by Amy Newmark
Four weeks later, I rummaged through the closet for the Christmas paper and bows. Shimmering wrapping, elaborate bow material and metallic ribbons caught my eye. “I can decorate to my heart’s content now,” I whispered to myself.
But I didn’t. I put just enough love and flourish into the package wrappings to make them pretty, and thanked God for my little friend I missed so much. And I reminded myself that it’s not the fancy wrapping covering the gifts, but the giving of them that fills my heart with joy.
~Andrea Arthur Owan
Zippee’s Greatest Adventure
Not-so-fun fact: In the Middle Ages, black cats were severely persecuted. The church considered them witches’ familiars or agents of the devil and believed they should be killed. Devil worshippers also sacrificed black cats to Satan.
His lithe body floated effortlessly through the air, sailing down the staircase and sticking his landing on the foyer floor. He could do the same thing in the opposite direction with just as much ease. This cat seemed to float on air. The fact that he had one eye didn’t slow him down a bit.
He had been up for adoption at the local feed store where I bought cat food for our clan. Each visit entailed stopping at the cages and looking at the kittens available for adoption. I would place my standard contribution of five dollars in the donation box. It was Christmastime, and in the cage next to some cute, irresistible kittens was this solid black adult cat. It was hard to distinguish head from tail because he’d curled himself into such a tight ball. He lifted his head and greeted me with his one bright eye. My heart instantly connected with him, but my mind was reminding me why I couldn’t bring this cat home. We were already a four-cat household.
The information card indicated he was a year old, recently fostered by a local cat-rescue group. He didn’t even have a name. I whispered, “If you are still here after Christmas, you will have a home.”
Christmas came and I couldn’t stop thinking about that poor cat with no name. I was haunted by the image of him spending Christmas alone in the feed store. I was positive that no one would want to adopt a year-old, one-eyed, black cat. I returned after Christmas and he was there, still curled up in his cage. He lifted his head and gave a scratchy meow when he saw me approach. Somehow, it was like he knew I had returned to keep my promise.
I inquired about the adoption fee and how this fellow had lost an eye. The manager explained the eye was removed due to an infection. The cat had been found abandoned and brought to the rescue group, which was asking half the normal adoption fee. I opened my envelope of gift money from my in-laws and paid the fee. I would thank them later for aiding in the expansion of their grandcat family.
I arrived home and was met with instant curiosity about the new cat in the carrier. Badger, our alpha cat, sat in front of the carrier and sniffed. He had proven in the past his compassion for new arrivals with our two younger cats, often referred to as “the babies.” They had been a week old when I brought them home, and Badger had stepped up and become their protector. I was confident he would do the same for this cat. Callie, our most outspoken, took the new addition as an affront. The two babies, Squeeler and Bear, did not seem to mind having a new kid on the block. After the expected hisses, growls, and checking each other out, everyone, including my husband, began to adjust to the fact that our family had grown.
My husband and I discussed our new cat’s name at length. We both agreed that the name should not refer to having one eye or being solid black. His name should reflect his personality. Once this cat was liberated from his cage, his first personality trait had become apparent. He loved running, leaping, and sailing through the air. We would call him Zippee.
I had become used to the sound of Zippee running and scampering through the house and the nightly “Pet Zippee Show.” Then, one Saturday morning, Zippee’s need for speed was almost his undoing. I was upstairs in the guest bedroom, enjoying the spring morning, with the window open. Zippee flew into the room, his normal airborne black streak. He landed dead center on the bed before springing toward the open window. To my horror, Zippee hit the window screen and burst right through it.
My first thought was that he was dead. My second thought was that cats might really have nine lives. I rushed to the window and found Zippee hanging on for dear life, his paws gripping the windowsill and his body dangling. His one eye expressed, “What the heck just happened?” and “Don’t just stand there, do something!” Befuddled as to how this cat managed to turn around in mid-air and grasp the interior of the windowsill, I was thankful that he was unharmed. I lifted him back into the house and cradled him in my arms.
Zippee was not a lap cat and he didn’t like being picked up and cuddled. Usually, holding Zippee was like trying to hold water. This was one of the few times Zippee did not resist being held. He was happy to be in my arms. Safely back inside and with the window closed, Zippee was not seen for the remainder of the day.
By the next morning, he was back to his old self, ripping and romping through the house. He engaged Badger in a game of chase and sneak attack. His adventure, like his handicap, had not slowed him down. With all of Zippee’s antics, the one thing this cat taught me was we must always face life filled with zest, be willing to trust that others will be there to pick us up when we fall, and never allow our limitations to deter us from being an active participant in this great adventure called life.
~Tori Bailey
Flushing His Issues Away
Fun fact: Moving to a new home is stressful for cats because it means they’re losing their territory and must adapt to a new one.
The move into our new home had been stressful, and each of our four cats reacted in different ways. Bobby Cat needed lots of evening cuddles. DP and Cable hung out under the bed most days, and Chai, our black-and-white tuxedo cat, had taken to following us around like a puppy. No matter which room we entered, he was not content unless he was in the middle of whatever we were doing. So when the toilet in the laundry room needed to have a leak fixed, it was no surprise to us when he insisted on sitting on the seat, peering into the tank, and watching intently as my husband took the mechanicals out and replaced them.
