My Very Good, Very Bad Cat

by Amy Newmark

  I felt guilty for being so far away, helpless to stop it and unable to say goodbye. Lion was my closest friend; she needed me, and I wasn’t there.

  I told my aunt to put on some music for Lion. I thought it would calm her down to hear her favorite song one last time: Fred Astaire’s rendition of “One For My Baby.” Lion always came into my room as soon as the song came on. (She also liked the theme song to Jeopardy! and would emerge at exactly two minutes to seven and settle on the bed to watch.)

  She thought my request was crazy, but biologists have proven that animals not only respond to music, but have listening preferences, so my aunt humored me and played the song for Lion. She called back when the song ended and said that, incredibly, Lion seemed to have recovered. I was elated.

  Then one night, Lion returned the favor. I was suffering from a strange illness of my own. I had been having hallucinations, seeing things that weren’t there, hearing voices that instructed me to hurt myself. It was dark and quiet, about 3:00 a.m. The household was silent; I was the only one awake. Outside, snow was falling. I sat in the den, summoning up the strength to get a knife and slit my wrists. Lion jumped into my lap and settled there. She was heavy; she felt like a furry cinderblock. She refused to get down, digging her claws into the fabric of my pants so that she clung to me like Velcro.

  With the psychic ability that cats are known for, Lion sensed my desperation and kept me from acting on it by anchoring me to the chair.

  Resting my hand on her back, I felt her heartbeat through my palm. The warmth of Lion’s body and the rhythm of her purring began to lull me into something like sleep. Every so often, she would glance up at me, keeping tabs. She sat with me the entire night; I never did go for the knife.

  The next day, I told my mother that I wanted to commit myself to a psychiatric hospital. While there, I was diagnosed with Depressive Disorder with psychotic features. Unlike situational depression, which occurs in response to unfortunate life events, a depressive disorder is biological and permanent.

  I was given medication, which stopped the hallucinations and regulated my brain chemistry. I will probably be on anti-psychotic drugs for the rest of my life, but I am still alive.

  I believe that Lion saved my life. If she hadn’t stood sentry that night, I would almost certainly have found the strength to kill myself.

  Lion passed away at the age of fifteen. The night before she died, she jumped onto my bed, climbed up my chest, and stared at me. She gazed at me, nose to nose, for a long moment, as though she were memorizing me. I didn’t recognize this odd gesture for what it was until the next day: Lion had been saying, “Goodbye. I love you.”

  I recently saw a greeting card that said, “When I measure my life in the cats I have loved, I count myself blessed indeed.” How true. I consider Lion a sort of guardian angel. In my favorite photograph of her, she is lying on her back out on the patio, with one paw stretched over her head. It looks like she is waving at me. And I think she still is.

  ~Jessica Goody

  Daily Walk

  Not-so-fun fact: It’s estimated that cognitive decline — referred to as feline cognitive dysfunction — affects more than 55% of cats over age eleven and more than 80% of cats over age sixteen.

  The old yellow Tomcat limped along behind me on our daily walk to the second raised flowerbed. It wasn’t far but our pace was slow. Upon reaching our destination, Bam Bam attempted to jump up on the old red bricks where I now sat. Sometimes the effort was too much and I would carefully lift him up and settle him beside me, scratching his ears before letting him go. This time he was able make the jump on his third attempt.

  Bam Bam — sometimes called Bambi — stretched out and rolled back and forth on each side before settling down for a quick nap. After a few minutes passed, the cat roused himself, jumped down off the flowerbed and started the slow journey home. I, too, left my seat and walked alongside him.

  We had just started this ritual about three months before. It took a few months after my husband’s death to understand what the cat wanted. He would follow me to the community mailbox positioned just outside my gate and cry repeatedly as he walked down the sidewalk beyond my gate. When I turned in the yard, he would sit outside the gate and continue to wail.

