Posts Tagged ‘cats’

To Catch a Fly

Lucy and Callie have a project they’ve been working on: they’re trying to catch a fly. I watched them chase it all over the house yesterday, tearing around and jumping into the air. Callie took a big leap mid-stride, launching herself high above the furniture, but still the fly evaded her. A few minutes later she jumped up on the kitchen counter to follow it when it buzzed up against the cupboard doors. She ignored me even more than usual when I told her to get down.

Then the fly got trapped against the living-room slider and I watched both cats stretch up and pat the glass, trying to bat it down or catch it under a paw. The fly buzzed over and touched down momentarily on the TV screen, and Callie jumped up on the cabinet and—bam bam bam, hit out lightning-fast with her paws in all directions, her long front legs flying. Professional boxers got nothin’ on her.

Feline reflexes are so fast, it occurs to me that cats would be really good (but also spectacularly bad) at a number of human activities, things like soccer, or driving. Very quick when braking, turning and swerving; but can you imagine what would happen when a flock of birds swoops down over the highway or the playing field? Or when somebody suddenly needs to wash? Which happens all the time. They’ll be running full-tilt across the floor and—oh, need to wash. Must stop and lick my shoulder…

But back to the fly. As far as I know, it remains at large—at least, after I got in bed last night I could still hear Lucy and Callie bumping and thumping around after it. I believe they will have the project to occupy them again today, provided the fly has not expired. It makes me think of the article I was reading in my alumni magazine when they first began. The title was “Dare to Fail: Why Success Requires Taking That Leap.”

I have to admire them, our cats. They love to leap. And they are not afraid to fail.


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The three-legged cat.

I feel a bit sheepish now, writing about how I went to see her. In the back of my mind I hear people saying: she’s just a cat. And it’s true, she is indeed, just a cat…

Jo, the woman from the rescue league who helped us adopt our kittens, calls and leaves a message on our machine. “I’m bringing that cat, the one who lost her leg, to the adoption event tomorrow,” she says. “Just wanted to let you know.”

She first told me about the kitten months ago. She’d just had her leg amputated and was being fostered by a woman who specialized in the tough cases. Jo told me she’d let me know when the cat went up for adoption, so I could come and see her.

I’m impressed she remembered to call. It seems one more reason I should go, so I head out on this busy Saturday. Gray and blustery, it’s a stereotypical pre-spring day, the wind chilly, the not-quite-thawed ground looking raw and naked after being under snow. Inside the mega-pet mart, though, it’s warm and kind of dark, in a warehouse-y way.

I make my way to the center of the store where there are two tiers of cages set up on tables, each holding one or two cats. I don’t see Jo right away so I chat with another of the volunteers while I look into the cages: two longhaired kittens snoozing in a pile—brothers, the woman tells me; a petite tuxedo cat that reminds me of Josephine—except this cat has the tiniest of white mustaches on her upper lip. In the end cage, on top, is a big gray and white bicolor, looking bored. The volunteer tells me he’s been here more than once before.

And Peggy. Jo told me her name in the message she left on our machine, and I see it typed on the info sheet attached to the cage. All I can see is Peggy’s small face, peeking out from the fleece coverlet in which she’s wrapped. She’s a calico, pastel; lots of white with pale caramel and gray patches. Her eyes are very green—not so amber as our cats’ eyes, and I think: how pretty, the green color, how serene.

Jo comes over then and as we talk she takes Peggy, still wrapped up, out of the cage and hands her to me. I speak to her in my highest-pitched, softest tones, but even so she tunnels into the fleece, squirming in my arms as if she would burrow her way out, dig an escape route. Jo takes her from me, lets Peggy settle a bit, then pulls the fleece away to show me. “They took most of her leg,” Jo says, and I can see that where Peggy’s back leg used to be there is nothing but fur.

I think of the person who set the trap Peggy got caught in. Leg hold traps are legal for catching game in Michigan, but I can’t imagine they’re allowed in the suburban community where Peggy was found. Probably illegal. The person who set the trap may not have meant to catch the likes of little Peggy—or perhaps they did, she was a feral cat. I don’t know, but I feel anger and impatience. What were they thinking?

