Tag Archives: crazy cat lady

Cats, etc.: Love to Eat Them Mousies

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Kliban cat singing "Love to eat them mousies"
Copyright B. Kliban, 1975

Yes, they do. It’s nature’s way.

Apparently, it’s also nature’s way to give half a mouse to the one you love.(1) The cats, however, seem unable to decide which half is the good half.

Our cats have always been in favor of eating the back half and proudly presenting the front half. A neighbor’s cat did just the opposite, leaving a regimented little line of mouse butts in front of the garage door, a veritable mouse-ass buffet for . . . well, someone.

Many people’s reaction to this love offering is to scream, which must be mightily confusing to the cats. My husband tries to interrupt the process while it’s still at the gee-this-is-fun-to-play-with stage (2) and escort the erstwhile victim outside.(3)

The usual drill, though, (after the semi-obligatory scream) is to praise kitty as a mighty hunter, then quietly clean up the carcass (4) while the cat isn’t looking. She may expect you to eat the proffered half-mouse. Whether you do depends on how devoted you are to your cat and how much you like rodent tartare.

Justine Alford has a different theory on why you receive half-mice from your cat: “Given that female cats are most likely to bring back animal presents, the most likely explanation for this behavior is that they are trying to teach you the hunting skills that you clearly lack.”

This means that the cat is your mama and you are her baby. And she is thinking, “Come on, dimwit. Give it a try. I can catch these and I don’t even have opposable thumbs. How about you catch mice and give them to me for a change? Honestly, I don’t know how you manage to feed yourself!”

We may need the training after all, when we retire and live under the Third Street Bridge. But don’t tell the cats that. They’re smug enough already.

(1) Remember this tip when Sweetest Day rolls around. And isn’t Mother’s Day coming up?
(2) As opposed to the “aw-this-is-no-fun-since-it-quit-moving” stage.
(3) My husband also gets to escort spiders, snakes, moles, bats, birds, and other still-living catfood outside. He has definite Buddhist tendencies when it comes to home invaders of the non-human sort. Wasps that make it inside I insist that he kill. Stink bugs get trapped in pill bottles, batted under furniture by the cats, and forgotten.
(4) Our cat Django used to take his intended victims into the bathtub, where they had less room to maneuver. The crime scenes were also easier to clean up.

Cats, etc.: The Candy Bar of Cats

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All my life I’ve admired calico cats. The lovely contrast of tricolor fur is like nothing else in the cat world – and indeed a rarity in the animal kingdom.(1)

But I had never thought twice about the variety of calico called tortoiseshell, “torties” for short. Torties are a brindled variety of calico with little to no white fur – black, brown, red, russet, and multiple, mixed variations of black and orange.

This is a calico.
This is a calico.

This is a tortie.
This is a tortie.

When I went to the shelter to get my first cat, they had no traditional calicos, only tortoiseshell calicos, among the tabbies, bi-colors, solid colors, and just about every other color pattern – except calico.

I pondered the many choices, and found myself drawn to the torties. After all, they were a kind of calico. I asked my fiancé’s advice. He was studiously and purposely unhelpful. “Gee, I don’t know, honey, they’re all nice cats.”(2)

I found a little tortie whose elastic name band said “Bejeau.” “Aha!” I said. “Someone can’t spell Bijou. That’s the one.”(3) I took her home. And made her a new name band with the proper spelling.

A few days later, the shelter called to see how we were getting along. “Fine,” I said, “except she wants to sleep across my throat.”

“Oh, dear,” said the shelter lady. “She’ll probably stop that when she feels more secure.” And so she did.

Bijou was the first of my torties, but there have been others since – Anjou, Laurel, and Louise.(4)

________________________________

Once I was sent to New York City on business and had an extra day to spend (because of the ridiculous way airlines charged for business travelers).

I decided to make it an all-cats day. First I went to see the musical Cats, and then I went to the cat show at Madison Square Garden.
The musical was awesome, but the cat show was fun.

