by Patricia Fry
I could feel the tension in the room, and I’m pretty sure the others could too. That’s when Bri pulled a tub of ice cream from a shopping bag and hastily announced, “I’ll put this in the freezer.” She returned shortly, laughing and holding out her hand. She asked Terry, “Is this what you’re looking for—a little pouch with dice in it?”
His eyes lit up. “Yes,” he said. He glanced at me, then asked her, “Where did you find it?”
“Yes, where?” I repeated, now completely drained of my senses.
“In the cat’s kibbles bowl,” Brianna said matter-of-factly.
Now I felt a shortness of breath. Was I going to hyperventilate? I mentally noted where my small paper bags were, just in case. I believed that was the cure for hyperventilation—breathing into a paper bag. I hoped it would work. I sure didn’t want to pass out or die or something in front of strangers. Finally I managed to say in a voice that didn’t even sound like mine, “But how would he get out? I haven’t been letting him out. I’ve made sure all the window screens are secure.”
Terry grinned and politely asked, “Mind if I look around?”
“No,” I told him. “Please do. I can’t have him escaping, if that’s what’s happening, which I doubt. Like I said…”
Before I could finish my sentence, Terry pointed toward an open window. He pushed out on the screen to show me that it was, indeed, attached at the top, but it had been unfastened at the bottom and could easily be opened by a cat who wanted desperately to go outside.
“Well, I’ll be. I had no idea,” I lamented. I looked down at the basket full of unfamiliar items. Oh, how I hoped it wasn’t true. “So you think he escapes and visits our neighbors, bringing home the things he finds interesting? What cat does that? I mean, I’m a veterinary student and I work for a veterinarian and I’ve never known a cat who did that.”
Terry chuckled. “I’ve heard of it. Yeah, some cats are real escape artists; some like to collect trinkets, and some are actual thieves. My sister had one visit her, actually. She lives in a small town in the Florida Keys, where things are more casual. Her windows stand open most of the time. When she started missing things from around her house—mostly jewelry—she thought it was a crow attracted to the shiny objects. Turns out it was a neighbor’s cat.” He grinned at me and broke the news that I wasn’t exactly ready to hear. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a klepto cat there, Savannah.”
I’m not sure why, after this shocking discovery, I decided to keep the wily, thieving cat. Truth be told, once I realized I wouldn’t be arrested for burglarizing the neighborhood, I found Rags even more interesting. Perhaps because he had traits that maybe I was missing. He led the life I was too conservative to live. And what a conversation starter his shenanigans would be. Of course, from then on I would keep the screens securely locked so he could no longer escape. At least that was what I vowed to do. Rags, however, had very different ideas about the lifestyle he would lead.
Now don’t get me wrong. Rags wasn’t always pushing my buttons and causing me strife. Heck no. When he wasn’t tearing around the apartment or roaming against my wishes, he could be a real cuddle-bug. And many of his antics kept me smiling. He’d greet me when I returned home, for example. What cat does that? I quickly learned to drop my purse and any packages upon entering the apartment so I had both hands free for what would come next. I don’t know what inspired him to consider me a ladder or his personal climbing tree, but practically the minute I’d walk through the door he’d rush toward me and jump into my arms.
The first few times he did this, I was caught off guard and almost landed on the floor. My guess is that his original owner taught him or encouraged him to throw his entire body in greeting like that. It must have been some sort of ritual between the two of them. Well, as charming as it was, Rags is no lightweight. I had to be alert in order to successfully receive this exuberant welcome.
Once he’d leap at me and I’d catch him, he’d snuggle into my neck and purr like the dickens. After enjoying his sweet nuzzle, I’d move toward the sofa and he’d jump onto it, then follow me into the kitchen or bedroom to investigate the innards of the packages I’d carried in. I had to watch that he didn’t take off with a bag of dark-chocolate candies, raisins, or pumpkin seeds and hide them someplace—or worse, eat them.