I stroke Peggy’s cheeks with a fingertip as she snuggles against Jo, the second of her foster moms. “For the first two weeks she wouldn’t come out at all,” Jo says. I shake my head and say awwwww…

Jo puts Peggy back in her cage, wraps her up again. As we’re talking I see the little cat has turned herself around and is looking out the back of her cage, watching some dogs, also up for adoption, who are playing with prospective families. “She’s watching the dogs,” I say to Jo, with a chuckle. I imagine she’s finding them far more interesting than she does us.

Soon after I take my leave, ready to get to my other errands. Even as I’m walking out I wonder what, exactly, I am doing, making a trip up to the pet mart just to see a three-legged cat. I hear those voices, naysaying: what’s the big deal? She’s just a cat.

And of course it’s true, Peggy is just a cat. But in her story I see so much of human failing: cruelty, selfishness, carelessness, callous indifference to other living beings, to the world around us. The worst of human nature. And then the best—Jo and her friends at the rescue league, stepping in to care for a badly wounded cat.

Sometimes the problems of the world can seem so overwhelming. This cat’s story, maybe not so much. I don’t like thinking about what happened to Peggy. But I do like seeing what is happening to her now, as Jo and the other volunteers at the rescue league slowly get her to trust again, and to heal.

When I think about it, no story of healing and compassion is too small to be worth my notice. I guess that’s the real reason I made a trip to the pet mart to see Peggy, the three-legged cat.


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Kitten Logic

I’ve been trying to wrap my head around kitten logic. Although I’ve been down this road before, of living with young cats, it’s been a very long time. Here’s the progress I’ve made lately in understanding the world according to kittens.

1.  Everything is a toy, and

2. Toys are meant to be everywhere.

Following these principles, it makes perfect sense that we found the bottle for Lucy’s eyedrops in the middle of the bed one evening and my fuzzy winter hat under the dining-room table, and that while I’m in the shower my eyeglasses migrate from the counter to the bathroom floor.

3. Everything people do is play.

Outside of eating, pooping, and sleeping, all the kittens do is play. Therefore they consider most things I do to be play. Moving a pen across a page is play. Moving a dust rag across the furniture is play. Moving a cursor on a computer screen is play. Moving a vacuum around the room is play, but they can’t stand the noise so I have to “play” with the vacuum all by myself.

4. Objects are at least as interesting as people.

I was confronted by this principle as I bent over Callie to pet her one day, and her eyes fixed on what I thought was my face. Then I realized she was eyeing the zipper pull on my sweater. In the next second she jumped up and grabbed it in her teeth.

5. The Theory of High Places: Attaining high places is well worth the risk of slipping and falling or pulling all kinds of things down on one’s self.

Obviously, there is for kittens a tremendous social and tactical advantage to being in a high place. In this sense kittens are a bit like mountaineers…

6. Dark and inaccessible spaces are appealing to the point of being mystical, especially if I have not been in them yet.

Dark places, the inaccessible and/or the unknown seem to lure kittens as unexplored shores did Columbus. When I think about it, kittens are the ultimate adventurers. (See principle five re: high places.)

7. Last but not least, wrestling is fundamental.

They wrestle so often, there must be a huge chunk of the kitten brain devoted to it. They answer the call to wrestle at the slightest provocation: the other kitten, entering their visual field; the sight of the big white mousie (the one with the evil-looking pink eyes) lying in the middle of the floor; the sheer exuberance of running across the room—all cause the kittens to spontaneously pounce and begin wrestling. Furiously.

I have to admit, kitten behavior is highly entertaining, whether I understand it or not. My need to find some logic in what they do is undoubtedly one of my hardwired traits. And who’s to say that as I’m drumming my fingers on the computer keyboard this minute I’m not simply playing? I’d better go do something totally joyless and uninteresting, right now—I’m starting to think like a kitten.


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Last Thursday Lucy was still a kitten.