  Sixteen years earlier, I had convinced my husband, Ralph, that he needed companionship for the long days while I was at work. I made a trip to the local SPCA and spotted a small yellow kitten about six months old in a cage. As I passed, he reached out his front paw and let out a pitiful howl. When I returned home, he came with me.

  Ralph liked dogs. Cats were animals that lived in a barn and rid it of mice. And while he tried to ignore the little cat, he did allow it to sit in his chair with him and watch game shows and cooking shows on television — all the while voicing his dislike for cats.

  When Ralph’s health began to fail, he would take two walks a day almost the length of our gated community’s common area, using his cane for stability. There were three round raised flowerbeds along the way, one by our house, one in the middle of the area and the third at the opposite end from our house. The yellow cat would trot along with him, sometimes running ahead to hide and pouncing out when Ralph got close.

  As time went by and Ralph’s health continued to decline, he traded the cane for a walker, and the walks stopped at the second raised flowerbed. There he would sit and visit with the mailman or the gardeners or a passing neighbor. Although Bam Bam had become very thin with age and his pace had slowed, too, he continued to accompany Ralph.

  The walks dwindled to once a day and cat and human both came back ready for a long nap.

  When Ralph lapsed into a coma one winter day, the cat was allowed in the house to sit on his bed. The faithful cat stayed all day, leaving only for a quick trip to the sand box. He refused to eat. When my husband took his last breath, the old cat howled and had to be put outside where he continued to howl.

  Now we walk every day. Down to the second flowerbed and back. The cat limps behind me, and I reach our gate long before he does, but I hold it open for him even though he could easily step between the rails. I go in the house and he shuffles to his favorite napping place. Bam Bam is seventeen years old now and deserves a good rest.

  ~Ruth Acers-Smith

  Reprinted by permission of the offthemark.com

  Welcoming a Stranger

  Fun fact: The smallest breed of cat is the Singapura. Females may weigh as little as four pounds.

  When we bought our ten-acre “mini-farm” back in 1991, our family inherited Snagglepuss, a flame-orange barn cat that the sellers had adopted. She was joined the following year by a cat of similar appearance, but very different temperament, that someone dumped by the side of the road near our house late one autumn night.

  My sister had been visiting, and in the wee hours she heard a car slow down, then one of its doors slam before it drove away. She didn’t think any more about it until our daughter found the cat in the morning when she was starting to walk to school. After listening to some teary-eyed gushing from her about how adorable he was and how Snagglepuss needed a friend, we told her we would keep him if no one came to claim him. Of course, no one did.

  Our daughter may have honestly thought Snagglepuss would like having a friend, but the older cat quickly made it clear she had other ideas. She disliked the new cat at first sight, hissing at him whenever he got too close or tried to play with her always-twitching tail. Even worse, she seemed to hold him in contempt because he was lazy and a terrible “mouser.” Those qualities, along with his golden-orange coloring, gave us the idea for his name: Goldbrick.

  One of the few things those two barn cats agreed on was that no other cats belonged in the territory they shared begrudgingly with each other. There was a small tiger-gray feral cat living under a fallen tree along the creek bank, and both our cats chased the poor little stray away at every opportunity. Though our fields surely had enough mice to feed an army of cats, they weren’t willing to share a sing
le one of them with the interloper if they could prevent it.

  With that as the backstory, I couldn’t have been more surprised at what I found when I went out to the barn on Christmas morning to give the kitties a treat. Our barn cats were a bit spoiled, with a long table set up with a comfortable arrangement of crates and blankets to keep them warm. They also had a heat lamp designed for poultry overhead. Since it was bitter cold that was where I found them — under the heat lamp. But as they stood up and stretched, I saw that I was going to need to split their plate of sausage and eggs three ways instead of two. The little gray stray was nestled between them, out of the cold and snow. I had never before seen or heard of cats — especially barn cats — with so much “Christmas spirit”!

  After that week’s cold snap was over, our cats also snapped out of their holiday mood and began chasing the stray away as before. But when the stray had been in danger of freezing to death, they seemed to sense that it was no time for being territorial and selfish, and were moved to something as close to pity as cats are capable of feeling.

