My Very Good, Very Bad Cat Read online

  “Good grief,” I gasped. Seated side by side, right in the center of our deck, were two enormous groundhogs. We’d observed groundhogs before, especially since our back yard backs up to a wooded area, but never had they been as bold as these two.

  John raised the window, and the two raced across the yard and into the woods.

  That evening, I happened to glance out the picture window. A hummingbird sipped nectar, twirling around the feeder we’d hung under the eaves. Then something caught my eye in the flowerbed beyond.

  “John, come quick!” Hurriedly, he entered the bedroom just in time to see one of the groundhogs munching on the red dianthus flowers we’d planted around the water fountain. “Why, it’s eaten every single blossom!”

  Again, John lifted the window, and the groundhog made a beeline for the woods.

  “Hmmm, I better look up groundhogs on the computer and see just how destructive they can be.”

  Before he left the room, however, he heard me gasp.

  “Look!”

  Across the yard, we’d planted a vegetable garden. We’d taken great pains to enclose the rows and rows of plants in chicken wire. Nevertheless a groundhog sat in the center of the garden, munching on a stalk of celery.

  “How did he get in there?” I squeaked.

  “He burrowed a hole right underneath,” John replied angrily. “That does it… something’s got to be done!”

  I watched my six-foot-four Marine stalk off toward the computer, silently praying he wouldn’t return to see the groundhog now devouring the lettuce.

  “Hmmm, that’s interesting…” John stared intently at the computer screen in the other room.

  “What is it?”

  “Says here that groundhogs do not like cats… in fact, they detest the scent of soiled kitty litter.”

  I thought about the absence of our neighbor’s cat lately.

  “You know, I haven’t seen Cheryl’s cat mousing in our yard for some time. I wonder if that’s the reason these critters have gotten so brave.”

  John sheepishly glanced in my direction. “You might have something there. Why don’t you text Cheryl and let her know the cat ban has been removed.”

  I couldn’t help chuckling as I wandered into the bedroom in search of my cell phone.

  That evening, we spotted the sweet yellow calico roaming the border of our woods in search of mice.

  The groundhogs were nowhere in sight.

  “It’s a beautiful evening, isn’t it?” My husband smiled as we sat on the back porch. The sunset painted the sky pink, purple and gold.

  I couldn’t help sighing contentedly. Cheryl’s cat meowed in the distance. “You might say it’s absolutely purrfect!”

  ~Mary Z. Whitney

  Miracle in the Cornfield

  Fun fact: According to the American Veterinary Medical Association, forty-four percent of pet owners in the United States have more than one kind of pet, most commonly cats and dogs.

  The last thing I needed was a cat. I was a twenty-eight-year-old single parent, with an eight-year-old son and a dog. But my son, Ryan, had been pleading with me for years to get a cat to go along with our dog Red. Ryan even had a name picked out for the cat — Zipper.

  Every time Ryan brought up the topic of getting a cat, I would tell him that it wouldn’t be fair to Red to get a cat. Red wouldn’t like having a cat in the house. I wasn’t being very strategic, because I never had any other excuses!

  Then one rainy night we were visiting friends who lived in the country in the middle of a cornfield. They had three dogs of their own, and I had brought Red with us. When I heard a strange noise at our friends’ front door I opened it to find a wet kitten looking up at me. Before I could stoop to pick it up, it scooted past me into the warmth of the house and right into the path of our friends’ three large, menacing dogs.

  I was totally unprepared for what happened in the next few seconds. Without any hesitation, Red came to the kitten’s defence with an unprecedented display of aggression. He stood over the kitten and kept growling and baring his teeth until our friends managed to gather their dogs and lock them in a bedroom. Once Red was confident that the other dogs were no longer a threat, he calmly proceeded to lick the kitten and mother it like it was his own offspring.

  Ryan was elated. “Look, Mum! It’s Zipper, and Red likes him!” he squealed as he jumped up and down with excitement. I watched my single excuse for not having a cat evaporate into thin air.

  While part of me wanted to think of Red as a traitor, it was hard not to be touched by his tender display of affection for this lost kitten. It was also not possible to ignore the look of sheer bliss on the kitten’s face as Red licked the rain off its fur with his warm tongue.

  I’ll always remember the drive home the next day. Normally, Ryan would be seatbelted in the back, and Red would ride shotgun beside me on the passenger seat. We were barely out of the driveway when Red jumped into the backseat to take up his position beside Ryan, who was cradling his newly beloved Zipper. So that’s how Zipper became part of our family for the next seventeen years.