After repairing the leak, we expected a little relief from our higher-than-expected water bills and were baffled when the next month rolled around. The cost had inched up. We replaced a seeping faucet, lectured our teenager about shortening her shower, and made sure our laundry loads were completely full before washing. We only ran the dishwasher when it was full and didn’t leave the faucets running. Another month passed, and the bill crept up even higher. We began to worry that perhaps there was a leak somewhere in the system that was going to turn into a very large problem.
My husband promised to consult with a plumber and get ideas on what steps we could take to fix our excessive water consumption. I had come down with a summer cold and was home sick, but there were a few design jobs that simply couldn’t wait. As I walked to the studio, I waved to Chai, who was soaking up some sun on a windowsill. Bobby Cat hopped into my lap. DP and Cable were curled up under my work desk. I sighed and opened my computer, ready to get to work. Our daughter was at school, my husband at work, and with any luck, I would be able to crawl back into bed in a couple of hours.
I was finishing up the first print ad when an odd sound caught my attention. I paused to listen. It sounded faintly like flushing and running water. Was someone in the house? The garage door had not opened, so it wasn’t kids or my husband. I shook my head. Probably just noise from my stopped-up ears.
It happened again!
Bobby Cat, DP, and Cable didn’t seem bothered or nervous, but I was! I grabbed my cell phone and began to creep back toward the laundry room. I dialed “9-1-1,” but didn’t press Send. Bracing myself, I slowly peeked around the doorframe into the laundry room. No one was there. Then it happened again. That was definitely a toilet flush.
I inched toward the open bathroom door, thumb on the Send button, and cautiously peered around the doorframe�
�� just in time to see Chai place both paws on the lever and pull. He quickly shifted to the right so he could watch the water swirl and bubble as it exited the bowl. After all the water motion was gone and the bowl refilled, he moved back to the lever with both paws. It all clicked into place, and I began to laugh, startling him. He ran from the bathroom, looking as embarrassed as a cat can look.
We immediately implemented a “closed lid” policy. To this day, we don’t know if it was the closed lid or sheer embarrassment that stopped his compulsive flushing. But our water bills were at a manageable level the very next month.
~Lois Bradley
A Cat Named No
Fun fact: Kittens learn to purr when they are about one week old.
The scraping sound of the laundry basket against the cement floor catches my attention. I turn from the dryer just in time to see my black cat use his head to push the basket to my feet. Satisfied, he sits tall with his broad chest out and watches me with striking yellow eyes and two gleaming white fangs in his trademark “smile.” Bat fangs, we call them.
“Thanks, Wookie,” I say, patting his head. At my touch, he rises to all fours and drapes his tail over my hand.
Wookie is a helper cat. He thinks he must help with every task. He also thinks his name is “No.”
In this next instant, he is inside the dryer standing on the warm clothes I’m trying to remove.
“No!” I say, as I reach in and pull him out.
When I run the vacuum cleaner, he is the only cat that doesn’t run away in terror. Instead, I have to vacuum around him as he refuses to move. Then he follows me to the next room to sit in the way again.
“No!” I say, as I try to keep him away, but he hops over my leg and sits in the middle of the floor, forcing me to vacuum around him once more.
As soon as the broom comes out, so does Wookie. He insists on checking the dirt pile to make sure no stray treats or “toys” such as Q-tips or twisty ties have been taken prisoner.
“Wookie, no!”
I try to block him with the broom, but he heaves his twenty pounds against it, defeating my attempts, and steps in the dirt, spreading it around. Satisfied, he walks away, trailing dirt behind him.
As I prepare the sink to wash dishes, I’m relieved he’s gone, although the worst he ever does at the sink is sit in the open window above it and meow at the birds outside.
From the basement, I hear a loud, “Wookie, no!” from my husband.
He is trying to scoop the litter boxes, which has to be Wookie’s number one favorite chore to help with. From the time he was about two months old, he either sits in the litter box while it is being scooped or grabs onto the discard bag as if my husband is stealing the contents the cat so carefully buried.
Despite all this, he is a keeper.
We rescued his mother and her litter when the kittens were a day old, moving them out of the cold April air into a warm basement and clean blankets. Every other day, we would change the blankets, and during one of those times, when the kittens were barely two weeks old, I was lifting Wookie when he purred. I paused and looked at my husband in disbelief. This was the third litter we had cared for and the first time we had ever heard a kitten purr so young.
In my heart he was mine, even though we had decided not to keep any of them. He purred every time I touched him. When his eyes opened and his wobbly legs allowed him to explore, he would seek me out to snuggle against me while his littermates played.
At night, he sleeps sprawled out lengthwise between my husband and me. At any time of night, all one of us has to do is gently brush him with our hand and the deep purrs lull us back to sleep.
For the first year of his life, I learned to prepare dinner with him under one arm. I learned that he really shouldn’t help with pumpkin carving after I found gooey seeds stuck to his fur. I learned how to decorate a Christmas tree from a cat’s point of view. I needn’t worry, though. If I get it wrong, he just rearranges the ornaments, the tree skirt or the presents.