The vet tech said “Awwwwwwww!” when she plodded out of her crate on her short little legs, and the vet called her “this little cutie” while holding her up to examine her. She’d shown signs of a cold, off and on, for days, and it turned out she had an infection. When she got nervous in the exam room as we waited for the doctor, she tried to climb up my leg so I would hold her. Back home as she got ready to nap she crawled onto my chest while I sat on the couch, purring and curling up to doze under my chin.

But three days and many doses of antibiotics later, Sally and I looked at her and then at each other and said, “She’s not a little kitten anymore.” She seems to have grown overnight, like Jack’s beanstalk. She’s still compact, but her legs are longer and her torso has stretched out under her too-big head. She’s suddenly gotten feisty about her medicine, trying to fight us off where before she just squirmed and squeaked while we squirted drugs into her mouth or eyes. Yesterday, she didn’t climb up on me even once to cuddle.


We’ve had our two rescue kittens about a month, and already their childhood is nearly over. Of course, they’re still wildly entertaining, even if they are nearly “teenagers.” Yesterday I had figure skating on TV when Callie suddenly became entranced by the action. She jumped up on the TV stand and plastered her nose to the screen as the skater twirled and twirled, a blur of hot pink. I couldn’t help but grin at the sight of Callie’s huge ears and slender body in silhouette against the bright TV screen. Our cat, watching Olympic figure skating trials.

A few minutes later Lucy was trying, as usual, to draw her older sister into rough and tumble. Callie, seeking a reprieve or at least a tactical advantage, crouched under the magazine stand. As I watched, Lucy approached her, but after a few steps went into what I call her sideways war dance: back arched, tail held like a pony’s, bouncing obliquely towards her target.

I laughed out loud.

I know there are plenty of fun times ahead. Neither of the cats is six months old yet. Callie, the oldest, is coming up on five, and when she gallops around the house on her long legs she looks like a colt. (I did think, for a brief moment, that we should name her Flicka.) The two of them will be running around, getting into stuff, tearing up the house and making us laugh with their antics for some time to come.

Still, I already feel a little nostalgic and misty-eyed for Lucy the baby. How adorable she was when her legs were even shorter, as we watched her trying to do a pull-up to reach the top of a table or the edge of the drawer under the bathroom counter. I feel happy that the fur behind her ears is still fluffy; Callie’s is all smooth as silk. “Take a lot of pictures!” my sister-in-law, also a cat lover, said on the phone yesterday. I wish already that I’d taken more.

It’s hard to try to compute cat age on a human scale, but lots of us try, anyway. At six months cats can already reproduce; so among the various numbers I found on veterinary websites, 12.5 human years seems a reasonable comparison to a six-month-old cat. That would mean that in one month, the kittens have covered a portion of their lifespan equivalent to two years for a human. No wonder I feel like they’re moving at warp speed—kind of like that old Star Trek episode, where the aliens are moving so fast through time that they’re an undetectable blur to the crew of the Enterprise.

Anyway, I’m trying to learn from this experience: one, to live in the now, and two, to be ready with my camera. I still hope to catch a shot of Lucy’s sideways war dance. I’ll have to set my shutter speed very, very fast.

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They had us pegged the moment we walked in the door.

Sally had emailed ahead, asking about a kitten we’d seen on the rescue group’s website, so they kind of knew us, when we arrived. The scene was chaotic: in the very center of the mega pet supply store during holiday shopping madness, a series of metal cages was set up, each holding one or two cats in various states of playful excitement, standoffish nervousness, or determined, sleepy oblivion.

The woman Sally had emailed with told us right away that the kitten we saw online had been adopted. But the volunteers working the aisle were eager to help. “Let me show you this one,” said a smiling gray-haired woman, wearing a red holiday sweatshirt emblazoned with cats wreathed in holly and bells. We were so focused on the occupants of the cages that we didn’t really notice at the time that we were experiencing what’s known as the “bait and switch.”

