her; she would jump up to wherever he was when he started crying, checking him over to see what was wrong, then meowing to get my attention if she thought I wasn’t being fast enough to take care of her baby; and, as he grew old enough to walk and play, she would spend countless hours trying to coerce him into playing with her, trying to get his attention, or just simply babysitting him when she felt it was needed. I got quite used to such moments as the “stolen soldier” because she would do anything to get him to spend time with her, and she was quite shameless in her attempts.
However, I never fully realized just how much she had laid claim to my son until he was around four years old. My son was going through what some might delicately term the “Ferocious Fours.” I forget exactly what it was he had done that day, but I do remember being frustrated and exhausted. He had continued to act out all day, and finally I was forced to grab him by his shoulders and explain to him sternly that he needed to stop or he would get punished. He, of course, was crying, more from the fact that I wasn’t going to allow him to continue doing what he wanted than from the fact that I was mad at him.
That wasn’t how Rosie interpreted it, though. I could see her out of the corner of my eye begin to pace back and forth, getting closer and closer. She even started meowing. She nearly always meowed when he cried, so I ignored it since I had bigger issues to deal with at the time, namely a wriggling, squirming, rambunctious little boy who wanted to continue creating havoc. As I continued to attempt disciplining my son, she grew closer. Then she did something that I had never known her to do in the six years I’d had her. She darted in and bit me on the arm, then grabbed my sleeve and tried to pull me away from her boy! I yelled out in shock, scaring her enough that she darted away to hide under the table. But it wasn’t more than a few seconds before she bravely crept back, meowing and shrinking down to get closer. She needed to check on her crying kitten, and she wasn’t about to let me get in the way of that! Sure enough, she finally drew close enough to sniff him all over and lick his face and rub up next to him.
Despite the irritation of having my parenting skills so blatantly questioned, I decided that my “punishment” was probably going to be over for the day, since Rosie had already transitioned my son into giggles and grins with her antics. And she was obviously so upset over her distraught “kitten” that I didn’t have the heart to separate the two.
Apparently Rosie’s parenting strategy was to never let your kitten cry. Scolding her when she acted that way never did any good because her first and foremost duty was to take care of her kitten, even when she had to risk bad consequences in order to do so. Rosie helped me calm down and gain a different perspective on the situation. So, despite having my own cat bite me and try to yank me away from my son, at the same time she proved just what a good “mom” she was. We started calling Rosie my son’s “other mom” after that, for Mom was what she certainly was.
~May Hutchings
The Zen of Travel
Fun fact: Cats aren’t native to the United States. It’s believed that they came to the U.S. in ships hundreds of years ago along with the Europeans who were immigrating.
One spring day, I was cleaning out the garage when I came across my son’s old pull-behind bike cart. My heart sank as I glanced over at my five-year-old, who was just on the cusp of outgrowing it. Technically, he could still fit in it, but he was a “big boy” now and much preferred pedaling alongside the family rather than rolling behind as a passenger.
Though it tugged on my mommy heartstrings to part with baby gear and the history that went with it, I told my husband, “Put it in the Goodwill pile… unless,” I added with a chuckle, “Barney wants to take a ride in it.”
My sons’ ears perked up at my silly comment. Barney was our fourteen-pound, long-haired orange Tabby, who had a taste for adventure. Every other kitty I’d ever owned was not what you’d call a thrill seeker. They ran for cover whenever I hauled out the dreaded pet taxi because they knew what that meant — vet or vacation — and they detested both. Not Barney. He was up for going anywhere and doing anything. In fact, I would sometimes find him perched on top of our pink pet carrier, almost as if he were asking us to take him somewhere. And any time we dragged out suitcases, Barney would either crawl inside the luggage or stretch his body on top of it to send a clear message: “Take me or I’ll apply fur to all your outfits, man.”
He was a “go kitty” so the boys were convinced he’d like to go biking.
“I’ll go get him!” my older son Kyler shrieked.
“I’ll help!” my younger son Trevyn said.
“Now, hold on just a second,” I said, thinking this through. “A car ride is one thing. He’s enclosed and not exposed to loud noises. But biking’s a different story.”
With so many sounds, smells, and sights to take in, I wondered if he’d feel overwhelmed.
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�No, Mom, I promise he’ll like this,” Kyler said. “Trust me.”
