My Very Good, Very Bad Cat Read online

  I refused to succumb. Instead, I hugged the plate closer to my chest, twisting from side to side to avoid a wet nose inching toward the dish.

  Unfortunately, my galley kitchen forced me to eat on the couch, making me an easy target for a determined cat. I could have cleaned the piles of papers, folders and magazines off the dining room table and sat there, but Thomas and I both knew that was never going to happen. Instead, we turned our breakfast routines into ritualized combat, with my toast as the prize.

  For months, the ding of the toaster brought Thomas into the kitchen, eyes shining with love and a droplet of drool decorating his lower lip. For months, I’d plate my food and sit on the couch where I’d push him off me, only to have him jump back on my lap seconds later. Since Thomas generally doesn’t like to expend energy, a trait that has increasingly shown up on the vet’s scale, I was delighted I had come up with a wonderful new way of getting him to exercise.

  I actually thought of calling the vet to inform him of the new fitness program, but I wasn’t sure he’d approve of feeding Thomas toast. In fact, his words, “Overweight. Unhealthy. Atkins kind of cat,” came to mind. Rather than stop giving him toast, I kept the good news to myself because of the added payoff. All the twisting to hold the dish away from him had added a smidgen of definition to my arms and waist. A win-win situation in my mind.

  Thomas, of course, disagreed.

  While he kept jumping and I kept hugging — the plate, not the cat — at least one of us was happy. Then one day, in an extravagant exhibition of energy, he sailed through the air and landed feet first in my eggs. For a moment, we stared at each other in amazement until he shook the still-runny yolk off his feet and all over the couch and me.

  “Bad cat,” I said. Actually, I yelled it loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear. I loved that couch. It was my birthday present to myself. I had chosen it specifically because Thomas’s hair blended in so well with the weave and color that I didn’t have to vacuum it every fifteen seconds. I hadn’t counted on adding bright yellow to the mix.

  With a final shake of his paw, Thomas jumped off my lap and slumped down on my feet, keeping one eye trained on my plate.

  I studied the eggs for a moment, noting the perfect indentations of two little cat feet. Absently removing a couple of cat hairs from my breakfast, I had the eggs halfway to my mouth before I realized what I was doing. I paused, then told myself not even a confirmed cat lover would eat that breakfast. A couple of cat hairs? Sure. Footprints? Definitely not. With a deep sigh, I returned the food to my plate.

  Feeling none too generous toward my feline acrobat, I nudged him off my foot where he left partially dry, egg-colored prints on my slipper. He padded after me into the kitchen, leaving more faint footprints behind him.

  “Sorry, Thomas,” I said, scraping the sorry mess into the garbage. “No toast for either of us this morning.” Then I pulled out an old box of cereal from the back of the cupboard. Thomas eyed me but prudently decided to let me eat in peace.

  As I chomped away on stale cereal, I considered my options. I could stop eating eggs and toast for breakfast, but that would penalize both of us. I could bite the bullet and clean off the dining room table, but it would be covered with papers again within days, if not hours.

  I gave in.

  The next morning when the toaster dinged Thomas watched me remove one-and-a-half pieces of toast. I carefully cut up his half-slice and put the pieces into a bright blue plastic ball with holes that allow the food to come out if the cat bats it around. Now, if Thomas wanted his toast, he was going to have to run for it. I showed him the ball, let him get a good whiff of the toast, and tossed it down the hall.

  As he took off after it, I got my own breakfast ready. Then I sat on the couch — alone — to the soothing sound of plastic bouncing down the hallway, with a large orange cat bounding after it. My eggs and toast had never tasted so good.

  ~Harriet Cooper

  The Cat Who Adopted Me

  Fun fact: Domestic housecats use many vocalizations, including purring, hissing, growling/snarling, grunting, meowing, and trilling. Feral cats are generally silent.

  I was carrying a carton into our new home when I noticed a huge cat with luxurious white fur watching us from the picture window in the house across the street. When my husband, Joe, and I went back for another armload of boxes from the rental van, I noticed that the cat was watching us intently.