Moments after arrival we were each holding a kitten, with a foster mom at our elbows, regaling us with the many delightful qualities of the little creatures we cradled. We were, of course, properly admiring, ooh-ing and ah-ing over each new candidate. “It’s been a long time since we’ve had kittens,” I admitted to the woman in the holiday cat sweatshirt. “Twenty years.” And the comparisons kept flowing out of us as we made the rounds of the cages: this one looks like Annie, that one like Charlotte, and so on…

I could not help but notice the tiny black and white kitten who kept poking her paw though the bars to play. How could I possibly miss her? They had placed her cage at the corner nearest the entrance, where everyone walking up would see her first. I was dimly aware of the envious looks of a couple of gaping six-year-olds as the kind woman from the shelter took the kitten out of her cage and gave her to me to hold. One little boy had to be literally dragged away, still protesting, by his dad. It crossed my mind that age does have its advantages, after all.

“Would you like to see the two of them together?” asked the first volunteer, noting our interest in the black and white kitty and a slightly older cat with beautiful tabby/calico markings. And like that, we were whisked away to one of the clinic rooms, up front. There we watched the kittens climb, adorably, on everything they could reach (including us, seated on the floor). The rescue league woman told us their sad stories: the small black and white kitten was found on the street, the tabby came from a barn-full of cats, a situation involving someone who was kind of an animal hoarder. It occurred to both Sally and I that already this winter, the temperature has dipped into single digits at night.

I don’t know exactly how it happened—mysterious, isn’t it?—but somehow we started talking schedules. “We’re home for the holidays,” I said. “We can spend a lot of time with them.” The volunteer remarked that she thought this was great, as the spunky black and white kitten climbed up her back and perched on her shoulder.

“We haven’t even put in an app yet,” I mentioned. We’d applied at a different shelter a couple of months before—then never followed through, realizing we had travel plans coming up. The application form had been extensive, and required three references with phone numbers. When we visited that group’s adoption event, they’d told us they would check us out before allowing us to adopt. (Luckily neither of us has ever been convicted of a felony.)

So I was expecting much the same this time. But when we got to the subject of paperwork, the light flashed green. “Oh, there’s some paperwork,” the volunteer told us as I jumped up to remove the tabby kitten from the sink. “But it’ll only take about fifteen minutes, and you can take them home.”

Take them home? Now? Today?!! I was shocked, and elated. I pictured our living room, graced by these two little furballs. Home for the holidays. “I brought my checkbook,” I announced. I had been thinking we might need to put down a deposit. “I could go home and get the cat carriers,” I suggested, explaining we live close by, and still have the crates we used with our old (departed) cats.

“Oh we have boxes,” the woman said, dispensing with any need for me to leave the premises. Again, it wasn’t until later that we noted the similarity to the tactics at a car dealership—she wasn’t about to let me go anywhere, now that I was on the hook.

That exchange seemed to finalize things. Back at the cages, I was able to catch Sally’s ear for a quick private moment to make sure she was as sure as I was that we should take the kittens home. The fifteen minutes of paperwork passed in a blur, during which various volunteers (most in holiday cat-themed clothing) came by, asking which cats we were taking home, seemingly wanting to share in our happiness. After a quick spin around the cat aisles to pick up some supplies, we walked out the door with two cardboard carriers, each holding a small cat. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. Nor entirely forget the sad looks on the faces of those six-year-olds…

At home, we rushed around the house, closing doors, setting up the litterbox, food and cat beds, moving all the ornaments off the bottom of the Christmas tree, and heavy objects off the end tables. And wondered, as the little bundles of kinetic energy burst out of their boxes: How did this happen? That three days before Christmas, we suddenly had kittens?

Sally attributed it to the fact that she was on cold medicine, and nothing on those forms asked if we were under the influence. I have no excuse—except I know now the house has felt empty ever since we put old Josephine to sleep last spring (God rest her soul), and I’ve been waiting all this time for the stampeding of little feet, the questioning gaze of feline eyes, asking “where you been?,” the soft feel of silky fur beneath my fingertips, the sound of purring while a cat sits in my lap (or in the case of the little black and white kitten, curls up on my chest).

