My Very Good, Very Bad Cat

by Amy Newmark

  Eventually, we found homes for all but one kitten, Missy’s favorite, whose name was Paws. He was a polydactyl like his mother. Missy continued to carry Paws around in her mouth even as he grew larger.

  When Paws disappeared, we looked everywhere. During the first few days of his absence, Missy whined and spent her time in the tiny, downstairs bathroom where she’d watched Paws come into the world. But when he didn’t turn up, she eventually dealt with her grief and re-directed her efforts toward terrorizing Kiki.

  We never had more kittens, but sometimes I asked my husband, “Do you think we should let Missy have her own litter?”

  “No. I think this was her first and last mothering experience!” was his response.

  And so it was. But it endeared her that much more to me.

  ~Jill Davis

  Foster Cats

  Fun fact: Persian cats may have originated in Persia (Iran), living in mountainous areas. Their signature long hair is natural, while their flat faces are the result of selective breeding.

  It all started with a dramatic change in our kitty litter’s quality. The litter no longer “hid” the cats’ urine smell, not even for a day. The smell knocked us over! Also, we were concerned that one or several of our five cats had a bad bladder infection, so we were giving them all a homeopathic remedy for irritable bladders. No matter how much we tried to help the cats, though, the litter continued to admit a noxious odor.

  Then the house rule was broken: urine was showing up, mysteriously, anonymously, on the floor beside the litter. We thought that the cats must hate the litter odor as much as we did, so they were protesting on the floor, or that the infection had advanced and the sick cat or cats were trying to show us the problem. We could not pinpoint the offender, though, so we were talking about purchasing a motion detector camera to catch them in the act.

  We changed litter. We even bit the bullet and bought a more expensive brand. But it, too, almost immediately took on the disgusting overwhelming odor that consumed an entire room.

  We had been doing just fine with our five cats despite the fact that they were on the older side. Miss Wings, a Shaded Silver Persian and her eleven-year-old triplets, Nymbus, Myster E., and Whyspurr, had never had urinary problems before. Even our newest rescue, a senior Himalayan named Mini Purrl, was doing fine.

  The mystery remained unsolved, until one day, while I was quietly watching TV. Myster E. casually approached the TV, sat in front of the glass unit that houses the DVD player, and calmly peered into it like he was enjoying a TV show.

  “How cute,” I thought. “He must see his mother hiding in there looking back out at him.” Because it was a hot day, I did not want her to get to hot sitting on the components, so I opened the glass doors to retrieve her from her now not-so-secret hiding place.

  What happened next sent me screaming out of the room! As I peered, without my glasses, into the dark space I wondered why Miss Wings’ eyes were so small. Persians are known for their large eyes, and hers are huge. Then I looked at her nose. Persians’ faces and noses are much flatter than most cats. So, why was her face suddenly elongated like a Siamese? The moment was surreal, like when Little Red Riding Hood says to the wolf, “My what a long nose you have,” not realizing it was not her grandmother.

  My brain came into focus! I was not looking at a little white cat. I was face-to-face with an unblinking, beady-eyed, white baby opossum, and he was staring back at me! I am not sure which of us was more scared!

  Maybe it was me, because while the visitor remained snuggled on top of the DVD player, I ran from the room hollering for my husband. He thought I was nuts when I said (rather hysterically), “There is an opossum under the TV.” It takes a while for the brain to process that.

  We cordoned off the living room with boxes, making a direct pathway out the front door. Then my hero “helped” the unwelcome houseguest flee our home.

  Now the kitty litter smell was making sense! We had been blaming the litter’s quality and our innocent kitties! Apparently, the cats had not been breaking our much coveted house rule by tinkling on the floor. This hapless rodent had taken up residence here for several weeks and had been using the cat litter for most of the time.