  Animal behavior has been studied a great deal, but the animals themselves still have a lot to teach us.

  ~Mary L. Hickey

  My Surprising Cat

  Fun fact: The first cat to appear in cartoons was Felix the Cat in 1919.

  The Feline Follies

  Fun fact: Many cats don’t like to have their bellies rubbed. It’s a natural protective reflex to protect their vital organs.

  When I went out of town unexpectedly, I asked my friend Susie to take care of my cats. She was a bit wacky but a pet lover, and it was just for the weekend, so what could go wrong, right?

  I brought her over briefly to show her the lay of the land.

  Mimko, my gray one, welcomed her with a swish against her legs. The other two, Fuzik and Little B., did their normal disappearing act — under the bed, behind the sofa, who knows where? Amazing how many places they could find to hide in my tiny one-bedroom apartment. When Susie came to meet them, they were MIA.

  I described them to her. “Fuzik, the black one, is a scaredy-cat at first, but lovable once he gets to know you. The orange kitten, Little B., is a feral.”

  “Oh, that’s so sad. Maybe he’ll outgrow it.”

  “I hope so,” I sighed. “He’s still young. Don’t try to pet him, or he’ll bite or scratch you. He’s not at all approachable. He’ll most likely be hiding anyway when you come.”

  “Maybe he lost his mama cat at an early age,” she reasoned. “What does the B stand for?”

  I told her that he’d been so wild and unresponsive to humans that I had named him Little Brat.

  “But my mom thought it wasn’t nice to call him a brat because he can’t help the way he is, so I call him Little B.,” I added.

  Susie agreed with my mom.

  “Maybe if you had named him something compassionate, he’d be more socialized,” Susie reasoned. “I’ll work on him.”

  “Do it at your own risk,” I warned, laughing. “The first-aid kit is in the bathroom.”

  The first night, Susie called. “Your critters are fine. Mimko is a true swisher.”

  She went on: “The little orange one vanished into the closet when I entered. I call him Little O. for ‘Orange.’ Get it? Then he stuck his head out. So that’s an improvement, anyway. I think he likes this new name better.”

  “And Floozy was all over me,” she added.

  “Floozy?” I laughed. “His name is Fuzik — it’s Czechoslovakian for Whiskers.”

  She quipped, “He’s Floozy to me. He does that throw-down to the floor. You know, the one that says, ‘Rub my belly NOW.’ ”

  Susie’s message the next day concerned me.

  “Hello! It’s the Animal Farm here. I don’t know how it happened, but the orange cat got out. I found him outside your sliding glass door. But don’t worry. I let him in, and he went straight for his food. Everyone’s fine.”

  It really bothered me that Little B. had been left out, perhaps overnight. My cats were indoor cats.

  I called her back and left a message: “Are you sure you didn’t accidentally leave the door open, even for a second? Please check the windows. Those cats are tricky.”

  The next morning, I received her response: “It’s Susie from the Feline Follies calling. The windows and doors are shut. The cats are accounted for. Mimko is in the fridge, and Floozy’s on the chandelier. Don’t worry. I’m kidding.”

  She went on, “But seriously, you were so wrong about Little Orange. He sits on my lap and purrs. Maybe he likes me better than you. Ha ha.”

  I was beginning to wonder if Susie was in the right apartment. In the two months I’d had him, he had NEVER let me pet him, much less sit in my lap. Could he be coming around? I had been hoping he’d become more domesticated when he was neutered.

  Could Susie have tamed my crazy kitty so quickly? So far, he hadn’t taken to anyone except Mimko. He’d nurse on her when she was in a deep sleep. When she woke up, she’d smack him. I guess she was telling him, “I’m not your mama!”

  No, he was definitely not friendly with people or any cats except Mimko.

  I conveyed all this to Susie. Then she said something that puzzled me even more.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that, Eva. Last night, the two little oranges were snuggled on the couch together. They appeared to be very friendly indeed!”