And those women at the rescue league? They knew when we walked in the door that we were going home with cats. I wonder how many of those cardboard carriers they keep on hand. They probably would have loaded up a half-dozen for us if we’d been willing.

I’ve never seen such consummate sales and marketing skills. And I have to admit, I’ve never been happier with anything I “got for Christmas.”


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I pull up in the circular drive, blanketed with a couple inches of snow, and park in front of the modest-looking ranch. I get out and ring the bell; as I’m standing there I notice a miniature house set up on a table on the porch. A piece of carpeting covers its doorway, and a staircase leads up the side to a rooftop patio. “Nice house,” I tell Dee when she comes to the door.

“Oh this is Cooper’s house,” she says, stepping out to show me. She lifts the flap and the round face of a brown tabby cat peers out at us. “He’s got radiant heat,” she says, pulling up the edge of the rug to show me that the floor of the attractive little house is heated. “He’s a ‘don’t fence me in’ kinda guy – he just won’t come inside,” she explains. Hence his name: Cooper, as in Gary. When she first noticed him hanging around he was trying to subsist on bird seed.

As I step inside I’m immediately greeted by a Rottweiler who bumps me with her big, square head and then leans into me like I’m a long-lost friend. As I pet her she sits, and I can see that her back legs fold up in an awkward way – arthritis, I’m thinking. “She’s on borrowed time,” Dee says. “They usually live between eight and ten years, and she just turned ten.” Later Dee tells me she got the dog – Tikka, I think she calls her – when the people who purchased her as a pup decided they could not keep a full-grown Rottweiler in their apartment.

Meanwhile a handsome gray cat has come out to investigate – Dee says he’s a Russian Blue, but I don’t quite catch his name. Dee is our cat sitter, and after putting my elderly cat to sleep this week, I’m here with supplies I know she can use: cans of prescription food, a heating pad, a couple of bottles of Cosequin capsules. I set the carton on the kitchen counter and look around. The house has an open, spacious feel, very clean and uncluttered; I tell Dee how much I like it.

“C’mon, I’ll show you around,” she says, explaining that the room off the living room used to be an attached garage but is now her bedroom. When she flicks on the light, not one, not two, but four cats look up at us from where they lie sprawled on a lovely black and gold coverlet. Such a wave of tranquility floats up from them that I’m instantly charmed. I start to pet a big brown tabby – well, truth be told, he’s not big, he’s fat – and Dee points out the ruffled bit of tissue where his left ear once was. He lost it to frostbite before she rescued him. He begins to purr under my touch as a fifth cat – a long-legged black and white tuxedo – jumps up and charges over, trying to get in front of the tabby and steal my attention. “That’s Bart,” Dee says; or maybe it’s Boris – I’m finding it hard to hold onto all of their names. She explains that he’s the troublemaker, the one who’s always stirring things up. Mostly he has adjusted well, but it took a while. He was left alone in an apartment for three weeks with nothing but the water in the toilet when his owner went to prison.

The other cats tolerate Bart’s interference, stretching lazily as I pet them in turn: a gray tabby, then a long-haired black and white beauty, then a latte-colored Himalayan whose big, soulful eyes surprise me – I thought I wasn’t much affected by flat-faced cats like Persians. She too begins to purr as I stroke her velvety head.

We leave the sleepy cats on the bed and go visit Dante, a newcomer Dee recently picked up from a home that erupted in violence as his owners split up. In his own room behind floor to ceiling child gates, Dante is calm, and seems happy that we’re sitting with him – he rubs against me as I stroke his short, black fur. “It’s so hard to adopt out black cats,” Dee comments. I think, uncharitably and not for the first time today, how stupid people can be. Dee tells me more stories, of adoptees past and present: a cat that was found in a bear-claw trap set alongside the Paint Creek Trail; a cat she placed with an elderly woman who now has dementia. There was a bit of an emergency when the woman went to the hospital for a spell; but Dee has an eye on the situation now, and is staying in touch with the woman’s caregivers.