  The best we can surmise was the opossum was feasting on the fallen apples off the backyard tree, and because of his small size he was able to squeeze through the Cat Castle (outside enclosure) wire and enter our home through the cat door. Our five cats, thinking this poor new albino baby “thing”, with no fur on its long-skinny tail, was another one of our many fosters, gave him a royal welcome. They didn’t chase it, hunt it, or even meow at it. It was only by Myster E. sitting placidly and silently in front of the glass doors watching it that we were alerted to the “new friend.”

  We had falsely blamed our cats, who were just doing their own kind of fostering, following our example. That night we served them their favorite homemade chicken stew. And we never had an “unusual” smell in the house again.

  ~Mary Ellen Angelscribe

  Smokey the Sheriff

  Fun fact: Cats do respond to training! In fact one of the first scientific studies highlighting the importance of reinforcement in animal behavior was done with cats.

  “Smokey, whatever it is you want will have to wait — I’ve got to put these groceries away before the ice cream melts!” But Smokey continued yowling. Knowing I’d have no peace until I investigated his concerns, I quickly stashed the last of the frozen foods into the freezer, pushed the other groceries to the side on the counter, and rushed toward the front entryway where Smokey stood at attention at the foot of the stairs.

  Viewing the chaotic scene, I laughed and said, “This is your emergency? Don’t you think I would have discovered this when I walked upstairs?” Before returning to the kitchen I added, “And, don’t be such a tattle-tale!”

  Single, our North American Short-haired black-and-white feline trouble-maker, had a fetish for lingerie. Each time I left the house, he’d dash upstairs to check if I had left the drawer open. If I had, he would stand on his hind legs, pull the drawer open wider, then patiently fish out, one by one, anything he could reach. When I returned home I’d likely see bras, panties, silk nightgowns, and slips strewn up and down the curved stairwell — the focal point for guests who came in the front door.

  Smokey had been king of the household for years until we rescued this eight-week-old bundle of trouble. What older cat wouldn’t be upset by the intrusion of a young upstart kitten who immediately began siphoning off the family’s coveted attention? But Single was especially irksome because he was born without good manners.

  Single and his siblings, one female and one male, were found in the attic above my husband’s commercial-glass contracting office. After his secretary and bookkeeper kept insisting they heard kitten mews overhead, Jerry and our son David reluctantly climbed up to investigate. During their ascent, Jerry muttered, “We’ve got to give those ladies some time off!”

  When they poked their heads into the attic, all was quiet. But when their eyes adjusted to the darkness, they saw three pairs of bright glowing eyes from a corner where the abandoned kittens huddled quietly together. Once the kittens were rescued and brought out into the light, Jerry said it was love at first sight when his eyes locked with Single’s.

  “This one’s mine!” he announced.

  I wasn’t convinced that we needed another cat, especially this sickly runt of the litter, nor was I happy with its name — Single Strength. When I finally gave in, I questioned the name, but Jerry was adamant.

  “We named each kitten after the three types of glass in our business — Crystal, Plate — and this one was named Single Strength because that’s the most fragile glass.”

  Fortunately, for convenience, we ended up calling him Single. Except for the times when I took full advantage of his full name — “Single Strength Chappell! Get off that counter!”

  Our hearts were quickly captured by this rambunctious, inquisitive, risk-oriented creatur
e. Smokey, however, was not impressed. Not even when Single started fetching wadded up paper balls. No matter how far or where they were thrown, he never tired of retrieving them and proudly dropping them at the feet of the thrower — much to the delight of our family and guests.

  Smokey disdainfully tolerated this ruffian who had little respect for house rules. He decided it was his duty to monitor his every movement and make certain he followed all rules.

  It was true that Smokey had challenged us with his own rebellious moments as a youngster, but he had quickly developed a respect for rules: No jumping on the sofa, no sitting in the chairs unless invited onto someone’s lap, no jumping onto the kitchen counter, and definitely no jumping onto the dining room table — which was exactly what Single did one particular afternoon.

  I had just entered the room when I saw Single leap into the middle of the table, barely missing the centerpiece. Smokey, dozing on the floor a few feet away, opened his eyes wide in shock and raised his head. He fixed a long hard stare on Single, then looked in my direction as if to ask, “Well, what are you going to do about that?”