Wookie likes to help. Period. Whether it’s ironing, dusting, filling a mop bucket or cleaning out the refrigerator, he’s the cat for the job. Every task is exciting.
My thoughts at the kitchen sink are interrupted by a crash against the closed window and a plop as soapy water soaks the front of my shirt.
“Wookie!”
The poor cat must have assumed the window was open and leapt for it.
He is drenched and covered in soap bubbles. I grab a dishtowel and begin rubbing his fur to dry him. As I do, he looks at me with big yellow eyes, bat fangs showing as he smiles and purrs.
~Valerie D. Benko
Pookie’s Flaming Tail
Fun fact: A human can learn to read his cat’s moods by checking out the position of his tail.
When my beloved cockatiel, Angel, died during a visit to my grandparents, my grandmother, June, felt so terrible about it that she took me to the animal shelter to get me a cat. Knowing nothing about cats, I based my decision on looks alone — and was instantly attracted to a cream-and-white ragamuffin with big, golden eyes and a tail that looked like it belonged on a raccoon.
On her cage was the name “Taffy” and a note that said: “Doesn’t like other cats.” When my grandma saw me staring longingly into the cage, she said, “This cat might not be very friendly. What about this pretty gray one?” Not a chance. I was smitten with the ragamuffin. Taffy was coming home with me — and being renamed “Pookie.”
Pookie was a sweetheart, but the most outstanding thing about her was her exotic tail. She’d sway it slowly and hypnotically as if saying, “Look at me, I’m Princess Pookie!”
One Thanksgiving, Pookie got a little carried away with her beautiful tail. The family had just gotten up from eating dinner, and Pookie jumped on the table to sniff out the leftovers. The room was buzzing with conversation and music, but everyone turned to look at gorgeous Miss Pookie standing on the dining table, mesmerizingly waving her fluffy, lush tail back and forth like a magic wand. Suddenly, with all eyes on her, she brushed against a centerpiece candle, and her tail went up in flames.
“The cat’s on fire!” my nephew Timmy yelled. The whole tail was blazing like something in a circus act, yet Pookie didn’t realize it — and just stood there looking proud while everyone gasped, screamed and pointed.
Instinctively, I grabbed a nearby glass of water and threw it — incredibly landing right on Pookie’s flaming tail and completely extinguishing the fire. She hadn’t been burned, but her tail fur was completely singed. From her perspective, Mommy just threw water at her for eating turkey, and she scrambled out of there for dear life. This was absolutely hysterical to witness, and we all laughed until we cried.
Pookie lived more than twenty years and was usually seen lying on my husband Mike’s lap, with her front legs crossed in front of her, happily swishing her tail. The very feature that drew me to her at the shelter is also the thing that has made her a special cat in the hearts of the family forever. At Pookie’s “fire show,” my nephew Timmy was just a little boy. Now at age sixteen, whenever he asks how my cats are doing, he always says, “Hey, remember Pookie’s tail catching on fire?” Then everyone laughs and fondly remembers our beautiful princess.
~Deborah Sturgill
Home Improvement: Kitty Edition
Fun fact: Many cats have been immortalized by famous poets, such as John Keats and William Wordsworth.
’Twas four weeks before Christmas and all through our house
Not a creature was stirring, except for my spouse.
The wall had been hung, standing sturdy as steel;
It was time to rejoice with a good hearty meal.
With Dad in his flannels, feeling rightly complete,
We all settled in for something to eat.
Only twelve hours earlier, there arose such a clamor
When Tony decided to pull out the hammer.
“The shower needs fix’n,” he said, lacking denial,
Then he tore down
the wall, tile by tile.
A trip to Home Depot, two hundred bucks spent,
He had what he needed for this first-time event.
We all stood back just waiting to see,
Three girls, two cats, the dog and me.
Usually clad in a shirt and a tie,
Our man tightened his tool belt and gave it a try.
He measured and hammered each nail with direction
Then plastered and tiled with the greatest perfection.
He examined his labor then placed the last tile.
“This wall is complete,” he said with a smile.
We all gathered ’round to share in his glee,
Three kids, one cat, the dog and me…
As we sat at the table enjoying our spread,
A noise from somewhere got stuck in my head.
“What is it?” I asked, but got no reply.
Whatever it was, it was starting to cry.
We followed the sound to the top of the stairs,
Where one cat was pacing, befuddled to tears.
He paced beside the new wall with much fright,
Like someone who knows there is something not right.
“Oh, no,” said Tony, pacing along.
“I think I did something, something so wrong.”
He surveyed the closets in each and every room,
Then called the cat’s name, forestalling his doom.
When no one came running, he knew what was to be,
We looked on in horror, the girls and me.
He tore at the wall, ripping tile by tile;
There was no time to waste. Spike had been in there a while.
A hole in the wall would appear such a pity,
But not when it’s structured to rescue a kitty.
He reached in his arm, felt around still unsure,
’Til he hit something soft, something covered in fur.
The cat came out quiet, still shocked, in a fog.