I saw varieties and breeds of cats that I had never heard of. I saw pampered cats that looked like princesses in elegant pink silk beds, their likewise-silky long hair flowing around them and a look on their faces that said, “You peasant! Move along now that someone else may adore me.”(5)

At one of the judging stations, the man doing the judging was willing to chat with me. He told me how to tell the difference between Norwegian Forest Cats and Maine Coons by the shape of the face. Then he told me about tortoiseshells.

With all his years of cat-judging experience backing him up, he authoritatively informed me, “All torties have a screw loose.”

Maybe that was why Bijou slept on my throat and Anjou carried a tampon applicator though one of my parties, and Laurel curtsied to everything, and Louise was known in her youth as “Naughty Baby Fek’lhr.”(6) A screw loose indeed.

One of my friends put it better, though: “Torties are the candy bar of cats: a little bit sweet and a little bit nuts.”

(1) There are calico guinea pigs, which are kind of cute, but nowhere near as compelling. Guinea pigs just don’t have a lot of personality.
(2) Smart man.
(3) I had studied French for years. My second torte, named Anna by the shelter, became Anjou.
(4) And some traditional calicos: Julia and Dushenka.
(5) I later saw one of those uppity cats turn pure kitten when a feather on a string was dangled before her. She caught it and proudly sat there with it sticking out of her mouth for the rest of the judging. “It’s mine!” she seemed to say. “I caught it and you can’t have it.”
(6) A joke that almost no one gets.

Cats, etc. – The Little Soul Who Strayed, Then Stayed

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The slim calico prowled the neighborhood, checking out the opportunities. This house? That one? There was a nice culvert in the cul-de-sac where she could both hide and find water.

The big, dark car stopped beside her and the door opened. The cat froze, waiting to see what came next. The human made cooing and chirping sounds, and the ones she’d learned to recognize as “here, kitty, kitty.” But she ignored him and sauntered on. You don’t get into a strange car with just any old human, after all.

Still, the human hadn’t appeared threatening. Maybe she’d check out this area again.

Carefully, the calico watched and waited. The big car went by several times a day. If she was hidden well, it passed by. If she allowed the human a glimpse of her bright eyes and sleek tri-colored fur, she might also listen to the low, comforting sounds that spoke of invitation.

Sometimes she strolled past the place she had lived before, just to check it out. Loud dogs barking in the house. In the yard. Not worth trying right now. Maybe some day the dogs would go away, just as she had.

______________________________________

“I’ve seen this little calico around lately,” my husband said. “Doesn’t look like anyone owns it.”

“Her,” I said. “Calicos are almost always female. They need two X chromosomes to get that color pattern.” I knew I was being pedantic, but I wanted to keep the conversation out of emotional realms. Our big gray and white cat Django had died not long before, and I wasn’t ready to give my heart to another feline companion.

______________________________________

A few days later, the calico saw the sign above our door, visible only to cats: SUCKERS LIVE HERE. FREE FOOD. Casually, she picked her dainty way through the garden and up to the front door. Just as the sign had revealed, the man from the car opened the door and brought her an offering of food. She started hanging around the house more. She could smell that there were other cats there. One dog in the back yard, but not a very noisy one. She allowed the man to take her inside.

He gave her a room to herself, with a constantly filled food dish and a container of litter. The man, and sometimes the woman, would visit her and pet her and give her a lap to sit on. There was a window to look out of and a comfy chair and lots of shelves and bins and boxes to explore.

No barking.

slpdush
________________________________________

“If we’re going to keep her, we need to take her to the vet for a check-up,” Dan said.

I was still trying to resist. “But are we going to keep her? I’m not ready yet. It’s too soon.”

“Even if we don’t keep her, she needs a vet-check before we can let her mix with the other cats. We can’t leave her in your study. If we do try to find her owner, it could take a while.”

“There was a sign up a couple of streets over about a missing calico. It’s probably this one,” I said.