  “That is no!” I said sharply to Single.

  Single had heard the word “no” before, but he suddenly developed a case of deafness. I loudly repeated the word — with more authority — expecting immediate obedience. Instead, Single began to bathe himself. Smokey now sat at full attention. He knew Single had broken the rules and eagerly waited to see some serious consequences to his behavior.

  I swatted the table with a rolled-up newspaper, but Single simply moved over a few inches and resumed primping. Smokey was almost in cardiac arrest.

  Swatting him lightly on the behind with the paper, I said sharply “Single, no!”

  Finally, in slow motion, Single sauntered across the table and jumped down.

  Smokey glared at Single, and then looked at me as if to ask, “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to do?”

  As Single strolled past him, Smokey gave me one last inquiring look. Apparently dissatisfied with my disciplinary action, or lack thereof, Smokey suddenly whacked Single on the side of the head with his big paw, bowling him over. Though Single was unscathed, Smokey walked from the room with head and tail high, satisfied at having taken matters into his own paws.

  With time, Smokey and Single became close friends, the good traits of each rubbing off onto the other. Single learned to respect rules (for the most part) and Smokey took more risks by chasing birds in the back yard — a first for him. Smokey never fetched, however — he left that to the young upstart.

  ~Kitty Chappell

  My Heroic Cat

  Fun fact: Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals Los Angeles (spcaLA) broke from tradition and presented its 33rd Annual National Hero Dog Award™ to a cat named Tara in 2014 after she saved her boy from a marauding dog.

  A Lesson in Strength

  Fun fact: People in ancient Egypt would shave off their eyebrows when grieving for the family cat that died.

  “Hi, my name is Stevie, and I’m an addict.”

  “Hi, Stevie,” the room replied.

  I inhaled deeply, and from the podium in the most matter-of-fact voice I could muster, I explained, “I started shooting heroin when I was twenty-one because my cat Spencer died.”

  The room burst into hysterical laughter. I did not expect that. This wasn’t a joke any more than the tracks on my arms were.

  At thirty days clean after a brutal five-year addiction, I was too raw to appreciate how hilarious this was to a room full of veteran ex-addicts who knew, even if I didn’t, that shooting heroin because a cat dies isn’t what “normal” people do. According to the unspoken wisdom of the room, I shot heroin because I suffered from the disease of addiction — and that’s just what addicts do.

  What the good people in the room were missing, however, was that Spencer had everything to do with why I shot heroin. Spencer was my hero, and the love she showed me was unconditional. Looking out from the eyes of my small self, she was who I wanted to be when I grew up: brave, defiant, tender, loving and wild.

  On the way home from the pound where we adopted Spencer, Mom held the new kitty on her lap and told my sister and me that in a past life, when she was Cleopatra, Spencer had been her cat. As Mom regaled us with the details of her and Spencer’s shared history of nobility and power, the two-pound, flea-ridden fur ball peed all over Her Majesty’s lap. My sister and I didn’t dare laugh but, inside, a deep admiration swelled in our hearts.

  In the years to come, when either Mom or Dad hit Spencer or flung her off the deck so that her tiny body slammed against the side yard fence and slithered down into the trash cans, she didn’t run away and abandon me, as I often feared she would. Instead, she would sneak back in the house later that evening to poop in Dad’s shoe or pee on Mom’s pillow, before slinking into my room to sleep. Unlike me, Spencer wasn’t diminished by the abuse. She never cowered or played nice to win their love. It was as if my parents’ rage was something that occasionally spilled over into her world, in which case she’d promptly exact revenge, but then carry on with her daily routine.

  Spencer wasn’t defined by the bad things that happened to her.

  I wished that I could be brazen and fierce like her — that when I was smacked or slammed or choked, I too would retaliate and fight back like a person who wasn’t afraid, ashamed, and secretly longing for acceptance. But I didn’t even raise a hand in my own defense.

  I was pathetic; Spencer was strong.