Fortunately, as he grew larger and gained even more weight, I was able to discourage Rags from the leaping greeting. But I had to make sure to acknowledge him as soon as I stepped through the door, because I never knew what he’d do—claw my slacks (or my bare legs) or latch onto my shoulder purse and pull me off balance. One late afternoon when I arrived home, he managed to leap from my antique gateleg table onto the kitchen door—the top of the door! He balanced up there for a few minutes until I urged him to let me help him down. He’s a bit of a daredevil.
Rags knew how to get what he wanted, whether it was food, fresh water streaming from a spigot, a vigorous brushing, a game of keep-away, or affection. He was probably the most affectionate young cat I’d ever known. Yes, Rags had plenty of wonderful aspects to his personality, which endeared him to me more every day. And I wanted to keep him close and keep him safe.
****
“He doesn’t want to stay inside,” I complained to my friend Gwen. She ran the shelter where I volunteered and she’d encountered a lot of cats with a variety of characteristics and behavioral issues. I wanted her to help me train Rags to be an inside-only cat—to stay indoors where it was safe. But none of her suggestions helped much.
Basically she told me to keep him in. “Don’t let him out except on the leash.” And she promised, “He’ll learn your rules and settle down to be a very nice indoor cat.”
However, things didn’t unfold quite the way Gwen had envisioned and I had hoped. After a week of crying and whining on my part and a whole lot of manipulation and cunning going on with Rags, I realized I’d become putty in his paws. It seemed as though he was winning the battle.
I increased Rags’s walks from weekends only to daily. He wouldn’t even give me a day off in bad weather. When we walked in the rain, he’d stay pretty much within the reach of my large umbrella, but it didn’t bother him at all to feel the raindrops hitting his back. It bothered me, though, so I bought him a little doggie raincoat which he wore without protest. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the attention it brought. He attracted attention anyway, because he was the only cat out walking the neighborhood with his person.
Yes, we were quite the spectacle. The other pets being walked in the early morning or evening hours were terriers of some sort, pit bulls, Australian shepherds, boxers, and even Chihuahuas. And most of the dogs were curious about the strange creature at the end of my leash. Often, I had to pick up Rags and carry him away from a nosey dog with a lenient handler.
We met only one other cat walker when we were out and about in those days. But, rather than walk, this big-boy orange tabby rode around the block lying across his human’s shoulder. The human was male and I soon got the impression that he’d like to get to know me better. One Saturday, he suggested we let the cats get acquainted.
“I’m Freddie, and this is The Hulk,” he said, lowering the tabby to the ground near Rags, who was completely caught off guard. Rags, at that moment, was busy sniffing deeply inside a geranium bush. When he sensed another animal intruding into his space, he quickly pulled back and saw The Hulk. He didn’t appear to be impressed. In fact, it seemed that Rags felt about The Hulk pretty much the same way I felt about Freddie—not interested. When Rags started to lead me away from the cat and the man, I obliged, saying, “Nice to meet you.” However, what happened next changed the course of our day and my future walks with Rags.
Without warning, The Hulk leaped at Rags and managed to bite quite deeply into his tail. Rags spun around, faced the orange cat, and emitted a low growl. He stood his ground until The Hulk began backing away toward his owner.
“Wow,” Freddie said, “your cat’s kinda ferocious there, isn’t
he?”
“My cat’s ferocious?” I screeched. “Your Hulk bit his tail.” I leaned over to take a closer look at Rags and said, “I mean, he really bit it. It’s bleeding.” I looked the man in the eyes and asked, “Has he had his shots?”
Freddie hesitated before saying, “Sure, yeah. He’s had shots.”
“Who’s your vet?” I pushed.
“Um…the one on Wilshire.”
“Good, that’s where I work. What’s your last name? I’d like to make sure he’s up on his inoculations. Can I see your ID?”
“Well, I don’t know what you’re getting so worked up about. It’s just a little bite on the tail,” Freddie huffed.
“Which could become a serious injury if your cat isn’t vaccinated or if the bite becomes infected,” I snapped. Yes, I snapped at him. Well, I was furious about the attack and the attitude.