The neighbor came to see the little calico. I made him describe her before I brought her out. She might not put up with being held very long and turn into a clawed tornado. He neglected to mention the sooty smudge on her chin or her crazy eyes, one gold, one green, and when I did bring her out for inspection, he shook his head sadly. No.

“Good luck,” I said, holding the cat firmly against my chest.

_____________________________________________

“We’ve got to name her something, if only for the vet records. And we can’t keep calling her Li’l Bit. She’s not so little any more now that she’s eating regularly,” Dan said as we prepared to put her in a carrier. “Do you have any good ideas?”

“Well, there’s Dushenka,” I offered. “It’s Russian and means ‘little soul.’ On Babylon 5, Ivanova’s father called her that as a term of endearment.”

“That’s it, then. She’s Dushenka.”

___________________________________________

All Dushenka’s tests were fine. She did seem like she hadn’t been on the street too long – glossy coat, not malnourished, definitely not feral. Just as we were about to take her home for another round of “Should We Keep Her?” the vet said, “I should probably scan her. Lots of cats have ID chips these days.

The quick wave of a wand over her shoulders and – BEEP. Somewhere Dushenka had an owner. And it wasn’t us.

The vet called the chip registry service and the phone number they gave her, but had to leave a message. A few days later, she gave us the address and phone number too. The cat’s registered name was Carmen, and she had lived one street behind us.

__________________________________________

We tried. We really did. We called, left messages, even put a note on the door.

And I tried not to love her. I really did. But, truth be told, she had me as soon as I saw the crazy eyes and the smudgy chin.

updush

So we got the vet to write a letter to the chip registry about what awesome pet guardians we are and how all of us had tried to contact the registered owner. And we sent in the $25 re-registration fee. The paperwork done, her ownership officially changed hands. To this day, we’ve never heard a squeak from the neighbors who used to have her.

We’ve seen this meme since, and except for the pronouns, it’s perfect.

catpost

She’s OURS now. And we LOVE her.

New Features Coming!

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What are the new features?

Books, etc. and Cats, etc.

Where do I find them?

Right here on this blog, Et Cetera, etc.

When will they appear?

Whenever I feel like it or have something to say on either topic.

Can you describe them?

Yes.

Okay, smart-ass, describe them.

Books, etc., will contain book reviews, books I’m reading now or have loved in the past, musings on trends in fiction and nonfiction, the writing life. Etc.

Cats, etc., will contain true tales about my life with cats, plus occasional posts on cat care, health, behavior, and cats in the news. And cat pictures. Yours, too, if you want to send them.

Why are you qualified to write these features?

I read a lot, write some, and edit more. I have a B.A. in English from Cornell and an M.A. in English from University of Dayton.

I have been owned by at least a dozen cats (no, not all at once) and lived with more. They have all been shelter cats or ones that found us. No purebreds, so you’ll have to go somewhere else if that’s what you want.

But what about the posts, stories, and general crankiness we’ve grown to know and love?

They’ll still be here. Books and Cats will be post titles, followed by subtitles.

Can you give us examples?

Well, sure! Blog: Et Cetera, etc. (same old address); Books, etc.: Why Haven’t I Heard of Melanie Benjamin before?; Cats, etc.: Stupid Cat Tricks.

Can we suggest topics?

Absolutely. Go right ahead. I might even write about them.

When will these new features start?

See above, where I said, “Whenever I feel like it or have something to say.”

How often will they appear?

See above, where I said, see above, where I said, “Whenever I feel like it or have something to say.”

When do you…?

Don’t make me say it again.

Cats, Etc. – Fourth of July

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You woke me up for this?
You woke me up for this?

Our youngest cat, doing her impression of Grumpy Cat.

This seemed like a good idea at the time. We used to call Dushenka “Li’l Bit” when she first chose us. Now she’s more like Pudgy Bit.

Either way, she did not seem thrilled to be asked to pose for a holiday picture. Not that the Fourth of July means much to cats except begging for barbecue and hiding under the bed.