The boys ran off and returned to the garage moments later with Barney draped over Kyler’s arm. Trevyn unzipped the carrier, and Kyler placed Barney inside. He circled twice the way cats do, then tucked his paws beneath his body. I had to admit, he looked right at home. It was as if this bike carrier was his own personal feline lounge chair.
Trevyn fastened his helmet, climbed on the bicycle, and started pedaling Barney down the road.
I watched from behind and noticed the huge sag on the bottom of the carrier where Barney was lying. Since he had positioned himself on the floor rather than on the seat, there was nothing to support his weight. Given that the material was thin and translucent, sort of like parachute cloth, Barney’s bulging body hovered just millimeters from the asphalt.
“Hold up a sec,” I hollered to Trevyn. My husband grabbed a board and placed it on the floor of the carrier, providing Barney with a much more comfortable ride.
I got on my bike and rode up alongside Barney to peek inside. I couldn’t get over the Zen vibe he was emitting. His eyes half-closed, his head steady, the breeze gently tickling his white whiskers — it was as if he was enjoying a day at the spa.
A few months later, our family headed to our lake cabin in northern Michigan. Of course, Barney joined us. Not surprisingly, the kids decided that their fearless feline was ready for his next outdoor adventure: boating!
I wasn’t so sure Barney would be up for this one. The roar of the boat’s motor, not to mention other lake noise such as splashing kids, revving jet skis, and quacking ducks, might just be enough to send him over the edge.
“We can try it,” I agreed. “But he has to stay in his pet taxi.”
Barney’s green eyes were bright and wide as he took in the sounds of the seagulls cawing overhead and the waves lapping the shoreline. He quickly turned his head when a neighbor revved his lawnmower. His little pink freckled nostrils went into overdrive when he caught a whiff of campfire smoke.
After situating Barney in his carrier, we flipped on the blower and lowered the boat into the water. Barney’s ears momentarily flattened when we started the engine, but the second we backed off the hoist and began bobbing fluidly on the water, he relaxed.
We slowly toured the cove as the boys kept a close eye on their purring passenger. “What do you think, Barns?” they asked.
He offered up two sniffs, a yawn, and a gentle meow before dozing off.
“He likes it!” Trevyn announced.
“Well, of course,” Kyler said with a gleam in his eye. “He loves exploring.”
I had a hunch that a new question was forming.
“Mom, do we still have that baby backpack we used to carry Trevyn in?” Kyler asked. “Because I have an idea for tomorrow.”
~Christy Heitger-Ewing
The Cat and His Boy
Fun fact: A tower in Scotland is named after a cat named Towser that killed 30,000 mice during its lifetime.
My husband rescued our cat, Pete, from the animal shelter and put him in our barn to control the mouse population. Pete stayed there for about fifteen minutes and then walked out of the barn, across the field, under the fence, through the yard and up the steps to our house. He took his place on our front porch, where he would live for the next seventeen years. He would not be told where to sleep or given parameters in which to roam. He could not be contained by the walls of the barn, although my husband tried several times to keep him there.
Pete did not believe he was with us to clear our barn of rodents. Pete had come to reign over our farm from his seat on the welcome mat at our front door.
Being allergic to cats, I kept a distance from Pete. That was fine with him. He was not born to be a lady’s lap-sitter. He was a hunter and a protector. Too proud to eat our packaged cat food, Pete hunted his own food.
To prove to us his hunting prowess, he left the spoils of his nightly raids, the hearts and kidneys of our mice and mole enemies, on the welcome mat for us to find in the mornings. It was his way of saying, “I am on the job. No need to worry about things today. I will be watching over the farm while you are out.”
From the day Pete joined us, the other animals knew he ruled our place. If they questioned his authority, a quick flick of a claw put them in their places. Pete bowed to only one, our four-year-old son, Peter. (I realize that to name a child Peter and an animal Pete may seem odd, but being lovers of good stories, my husband and I named our son for a character in The Chronicles of Narnia and our cat after the barn cat in the Hank the Cowdog books.)
It took Cat Pete about a day and a half to realize that if Human Peter was to live to manhood, he needed more than his father and me looking out for him. We had three older children, and Peter tended to get lost in the shuffle. With commiseration and a bit of pity in his eyes, Pete gave me a nod that said, “You’ve got your hands full. I’ll take care of this one.” And he stepped in to become Peter’s companion.
