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Posts Tagged ‘cat story’

I do believe a more apt description would be “eccentric”.  Web definition of eccentric: a person with an unusual or odd personality. He’s definitely odd, but he’s a cat.  Whatever.  It fits. 

Mango will switch from happy, purring kitty to slapping and nipping in a matter of nanoseconds.  The reason for the short-circuit is a mystery.  One of many.  He does not know how to emit a normal cat-type meow, he groans instead.  Maybe it’s a growl. It’s indescribable.

Mango does not like the litter box.  If I don’t let him outside when he demands to be let out (via groaning at the door) he pees by the door.  Or in the bathroom if he knows he’ll get caught squatting by the door.  Since he does not enjoy getting his delicate butt-furs wet, when there is snow on the ground he finds new and innovative places to do his business. Like on my neighbor’s porch.  Specifically, on the jacket left on the porch.  The jacket has been trashed.  My neighbor is NOT happy.

On the bright side, Mango is hopelessly, passionately, head-over-heels in love with me, and only me. He gazes at me with absolute adoration, purrs with abandon at the mere sight of me, and goofily chases after me when he’s not sleeping or peeing or doing something abominable. 

I’m thrilled that he is so smitten with me (nobody else is) but this can create some problems with the sleeping arrangements.  We have a nightly ritual: every night I put him outside my bedroom door and try to close the door before he can run back in.  For a cat who spends 90% of his time sleeping, he sure can run faster than the proverbial “greased lightening”. The process is repeated until I give in and let him sleep in my room.  On my bed.   The night goes like this: 10:00 goodnight Mango.  10:45 bath time, including vigorous licking and nibbling.  Back to sleep.  12:30, furball evacuation, usually near my head.  Definitely on the bed.  GROSS.  No I do not prefer cleaning up furballs to sleeping.  2:00, exuberant scratching session on my carpet.  5:30, I’m up, Mango is sleeping in.

No, he’s not a freak, as he’s been called by members of my family. He had a rough start in life, and I think he’s well aware that his adored mommy saved him (he was going to be “put to sleep”) and he obviously wasn’t “socialized”.  He’s adapted to the best of his ability.  That’s life with cats.  You love them despite the inconveniences, and they love you back.  I guess that’s unconditional love.

First of all, I’m attempting to write this with the keyboard across my legs near my feet and a hefty cat purring and drooling on my lap.  The cat is BIG.  I am little.  It’s a long stretch to the keyboard. Plus, he doesn’t know if he wants to lay down or sit up or both at once.  My legs are falling asleep.

Cats need kids, and my youngest two are house-cat-dog-chinchilla-assorted little animal-sitting for their sister and new brother-in-law while they are away on their honeymoon.

Unfortunately this means that Taco is determined to give ME all his attention every single second that I am home.  And if he doesn’t GET every single second of attention back, he turns into Horrible, Yowling, Galloping, Out-of-Control Demon Cat.  This means that he is alternately destroying something, bounding across the house throwing his large self on me, reaching up and hugging me with claws and paws outstretched, sitting right in my face on the desk STARING at me, knocking stuff off every surface, or…did I mention…destroying something?

Right now he’s still sitting in my lap, but since I apparently haven’t given him my FULL attention for 10 minutes, he’s reaching up with  his adorable little gigantic paws and patting my face.  Yeah, cute. Annoying, but cute.  And he knows it.     Don’t let the innocent look fool you

I suppose this is a fairly odd topic, but I find it compelling, particularly in light of the fact that Beast, in the Wordless Wednesday photo in the previous post, seemed about to make that decision.

Beast started his life either as a stray, or neglected, nobody really knows and he’s not telling.  He was terrified of people, but finally made his way into a warm, friendly house full of cat-lovers.  These cat-lovers could not quite afford to have a cat but did their best to provide food and love.  Unfortunately Beast did not get “fixed”.    

He came to our house on a Sunday, after leaving the only real home he ever knew, and after leaving his chosen human.  Have you ever noticed that cats who have had a rough start will choose one person to love, while cats who have had a home full of loving humans will generally be quite social and willing to share their love with anyone?

Beast promptly found the tiniest most inconspicable little hole under the cellar stairs and made his way to the farthest reaches of the cellar BETWEEN THE WALLS.  This was a nice cool finished off room that seemed to be the perfect place to store a frazzled cat for a few days until his scheduled surgery.  We never saw that little hole.

Of course the logical thing to do was put out delectible food and water because everyone KNEW he would come out eventually to eat and drink.  He did not.