  We never did find out how Zipper ended up at a house in the middle of a cornfield on the only night we ever stayed there, but it was clear from the start that Ryan, Red and Zipper were meant to be together.

  The dog and cat were instant best friends, and Zipper learned as much about how to be a dog as he was able to from Red. He learned to beg, never jumped up on the kitchen counters or table, and even tagged along on Red’s evening walks. I was important to Zipper only because I had the ability to open cat-food tins and change the litter box.

  Ryan was Zipper’s special person. He trusted that Ryan would never drop him no matter how awkwardly he was being toted around the house. He slept on Ryan’s bed while he was at school and again during the night. And while he would never lie on his back for anyone else, he was at his most contented when he was in that position on Ryan’s lap having his tummy rubbed.

  In 1994, Ryan, Red, Zipper and I all moved into a new house that my future husband, Dave, and I had bought in Richmond Hill, Ontario. Although Dave was allergic to cats, he assured Ryan that Zipper was welcome in our new home. However, watching Dave live in a constant state of allergic reaction was not easy, and by the end of our second week of living together, Ryan admitted that he was ready to find Zipper a new home. Considering how much he loved his cat, I was touched that he’d come to this decision on his own.

  I thought Dave would have been hugely relieved when Ryan told him about his plans for Zipper, but Dave, with red eyes and a drippy nose, said that Zipper was part of our family, and he would eventually get used to him. While he never became totally immune to the cat, Dave did become less reactive to Zipper over time, and they developed their own special relationship. And when Ryan moved out of the house four years later, Dave became Zipper’s new special person.

  As Red aged, Zipper took to sleeping beside him during the day and often acted as his hearing aid. When Red died in 1999, Zipper was beyond distraught. He would sit on our stairs and yowl inconsolably as if his wanting Red so badly would bring him back to life. After a few weeks, Zipper got on with his life by simply attaching himself more closely to Dave, who would patiently pat him with his foot and share his food with him.

  Oddly enough, sometimes the best things that come into our lives are the ones we think we want the least. I hadn’t wanted a cat, but I wouldn’t trade my seventeen years with Zipper for anything. I am eternally grateful that he found his way to us at our friends’ house in the middle of a cornfield on that rainy night.

  ~Laura Snell

  Another Baby Boy

  Fun fact: Baby rabbits are also called “kittens” or “kits” — not bunnies!

  I’m crazy about him. I think about him all the time. When we’re apart, I check my watch frequently, counting down the hours till he’s in my arms again. I’m constantly buying little gifts just to surprise him. Friends say he’s all I talk about.

  His name
is Milo. We adopted him two weeks ago, and I’m amazed at how wonderful it feels to have a baby in the house again. You’d think with four sons, ages nineteen to nine, the last thing I’d want is another boy. But when I picked up Milo, he sighed deeply and snuggled into my arms, and I was smitten.

  “Uh-oh,” said my husband, Derek. This newest addition, just like our other boys, is all his fault. Our two-month-old fluffy ball of black-and-white fur might still be languishing in a cage if Derek hadn’t gone to PetSmart on an errand for his mother. The Humane Society was sponsoring a pet adoption weekend at the store. I’d talked about wanting a cat for quite a while — a female. “It’d be nice to have another girl around the house,” I’d said.

  With that in mind, Derek had spotted a one-year-old, elegant, blue-eyed, white cat. Like all pets at the event, she’d already been spayed, and her immunizations were up-to-date. So, later that evening, we loaded the family in the van to take a look at her. She was indeed a lovely lady, but as I wandered down the double row of metal cages, a hyperactive kitty caught my eye. He was literally bouncing off the walls.

  “My goodness!” I said. “This little guy needs Ritalin.” He jumped. He hopped. He spun in circles. In short, he was just like the rest of the boys in my house.

  “No,” Derek said. “Not that one.”

  Even nine-year-old Sam seemed leery. “Too wild,” he pronounced.

  I dutifully looked at the other cats, but I couldn’t help wondering if all Milo’s frantic activity was just a desperate plea for attention. “I want to hold him,” I said.

  “Not a good idea,” Derek replied. But a store employee unlocked Milo’s cage. I picked him up, fully expecting him to squirm or scratch or climb up my hair, but instead he laid his head on my shoulder and sighed.

  The boys each took a turn holding Milo, who seemed to relish the loving pats and soft murmurs. “Okay, let’s put him back and cuddle some of these calmer cats,” Derek urged. But when I placed Milo back in his cage, he gave a piteous meow and reached his paw through the door.