“Isn’t your cat vaccinated?” he asked.
“Yes, he is,” I said, “so he’s probably protected, even if your cat is diseased. But I’d still like to be sure your cat isn’t carrying something.”
Freddie let out a sigh, but he did show me his ID. I pulled his records at the clinic later. He was right; The Hulk was up to date on his vaccines.
I cleaned the bite on Rags’s tail and kept a close eye on the wound, which healed just fine. Thankfully, it didn’t make Rags fearful of other animals, but I do believe he became more cautious around them. I never again saw him turn his back on any cat or dog that could possibly be a threat.
As for Freddie and me, we were not a love connection. In fact, I rarely saw him out walking after that. I guess he and The Hulk chose a different path.
Despite the fact that I was walking Rags regularly and allowing him to burn off some of his energy, he still craved adventure and continued to break out of the apartment. I’m half ashamed to admit that he eventually wore me down. There came a point when I agreed to let him have private outdoor time when he insisted, or should I say when I could no longer bear to hear him cry and whine. I’d prop the door open for him so he could easily return to the safety of our apartment when he was ready or if something frightened him.
I adore letting the fresh air in on nice days and warm nights, which means windows are open. And no matter how often I allowed Rags his freedom or how creatively I secured the window screens, Rags seemed to always find a way out when the wanderlust called to him. Sometimes I didn’t even know he’d been escaping until a strange towel, flip-flop, toy, or piece of mail appeared somewhere in my apartment. Other times it was obvious, because I’d find a screen askew or torn. That was another expense that came with Rags: screen repairs and replacements.
****
Some good came from Rags’s escapades. I met a lot of nice neighbors. One morning early in Rags’s and my companionship, I stepped out of bed and slipped on a sheet of paper that had been left on the floor. When I turned on the light, I could see that it was a child’s art project. The name Tommy was scribbled across the top of the page and there was a drawing of some sort of animal below it. After reading the brief story Tommy had written about a squirrel named Pearl, I started to toss it, then I got to thinking, What if this is Tommy’s homework assignment for today?
I looked at the clock. Six forty-five. Should I try to find Tommy? I decided that was probably the right thing to do. I mean, if he got a bad grade, it would be my fault. “You are my responsibility, after all,” I told Rags as he tried to reach up and grab the paper from me. “For better or for worse,” I recited, as if the cat understood. Then I scolded, “And when you do things like this—steal some poor kid’s homework—you’re definitely at your worst, Rags.”
If only I’d known that Rags’s behavior during those first weeks and months of our relationship was simply a gentle prelude to the mayhem and chaos that would follow. Oh yes, Rags’s middle name should be Trouble.
So the day I found Tommy’s schoolwork, I threw on some clothes, put Rags on his leash, and headed out the door with him, hoping he would lead me to where he had found the paper. It wasn’t as easy as I’d imagined. I gave Rags free rein, but all he wanted to do was sniff his way in circles. We were getting nowhere. I soon realized it was up to me. I had to take charge and I did so by knocking on doors, carefully avoiding those apartments where the blinds were still closed.
“Do you know a boy named Tommy?” I asked the first two tenants who responded to my knock.
It was a fairly large apartment complex with units scattered across an acre or so, and then there were additional apartment buildings to the north, and traditional neighborhoods east and west of us. I knew this could take a while and it might be a fruitless attempt. I also knew that there was a public elementary school in the area. Maybe I could wait until classes started then take the homework to the school. But before I was able to put that plan into action, I heard the sound of children’s voices. It was Ellie and her brother with their dad, Terry.
“Hi, Rags,” Terry greeted. He acknowledged me as well. As the children petted Rags, I asked, “Do you know Tommy?” I looked at Ellie’s brother. “He’s probably about your age. I believe Rags found his homework.”
Terry began to laugh.
“What?” I asked. “Do you know him?” I showed him the paper and explained, “I’m desperate to return this. I’m pretty sure Rags brought it home last night.”