  “Susie!” I exclaimed. “What are you talking about? I only have one orange cat!”

  She insisted there were two orange ones. And the gray and black cats were there also.

  “How many cats are in my apartment?” I demanded.

  “Four! How many do you have?”

  Thoroughly confused and a little upset, I replied impatiently, “Susie, I only have three!”

  “But you have four plates out,” she maintained.

  “Yes, three for wet food and one for dry.”

  My trip was over the following day, and I couldn’t wait to get home. As I parked my car at the complex, I noticed a sign on the gate with a picture of an orange cat. “Missing cat. Answers to Butternut Squash.” It had a phone number. The same sign was on the elevator.

  It became increasingly clear what had happened. It had been Butternut outside my sliding glass door that night, not Little B. And it was Butternut and Little B. huddled on my couch last night.

  As I opened my door, four little critters encircled me: Mimko, Fuzik, Little B. and their new buddy, Butternut Squash. I hugged and kissed three of them and sneaked a quick pat to Little B., backing away before he had a chance to bite. Predictably, he hissed.

  Then I quickly ran to the elevator to get the number of Butternut’s anxious mom. She lived across the complex and had no idea how Butternut had escaped, but was ever so appreciative that he was safe. She rushed right over and happily embraced her little orange munchkin and took her home. Little B. seemed sad to see Butternut leave. However, we promised we’d get them together on play dates, and we did.

  It warmed my heart that Little B. had found a friend.

  Two months later, Butternut’s mom left a note on my sliding glass door, “Congratulations, Grandma. Butternut had kittens. Come take your pick.”

  I guess Little B. had been even friendlier than I had thought.

  We never did a paternity test, but one look at the four orange kittens left no doubt who was the daddy.

  I took one kitty and named it Little S. for “Surprise.” Butternut’s mom kept two, and we thought it was only fitting that Susie should get one, since she had been the matchmaker, so to speak. She named it Little O. for “Orange.”

  Butternut was soon spayed, and Little B. was neutered. It helped soften his disposition. He actually let me pet him once in a while and even purred for me, a mere human, once in a blue moon. Being around other cats he loved helped with his socialization. Or maybe it was fatherhood that had turned him into a slightly gentler, more domesticated kitty.

  ~Eva Carter

  The Baptism


  Fun fact: The Cat Fanciers’ Association has a “breed personality chart,” which helps potential owners understand what to expect from each breed.

  Miss Snuggles loves to steal things. Normally, she is content to play with bottle caps, bread twist ties and the occasional shoelace, but every now and again, she gets an evil notion in her head and follows through with it.

  Last Christmas, I set out my nativity set with lots of special care. Each piece had its own spot, which I had set up on our oversized windowsill. Days went by, and Miss Snuggles managed to avoid the set, so I thought all was well. Then came the morning I walked in to find the Holy Family scattered about the floor with the barn animals not far away. The cradle was underneath the couch… but without its occupant. Baby Jesus was nowhere to be found.

  Miss Snuggles had stolen the baby.

  I looked high and low. Nothing! My desperation, as well as frustration, grew with each passing day. Where could she have hidden him? Just as with the Wise Men of old, I, too, longed to find the infant before Christmas!

  Days went by, but still nothing. I began to consider that the baby was gone forever and I’d have to find a replacement, which would be no easy task as I had bought this set from a thrift store. How could my nativity set be complete without its star attraction? I even prayed, “Lord, if you help me find Baby Jesus, I promise I will keep the cat locked up from now on!”

  Or… something like that. Lock up Miss Snuggles? I couldn’t do that! When she wasn’t getting into trouble, she was just the sweetest cat imaginable.

  Now it was just two days before Christmas Eve. I woke up very early and went to use the bathroom, which was lit only by a four-watt nightlight. There, floating in the toilet, was a brown “something.” Half asleep, I peered into the bowl, wondering just what I was looking at. Was it some leftover effect from my husband’s late-night snack?