  As we grabbed the last boxes I looked across the street and saw that the cat was still watching us. For the next few days it seemed like every time I went outside the cat was in the window watching me. Joe just shrugged his shoulders. “Evidently that is its favorite spot to sit and watch everything that’s going on. You just happen to be in its line of vision, that’s all.” I accepted Joe’s theory and tried to ignore the cat.

  The following Saturday morning Joe went to golf with some of his buddies. I was unpacking boxes in the kitchen when I heard someone knocking. I opened the door and met my neighbor, an elderly woman with hair as white and luxuriant as the cat across the street. She carried a pie, still warm from the oven, and from the heavenly aroma I knew it was apple. She thrust the pie toward me, her huge smile making lovely dimples pop out in her cheeks. She said, “My name is Mary Shumaker. I live across the street.”

  As I invited her in, I realized the big white cat was with her. “Can Chloe come in?” she asked. “She has been watching your house ever since you moved in so I figured she wanted to meet you, too.”

  As we shared coffee and pie, Chloe checked out the house. When her curiosity was finally satisfied, she settled down on the floor at my feet and looked up at me with lovely, huge green eyes. I laughed at the look of satisfaction on her face. “I guess everything meets her approval.”

  Mary laughed, too. “Chloe is a strange but wonderful creature. She has a strong will and a determined mind.”

  When Mary stood to go, she looked a little flustered as Chloe remained on the floor by my chair. “She always gets up to go when she sees me stand.” Mary said. She looked down at Chloe. “Come on Chloe, it’s time to go.” She took a few steps toward the door and looked back at Chloe, who had not even looked in her direction.

  Mary snorted. “So now you’re deaf, are you?” She looked at me. “I told you she was different, but she’s never done this before.” Mary finally had to pick up Chloe and carry her home.

  Chloe had a cat door, and whenever she saw me out in my yard she would appear at my feet, looking up at me with eyes full of adoration. After playing with Chloe for a few minutes I would call Mary and let her know that her cat was visiting me again. This went on for a few months. One morning, Mary said, “I have a cake in the oven that will be done any minute. If you don’t mind having Chloe hang around I’ll just let her come home when she is ready.”

  I had some chores to do so I took Chloe inside with me. When I opened the door to let her go home, she gave a yawn, stretched mightily, and lay down on the rug in front of the fireplace for a nap. I had to pick her up and take her to Mary.

  After that, Chloe never wanted to go back home. I was embarrassed for Mary, who obviously loved Chloe and cared for her very well. Over time it became obvious that Chloe was spending more time with Joe and me than she was at home.

  One evening I went into the basement and found Joe in his workshop building a cat tower for Chloe. I laughed. “You’ve fallen in love with her too, I see.”

  Joe grinned sheepishly. “We didn’t adopt her, she adopted us.”

  The next time Mary came to visit I saw her looking at the cat tower with an odd expression on her face. I patted her hand. “Joe just wanted her to have something to entertain herself with when she is over here. We know she isn’t our cat.”

  Mary dropped her head. “But she is,” she said softly.

  “Oh, Mary…” I began, but she cut me off.

  “It’s okay. I don’t know why Chloe prefers you over me but she obviously does. Maybe she likes being around yo
ung people or maybe…” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter why. This is where she wants to be and I know that you and Joe love her too.”

  Mary took a deep breath and took my hand. “I’m going to give Chloe to you. I feel mean making her come home when she makes it plain that she wants to be here.” Her lips were trembling but she had a determined look on her face. When I started to protest, she held up a hand and shook her head. “My mind is made up. I love Chloe and I know she loves me, too. But that doesn’t mean she can’t be happier somewhere else. I told you she has a mind of her own and she is determined to have her way. That is one of the things I love about her. She can always come back home whenever she wants to. But if you want her she can stay with you as long as she wants to.”