“That’s mine!” the boy, who looked about seven or eight years old said excitedly.
“You’re Tommy?” I asked. “Is this yours?”
He nodded and took the paper while his father laughed and shook his head. “Unbelievable.” He asked his son, “Where did you leave it, bud?”
The boy shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Terry chuckled and said to me, “He worked on that all afternoon, writing and rewriting. He must have left it on the patio.”
“Nana did,” Tommy said, remembering. “I took it to show her when she was watering the plants. I guess she didn’t bring it back in.”
“Well, you’re lucky Rags found it,” Terry said. “It could have blown all the way to Arizona in that wind we had last night. Who knows where he actually found it.”
Just then, I heard someone behind me ask, “Hey, is that your cat?”
I turned and saw a woman approaching with two girls of about ten and thirteen.
“Yeah, that looks like him,” the younger girl said. “Look, Mama, he walks on a leash like a dog.”
I laughed and told her, “Not quite like a dog.” When she stared at me, I said, “When you walk a dog, he goes where you want him to. When you walk a cat, he’s the boss.”
“I can just imagine,” the woman said, approaching. She leaned over and petted Rags, asking, “He’s yours?”
I nodded. “Yes. This is Rags.”
“Rags!” the other girl said. “I would never have guessed Rags. I thought it might be Smokey or Gravy…”
The first girl interrupted, “Silver. I thought his name was Silver.”
I wasn’t sure what was coming next, and knew that with Rags, the tide could turn in any direction. Hesitantly, I asked, “So you’ve seen Rags before?”
“Oh yes,” the woman said. She held out her hand. “By the way, I’m Mary. This is Glenna and Pamela.”
“Savannah,” I said, shaking hands with her and acknowledging each of the girls.
She focused on Rags. “I’m sure this is the guy who visited us last night. He entertained us while the girls did their homework.”
“Entertained you?” I asked. I cringed, at least, inside. “What did he do?”
Mary laughed. “Well, the wind was blowing and he was running all over the place chasing leaves and pouncing on imaginary things. He had us cracking up.”
“And our dogs enjoyed the show, too,” Pamela said, laughing.
“I think he was trying to catch a piece of paper,” Glenna said. “He caught it, then he left.”
Pamela chuckled. “Yeah, with it in his mouth.”
“Good thing,�
� Mary said, “or these girls would never have finished their homework assignment before bedtime.”
That’s when Pamela pointed at what Tommy held in his hand and announced, “Hey, that’s the piece of paper he was after, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Glenna said. “I saw those red stars on it. Is that yours?” she asked the boy.
He nodded and explained, “It’s my homework.”
“So how’d you get it back?” Pamela asked.
“Well…” the boy began.
Terry put his hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “It seems that the cat took it home. Savannah just brought it to us.”
“Really?” Mary said, disbelieving.
“Yeah, which apartment is yours?” Terry asked her.
“Seven,” she said, pointing.
“We’re in ten, around the corner there. Now that’s a long ways for the wind to carry a piece of paper like that.”
“Maybe Rags found it at your place and he carried it to Mary’s,” I suggested. “I don’t think the wind was that strong last night, was it?” No one had a comment. Everyone stared down at Rags as he pulled against the leash. Finally I said, “Well, I’d better get ready for work.”
“Yes, and I need to get these girls to school so I can go to work,” Mary said. She leaned toward me as if she were sharing a secret. “We’re stopping somewhere for a breakfast burrito. Didn’t feel like scrambling eggs this morning.” She smiled broadly. “Glad to meet you, Georgia.”
“Savannah,” I corrected politely.
“Oh yes,” Mary said, obviously embarrassed. “Sorry. It’s one of those memory-association deals.”
“Yeah, it happens more often than you’d think,” I told her, which was pretty much a lie, but it does happen occasionally.
It would be hard for most people to believe that adopting a cat could be a life-changing event, but it was for me. I was getting out in the fresh air more often, I was meeting new people, and life was becoming measurably more interesting.