Back in the living room, a Maine Coon cat named Kiki the Diva (or Kiki D.) has appeared. Bart the troublemaker tries to get a rise out of her, jumping up to bat her where she sits on the couch, but Tikka the Rottweiler steps in immediately to break it up, giving Kiki some space. “She’s very shy,” Dee says of Kiki, “and they’ll pick on her if she lets them.” Kiki gets Prozac to help her stay calm and confident. Just then another black cat darts in from wherever he’s been hiding, and disappears again. “He’s skittish,” I say, and Dee explains that the cat, whose name is Devin, has a bad eye. Someone Dee knows was out walking her dogs in the rain when she saw something small and black lying by the side of the road – she thought it was a sock. It was Devin.

“It’s like the island of misfit toys,” I tell Dee, thinking of the place Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer visits in the old animated special. I quickly add, “not that I think any of these cats is a misfit…” Dee nods – she knows what I’m trying to say. She tells me that Devin’s eye is improving – actually starting to regenerate.

When Tikka comes back in from a trip outside I can’t help but wrap her up in my arms and give her a rubdown. The Russian Blue, whose name I still can’t recall, walks regally across the room. I pet a Persian cat lying on the bench near the door – Dee says she’s an oldster whose owner, on a fixed income and living with her daughter, couldn’t afford to keep her. “Plus her daughter’s allergic,” Dee says; and I start to wonder about the stories people tell her, whether or not they make some of this shit up. I’m sure they can see just as I do that Dee is a soft touch, and her compassion is limited only by space, and her own finances.

On my way out I get another peek at Cooper, snug inside his condo. Then I’m driving away, still holding the image of the fat, Buddha-like tabby lying on the bed with his raggedy stub of an ear, purring like mad. I’m bouncing in my seat to the music on the radio when something Dee said last week on the phone comes back to me. “People ask me why I take care of animals,” she said. “Why not people? And I tell them by taking care of animals, I take care of people, too.”

So true, I think, singing along to the rock ‘n roll pumping through the speakers. So true.

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The Cat

It feels weird, to be without the cat. I not only miss her – I feel unmoored, like I’m floating in space.

In the middle of the night I thought back to when I got Josephine, almost twenty years ago. I was a different person then: more ambitious, and more naïve. Getting two kittens was part of my worldview: life as a big adventure. I’ll confess I know myself better now. But that sense of adventure – I need to hold onto some of that. It is so easy to fall into a rut. The familiar, while comforting, is not always good for us.

For the first time in twenty years, I’m without a cat. It’s lonely, floating in space; and I do not make a good astronaut. I miss the tactile: stroking Josephine’s fur; the audio: the sound of her purring as she settles into my lap. I even miss her bad breath. (The vet stopped cleaning her teeth a couple of years ago, when putting her under to do it became too risky.) In the absence of her purring, the silence buzzes in my ears – a high, muted drone that I notice every time I stop and listen. Again I’m floating – my ears as untethered as my heart.

Strange things happen around animals – things I can’t explain and can’t claim to understand. As we gathered around Josephine lying on the surgery table yesterday – the vet, the vet tech, Sally and I – I was suddenly aware that in taking care of this elderly, four-pound cat (and euthanasia was the last step in taking care of her), we were also taking care of each other.

There will be more cats in my future. Not right away – we have trips coming up, to see family and friends; but after that, I want some cats. I feel right now that I’d like to have several; in fact, I could go right over to the shelter when it opens today and pick out a few. Some of it must be grief – but I want to surround myself with their purring, and their gaze: knowing and cryptic. There’s something cats have that we’ll never have, and I love them for it. Cats are so comfortable, so elegant, in their skin. Even when they’re in ridiculous situations: covered in mud while hunting moles, swinging in a harness after falling off a second-story porch. (I refer here to episodes in Josephine’s long and eventful life.)

I still feel kind of like an astronaut in cold, dark space; but maybe slightly closer to a landing. Soon I climb back inside my spaceship and continue the voyage, finding new worlds, meeting new beings, seeing the sun rise and set on new vistas. And somewhere along the way, friending another cat. Or two, or three.


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