  That is how I came to have a special cat named Chloe reside with me. I won’t say that I own her because she is a cat that can’t be owned. She might decide at some point that she wants to live with Mary again, or perhaps even with someone else. If that day ever comes I hope I will be as big hearted, kind, and understanding as Mary was when she let Chloe stay with me.

  Mary still visits, and when she stands up to leave, Chloe will walk her to the door but that is as far as she will go. She looks up at Mary with wise, gentle eyes as if to say, “I love you still but this is where I belong.”

  And she does… for now.

  ~Elizabeth Atwater

  My Endearing Cat

  Fun fact: According to WebMD, there are about ninety-six million household cats in the United States compared to eighty-three million pet dogs.

  Trapped

  Fun fact: Tough guy Marlon Brando loved cats and was sometimes photographed with them.

  Last year, we lost our cat, Toby. He was a great friend, but cats are also a responsibility and an expense. While not pleased about his death, I was happy to be free of the extra work.

  My wife, Marie, had another opinion. She had had many cats over the years and longed for feline companionship. It didn’t matter that we have two dogs. Having a cat is different.

  However, it takes two to make a marriage. Summoning all of my masculine authority, I made it very clear that under no circumstances was she even to think of getting another cat.

  She tried anyway. I was invited into McPhail’s, the local pet store, to view various kittens on numerous occasions. But I was rock solid. I didn’t flinch. We left the store catless.

  Next came the vet clinic. I got updates on stray cats that needed new homes. My little Mother Teresa of the cat world visited them and told me how we would be a positive influence in their lives. I would assure her that her saintly intentions were mixed with my fiendish, selfish desire not to add any more pets to our household.

  Marie was determined. There was the social pressure. Ann at church asked me why I didn’t want a cat. Marie expressed her desire to many friends, who sometimes glared at me for not giving in. I had no trouble being portrayed as the cruel husband, as long as we didn’t take in a stray. I was in charge and I was sticking to my guns.

  Then it happened! Marie found the perfect excuse. She went to the Mitchell Golf Club with Bonnie to play a practice round for a tournament she had entered. People often drop off unwanted cats, I’m told, at golf courses. This kitten wandered up to Marie and rubbed against her. As she would eventually explain, “He chose me. There were eight other women, and he walked right up to me. I would never have chosen a cat like him.” Right! I didn’t fall for that line.

  He chose her enough for her to call the course the next day, pick him up and hide him in our basement, leaving a can of Pounce on the table to break the news to me gently.

  She’s crafty, though. We went golfing with friends after work. I had planned to go directly to the course, but had forgotten my clubs. Marie didn’t complain when I asked her to bring them in her car. She seemed happy about the idea. Strange.

  After an enjoyable golf game and dinner with our friends, we came home. I saw the Pounce. My first words were, “Where is he?” I announced in a firm voice that he would be out of the house at the earliest possible opportunity. I was angry. How dare she go against my wishes! How important was my opinion in this relationship? I even considered sleeping on the couch. I was upset.

  Then I made the fatal mistake. I crept into the basement to see what the fuss was all about. The huge, friendly eyes of a scrawny cat greeted me. It was obvious that he needed care. I picked him up to see how light he was. He had me at the first purr.

  The next day, I mentioned something about the cat going back, but as I was saying it I knew I didn’t mean it. By evening, I announced that we were keeping the cat, as if it had been my idea all along.

  The final seal of approval was giving him a name. Marie purposely came up with some terrible ones. She’s sly. By giving me naming rights, the cat was sure to stay.

  I struggled to find a name. Then it dawned on me that he was found on the Mitchell Golf Course. His name would be Caddie.

  My only victory in all this? Marie is on poop patrol. Since he is her Caddie, I’m not going to clean the sand traps.

  ~John Stevens

  Magic’s Trick

  Fun fact: A cat pregnancy lasts about sixty-three days. Most mother cats have three to five kittens per litter, but may have up to ten.