They developed an unusual friendship. That cat let our young son mistreat him terribly. Any other animal of Pete’s nobility would have fled. But with fortitude and indulgence, Pete allowed himself to be caught when Peter chased him around the yard. After getting his hands on the cat, Peter would carry him around the yard with his front paws dragging on the ground.
Pete never squirmed, fought or clawed his way out of Peter’s arms. He just hung there, wondering, I’m sure, how many years it would be before Peter outgrew the game. Occasionally, the cat would mew a little. It didn’t seem to be a protest aimed at Peter. I felt it was more of a reassurance for me: “It’s okay. Don’t worry about me. I’ve got this. Really, I do.”
One day, a few months after Pete arrived, I returned home from the grocery store to find our two oldest boys playing basketball in the driveway and Peter watching from the yard. I knew without asking that his brothers had said he could not play with them. Peter followed me onto the front porch and slumped into a rocking chair with a sigh that conveyed a magnitude of four-year-old sadness. Pete jumped into his lap to join him.
I left the two of them there and went inside with my groceries. In just a bit, I began to hear sounds coming from the porch. The pounding of small feet scurrying across the porch was followed by little-boy giggles. Peter was happy again.
The front door flew open, and Peter ran in. “Mama, Mama, come watch me play basketball! Pete and I are playing basketball, Mama!” Peter had gone from mournful to merry in two shakes of a cat’s tail. (I feel sure Peter had done the actual tail shaking.) I could have kissed that cat, allergic or not.
I followed Peter out the door, entering into his imaginary basketball game. “Is Pete playing for the other team?” I asked. “Who is winning? You or Pete?”
I expected to see my son chase his cat around the porch with a ball in his hands. Instead, Peter walked to the top of the porch steps, picked up Pete and said, “He isn’t on the other team.”
“Is he on your team?”
“No, he’s not on my team either.”
“Then how are you and Pete playing basketball together?”
Pete gave me an indignant glare that said, “You are going to owe me big time for this one!”
“Pete isn’t a ball player, Mom,” my son said with a big smile. “He’s the ball!” Then, as I watched in amazement, that regal, proud, fierce, wonderful cat closed his eyes and rolled around on the ground with my son, his boy.
~Leigh Ann Northcutt
Mother’s Helper
Fun fact: Polydactyl cats, most commonly found in eastern North America and the UK, have up to eight toes on each paw versus five on front paws and four on hind paws.
Kiki the cat only had to yowl once for me to know the kittens must be on their way. Missy, my Border Collie-Greyhound mix, followed us into the tiny, downstairs bathroom where I’d prepared a box for the blessed event. Being Kiki’s first litter, I expected her to be nervous. What I didn’t expect was Missy’s furious whining and tail wagging.<
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When the kittens finally started coming, the dog calmed down. Missy and I just sat there marveling at the miracle of birth. The dog appeared mesmerized by the six tiny fur balls. And her fascination didn’t end there.
The following morning I awoke to something warm and sticky on my neck. Missy had brought the kittens upstairs to me. Kiki hovered nearby, but didn’t seem to object. That wasn’t the last time Missy transferred the kittens to my bed. She wouldn’t leave those babies alone! And, of course, she always snatched them up when I wasn’t looking. “Bad dog!” I kept saying. But she didn’t care.
When the kittens were a little older, all six of them, Kiki, Missy, my husband and I sloshed around on our waterbed every night. During the day, Missy continued carrying the kittens around by the nape of the neck, often hiding them behind the couch. Sometimes she’d deposit them near the sliding doors in the sun so they’d be warm and cozy. And, of course, she kept placing them on the bed for the afternoon nap she took with them.
Then Missy did the unthinkable. She stretched out on the living room carpet more than once, and then nosed the kittens into her belly. She made believe they were nursing! She did this time and again, always panting as if nursing was hard work. Apparently, Missy felt the kittens belonged to her. And they might as well have! She continuously snatched them from their bewildered mom. We sometimes feared she might hurt them, but she never did.
Missy was a loving dog in other ways too. She was a real nurturer, tuned in emotionally to anyone around her. A grief group convened at my home regularly and Missy got to know the women well. Once, when one of them burst into tears, Missy quickly reached her side, and licked her tears away. She then put her head in the woman’s lap.