  And yet, at night, once tucked into the safety of my bed, she nursed on my baby blanky well into adulthood, belying her toughness with a vulnerability which made me love her even more.

  On my eighteenth birthday, as I moved out of my parents’ house with a black eye and some matching trash bags full of clothes, Spencer moved out, too. Unbeknownst to me, when I failed to come home that night, she saw no reason to return either. Two months later, my mother left a message on my answering machine saying my cat was dead.

  Devastated, I drove to my parents’ street at a time when I knew they wouldn’t be home and parked in the cul-de-sac in front of the baseball field where Spencer liked to hunt. I stood outside the car with my face pressed against the tall, chain-link fence and cried a blur of hot tears while making the kissing sounds I hoped would beckon her soul. After five minutes, ever cognizant of my parents’ house a half-block away, I turned to go home.

  Just before I got into my car, however, I looked back one last time to pucker a final farewell.

  And then I saw it: a tiny brown speck streaking across the field. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was Spencer! She climbed through the fence where I’d stood just a minute before. Then, from a solid eight feet away, she leapt directly onto my chest, landing with a deafening purr.

  I felt loved beyond measure.

  I took Spencer home to my new house, where she settled in perfectly. I worried she’d miss hunting in the fields by my parents’ house, but she didn’t seem to mind the sedentary life of living with a college student who studied and worked all the time. The formerly lithe huntress even put on a few pounds, lending her a more matronly gait as she sauntered about the house.

  Now if the story ended here — happily-ever-after — I don’t know if I’d still be a brave, defiant, tender, loving and wild woman. I don’t know if I would have been standing on a podium at age twenty-six, sharing my story with a room full of strangers.

  I explained to the good people of the room that while I raced for three years between college, work, and home, doing my best to be perfect in every way, and while Spencer stretched out on the couch, undoubtedly doing her best to be perfect in every way, dark secrets were festering inside us both.

  In Spencer, cancer was slowly eating her alive; in me, it was resentment.

  As I waited for the vet to come back with the results, Spencer, all fur and bones, hid behind my neck and beneath my hair. My hero was terrified.

  “Her insides are riddled with disease. I’
ll have to do an exploratory to see if there’s anything we can do,” he said.

  Spencer never made it off the operating table, and I wasn’t there to scratch beneath her chin and make the kissing sounds she liked.

  When the vet told me she was dead, the already thin thread that tethered me to my better self broke.

  I couldn’t save her — my hero — ravaged, hiding in my hair, terrified and gone forever. I was writhing in pain, unable to sit with it — unable to be alone with it. I needed out of my skin! I wanted so badly to be strong like her, and I tried, but the harder I raged, the farther I fell down the rabbit hole.

  “And now I’m here,” I said as I stepped off the podium, exhausted.

  As I walked back to my seat, the room clapped as loudly as they’d laughed, and voices from all over said, “Welcome.”

  One woman pulled me close to her chest.

  “Honey,” she said, “Spencer was strong because she had you to come home to. And now you have us.”

  ~Stevie Trujillo

  The Guardian and Her Boy

  Fun fact: Cats sleep up to sixteen hours a day, but their brains still alert them to sounds and smells most of the time they’re asleep to warn them of danger.

  We met at the Leeds Grenville SPCA. From the moment my family walked through the door, the brown Tabby watched us calmly but intently with her hazel eyes. The fur around her face was fluffed almost imperceptibly, giving her a kitten-like appearance, and her front paws were extended in our direction. They stopped just short of the door of her cage, as if she didn’t want to seem too eager.

  There were other cats that were less concerned about seeming needy. Many rose to their feet as we entered the small section of the Leeds Grenville SPCA, meowing in every pitch imaginable.

  More than one cat strained a lean furry arm in our direction as we passed, hoping to loop the tips of his claws into a sleeve or arm to capture our attention. My husband and I stayed just out of reach, not out of cruelty, but because our hearts are too easily swayed. We were here to find the best fit for our little family of three.