They should like it though, if only to maintain their reputation for independence.

Cats, Etc.: Friday the Thirteenth Edition

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This being Friday the 13th,  black cats are on my mind. I’m not superstitious, so neither the date nor the cats bother me, but they do bother a lot of people.

A pass-along this morning said that black cats (and black dogs) in shelters tend to be overlooked and are killed disproportionately. Another common rumor is that black cats are adopted at Halloween by Satanists (or teenage wanna-be Satanists) to sacrifice in horrible rituals.

Snopes.com says the evidence is inconclusive on that last point, although they also mention people who want to “rent” black cats as party decorations. I don’t know if this actually happens, but I doubt that it actually works. Cats of any color are more likely to spend a Halloween party behind the sofa or ralphing on the snack table than posing prettily in a tableau of pumpkins. (Digression: Hairballs are pretty grody, so I guess they could be considered decorations, if you’re the horror-fan sort of party-giver.)

I don’t believe cats are bad luck, because I don’t believe there’s any such thing as an all-black cat. As far as I can tell, they are required by law to have at least ten white hairs somewhere on their bodies. Show-offs prefer the chest area.

But I have a confession: I have never owned a black cat. (Digression: My mother-in-law has. No comment.) We did once have a lovely tuxedo cat named Shaker. She had, in addition to the white chest, white whiskers and adorable little white feet. She had a lot of dignity, but then spoiled the effect when she jumped off my lap at the vet’s, made a break for it as fast as her tiny little feet would carry her, and ran headlong (bonk!) into the glass door. It was so sudden that she couldn’t realistically pull off the “I meant to do that” look. Nice try, though.

We did have a black guest cat (a foster) that I named Joliet. (Digression: Here’s the story. I had a black friend named Darryl. I couldn’t call the cat Darryl because she was female (Darryl Hannah notwithstanding). My friend Darryl came from Joliet, IL, so I named her Joliet in his honor. It didn’t matter, because everyone misheard it as Juliet and called her that.)

We might have kept Joliet, but she proved to be a brazen thief. (If she were he, we could have called him Joliet Jake. Or Darryl, I guess, except Darryl wasn’t a thief. Never mind.)

One night we were eating in front of the TV and had a large steak on a plate on the coffee table. Joliet did not choose the typical cat ploy of sniffing daintily at the edge of the steak and making the pitiful “nobody-feeds-me” face. She swooped in and grabbed the whole thing, then raced across the living room with it. From our vantage point it looked like a steak with four feet and a long black tail fleeing the scene of the crime. We recovered the steak, washed it off, and ate it anyway. We were not so well off that we could afford to waste a steak.

(Digression: Once I was cruising the cheap meat (reduced for quick sale) section at the grocery. A guy, obviously embarrassed, picked up a couple of steaks and said, “I feed these to my dog.” “Yeah?” I said, tossing some into my cart. “I feed them to my husband.”)

Anyway, we decided that Joliet and another family would be happier with each other. Looking back, we may have made the wrong call. She never brought us any bad luck. We just needed to train her to steal steak from other people and bring it back to us. Then again, trying to train a cat is difficult enough, never mind trying to train one to give away stolen meat.

Cats, Etc: Conversation With Louise

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I understand this is Throwback Thursday, which means that bloggers can recycle old posts. I haven’t been blogging long enough to have many old posts, but this is a contribution from Louise, one of my cats, pictured above.

Me: Louise, honey, I’m glad you love your mama, but please don’t sit/stand/lie on my throat.
Louise: Meow (translation: But I’m the Queen of Everything.)

Me: Honeycat, it’s lovely floof, but please don’t eat it. It looks much better outside you than inside.
Louise: Meow (translation: But I’m Her Royal Floofiness.)

Me: Louise, darling, you have cat food breath.
Louise: Meow (translation: Yeah, well, you have human food breath. What’s your point?)