By Tuesday, he had not had a thing to eat or drink and we were desperate.  A friend came over and helped us remove the panelling, and with some squeezing between stinky moldy spider-infested walls I was able to pull him out and get him into a holeless room upstairs.  Good thing I’m little.  If our landlady, fondly referred to as The Wicked Witch of the West ever knew we had taken those walls apart she would have a major, broom-whacking, face-scrunching hissy fit.  I hope they look like they have not been tampered with.

Tuesday night, it was clear that Beast was dying of dehydration. He could not go for his surgery.  He absolutely refused water, milk, sardine juice, or affection.  We told him that we would not let him die.  He’d have to pick a different time for that, far into the future.  We told him that we loved him and he would have a good home.  We force-fed him drops of raw milk all night until he started drinking on his own.  He finally ate a bit the next day, had a whooping diarrhea blowout, got moved into the bathroom (easier to clean poo off the bathroom floor) and has been hiding under the tub for three weeks.

He has been eating well now for awhile, he’ll let us hold and pet him and he purrs up a storm, and he uses the litter box (yay) but the tub is his refuge.  His surgery is re-scheduled for 9/11.

I know he would have just let himself die that night, but it makes me wonder what goes on in his delicate little psyche that would allow him to just die.  I’m infinitely thankful that we got through to him and nudged him back to life.  He’s a good cat.  A bit introverted.  We now call him Emo-cat. You’ve got to have teenagers to figure that last one out.

In memory of Eclair, the Bakery Cat

Somehow Eclair knew we would take care of her.  Cats know these things.

She was terrified.  Terrified of everything, even us, but she knew to beg for food, and we gave her a scoop of cream cheese, it was all we had on hand that seemed fitting for a cat.  It wasn’t long before we  brought our fancy organic cat food to share with Eclair at the bakery.

Eventually I moved into an apartment right across the street from the bakery, which Eclair immediately claimed as her property, but she wouldn’t come in or let us pet her.  She really wanted to come in but was far too scared.

One wet, freezing cold she finally did it, I held the door open so long that she couldn’t resist the warmth and in she bolted!

That’s Eclair on the left, she looks a lot like Sumari.  Eclair was so happy with us, after awhile she let us pet her, but not pick her up.  She talked to us a lot and loved the other cats too.  She had so many toes we couldn’t count them all!

One day when we were almost home, there was an accident and traffic was directed down our street.  Just as I drove into the driveway Eclair bolted across the street to greet us (she refused to stay inside for long) and the best I can remember was hearing something like a rock hitting a car and my son saying “Oh no, it’s Eclair”.  We all ran across the street and she was laying there, already dead.  I picked her up and we all cried and held her for a long time and we told her how much we loved her.  Then our neighbor let us bury her in the front yard, under a tree.

In memory of Eclair, The Bakery Cat, our cat, we love you and miss you.

I suppose SPHERICAL would be a more apt description.  Or even egg-shaped (what’s the word for that?  Ovoid??)               

Grapes are Number 1, followed closely by kiwis, cherries, plums and peaches.  Even the stray cantaloupe will be found on the floor with tell-tale nibbles here and there. 

King Taco, Lord of the Manor, has a penchant for ball-shaped food.  He senses it, knows instinctively when it has appeared in the house, and knows exactly when it has been placed on the table, and ESPECIALLY knows the very second that no human is watching said temptation.

How many grapes can one large (OK extra-large) sleepy grey cat pierce and toss on the floor in the matter of a few seconds?  How many cat-saliva coated cherries lay just out of sight under the refrigerator and baseboard heaters?  Ahh so many mysteries, so few cats to pin the blame on…

Apparently the folks next door have cat-eating dogs, pit bulls to be exact. Loud, barking, see-a-cat-go-for-its-throat kind of dogs.  This makes me a bit nervous.

This information came about because I had the honor of meeting my next door neighbor at 9:30 Friday night and he politely divulged this tidbit of trivia. He also made mention of the fact that Mango came quite close to being dogfood.  Fortunately Mango catches on quickly, especially when his life is at stake.  Back to the Taco story…

Why was I knocking on my neighbor’s door at such a late hour? Well of course to unlock his barn…the barn from which a loudly-meowing Taco was frantically trying to make his presence known.  We had been calling for him for hours and I knew there was a problem because he ALWAYS comes running to his beloved Mommy when he is called.  Sometimes he takes his time, but he comes.

He’d found a safe place to hide, up on the second floor of this big old barn that was so jam-packed  we couldn’t even step inside. There was Taco’s head popping through a hole in the ceiling (the floor for him) and we had no way to get to him.  So I said, “Taco, just come down the same way you got up there.”

Now I swear I am not making this up, but as soon as I said that he made his way across the second floor to the other side and appeared on the bottom floor and made his way to us.  He followed my directions. That’s one smart kitty!