  My husband Jim had stepped out onto the front porch to enjoy the cool September morning. And there she was: a beautiful, young black cat — sleek, shiny… and clearly hungry.

  Jim came inside to tell me we needed to figure out what to do with her, since we weren’t going to let her stay with us. Jim had never been a fan of cats.

  I hurried out to the porch. It had been more than forty years since I had a cat to call my own. As a girl, I’d almost always had kittens around, but after marrying I gave them up to please my husband. Seeing this little black beauty begging for food, my heart was instantly won over. I began thinking of names immediately.

  The first name that came to mind was Magic. After all, she was black as a midnight sky, and came to us out of thin air, appearing on top of our little mountain in the middle of nowhere. Thus, it was settled, Magic Cat she was.

  Several months went by, and she settled in just fine, spending many lovely hours on the front porch enjoying the beautiful Ozark fall weather. Winter came, and with it piles of snow. Magic tiptoed through the drifts like a pro, although I was sure it was her first experience with the magical white stuff.

  In the cold winter months, she took up residence in my husband’s new shop building, close to the warm woodstove that he kept burning round the clock. Some days, she could be seen climbing over his fishing boat, sniffing out the corners and sleeping on the deck.

  About February, I began to suspect that we might have kittens on the way. Magic’s little tummy was round and tight, and she was eating enough for two or three cats. I was excited beyond words. To have baby kittens to play with was a miracle to me. Jim, not so much. He grumbled and complained that we would be overrun with cats before we knew it. I just laughed and enjoyed the experience.

  Spring came, and the weeks went by. Magic and I did a lot of porch sitting, and I’d rub her belly, feeling the kittens rolling around inside. We both were waiting for that magical moment when they would be born.

  One warm spring morning, I went out to check on her. She’d been acting strange for a few days, hardly eating and acting anxious. I figured the babies were coming soon. Seeing me, she meowed plaintively. I watched her closely for an hour or so; she soon began looking rather frantic. The next thing I knew she made a beeline for our shop building on the hill. I followed her, hoping to witness the miracle of new birth. I’d read that mother cats picked out their birthing spot several days or even weeks prior to the birth.

  With no hesitation, Magic leaped up onto the bass boat and went straight to the small dark cavern under the steering column. Calling Jim, I alerted him that it appeared we might have a situation. Jim’s bass boat is his pride and joy. I was quite certain he was not going to be happy about hav
ing a batch of kittens born there. By the time he made his way to the shop, the first baby was out. Soon, three more babies were born.

  Jim was stunned that she had picked his boat as the nursery. It was fishing season, after all. The kittens would have to be relocated. He picked up a kitten and moved it to a box lined with soft towels. But Magic wouldn’t allow it. Magic immediately ran to the box, grabbed the kitten in her mouth and took it back to the boat cavity. Jim knew then that it was a lost cause.

  Our Magic Cat was the proud — and very protective mother — of four beautiful, black kittens.

  The bass would have to wait.

  ~Lynette Chambers

  Groundhog Double Trouble

  Fun fact: About one in three thousand calicos is a male, and he carries an extra X chromosome, making him sterile.

  “I don’t want to see that cat in our yard again,” my husband said as he shooed the beautiful calico across the creek and back into the neighbor’s yard.

  “Good luck with that! Cats aren’t like dogs, honey. They are very independent and tend to roam wherever they please, especially if they are mousing.”

  “Well, text our neighbor and let her know I don’t appreciate her cat in our yard.”

  Sighing, I sent off a quick text to our sweet neighbor, Cheryl, informing her of my husband’s dislike of cats.

  “I’ll do my best,” she replied sometime later, “but it’s kind of hard controlling where she goes when I let her outside.”

  The following morning, John stood at the picture window in our bedroom. He’d installed it so that I could watch the birds visiting our feeders.

  So far, it had been the best gift I’d ever received.

  “You aren’t going to believe this,” he murmured. “Come look!”

  Slowly, I approached the window, praying Cheryl’s cat wasn’t on our deck.