  “That’s it,” said fourteen-year-old Zack. “I’m bonded to this kitty. He’s the one for us.”

  I stood in front of Milo’s cage, and he stretched both paws out to me and cried. I looked at Derek. The boys looked at Derek. He sighed. “Who wants to help me pick out a bed for Milo?”

  While they shopped for kitty supplies, I filled out the adoption paperwork. I signed more release forms for this cat than I did when my children were born.

  At last, we were able to take Milo (and $200 worth of accessories) home. Already, it seems like he’s always been part of our family. And while everyone loves him, Milo and I share a special bond — a bond that has some family members concerned. Everyone except Sam found it worrisome when I gave Milo a middle name. “How else will he know he’s in trouble?” Sam asked. “When Mom says, ‘Milo James, come here!’ he’ll know he’d better hurry.”

  One evening as I rocked him to sleep (Milo loves lullabies), his brothers sat on the couch across from us. “I get it,” Zack said. “You really just wanted another baby.”

  “No, I didn’t,” I replied. Just then Milo woke and stretched and patted my cheek with his tiny paw. “Oh, there’s Mama’s biggity, biggity boy,” I crooned.

  “She used to say that to me,” Sam observed.

  “Yeah, well, you’re not the baby anymore,” seventeen-year-old Alex replied.

  “I’m a big brother, though. I’ve never been a big brother before!”

  “We are not his brothers. We’re his owners,” Zack clarified.

  Derek walked into the room as Milo buried his face in my hair and began purring loudly. “I’m worried,” he announced. “I think you wanted a cat because Ethan moved out. When the next boy moves out, you’ll want another kitten. Soon, it’ll be just me and the lady with four cats.”

  “And your point is?” I asked.

  “Just tell me: Are you going to replace me with a cat?”

  My sister-in-law reassured my husband. “Don’t be too concerned unless she starts dressing him up.”

  Listen, Milo likes his itty-bitty Mariners cap.

  ~Cindy Hval

  Meatball and the Chipmunks

  Fun fact: Some cats don’t recognize certain animals as food because they haven’t been taught to eat them. They just like to play with their prey because it moves.

  “Mom, there’s a black cat on the front porch,” my kids said when they came in from school one afternoon. “I know. He was sitting there when I went out to get the mail,” I said. “He started purring and rubbing against my legs.”

  “We need to feed him, Mom,” my daughter said.

  “I already did.”

  She frowned. “Did you have any cat food?”

  “No, but I had some meatballs left from last night’s dinner,” I said. “He sure liked them.”

  “You fed him meatballs?” my daughter said, and at the same moment, my son said, “We should name him Meatball!”

  “Guys, let’s not get too attached to this cat,” I cautioned. “He just appeared on the porch this morning, and he may be gone tomorrow. We don’t know if he’s a stray or if he already has a home. So let’s not get attached to him.”

  But they didn’t listen. My kids spent hours on the porch that evening playing with their new pet. They came in and asked me for old towels and a cardboard box so they could build him a bed.

  I was worried that they’d be heartbroken when the cat was gone in the morning, but Meatball was waiting on the porch, ready to rub his head on whoever would stand still long enough to allow it. That morning, the kids nearly missed the bus because they were so busy playing with the cat.

  And when twelve-year-old Julia got off the school bus that afternoon, she couldn’t wait to tell me what her friend had said about Meatball’s name. “I told Chloe that we named the cat Meatball because that was the first thing we fed him, and she said, ‘Well, it’s a good thing your mom didn’t do that with you.’ When I asked why, she said, ‘Think about it, Jules. What was the first thing your mom fed you?’ ” Julia laughed and said, “Oh my goodness, Mom, my name would be Breast Milk!”

  I shook my head and laughed. Silly girls.

  The days went on, and Meatball stayed. And despite my warnings to the kids not to get attached, I found myself falling in love with this stray cat.

  We invited Meatball into the house, but he was only content to stay inside for short periods of time. When he wanted out, he’d sit by the front door and meow until someone opened the door for him.

  One day, I went to the door to see if Meatball was ready to come back inside when I saw him darting through our yard, zigzagging back and forth.

  “What is Meatball doing?” one of the kids asked. “He looks like he’s chasing something.”

  “He probably found a mouse,” I said. But when I went outside, I discovered that it wasn’t a mouse he was chasing, but a chipmunk.

  I was concerned that Meatball would kill the chipmunk, so I attempted to chase it into the woods behind our house where I doubted Meatball would follow. But the more I chased the chipmunk, the more Meatball chased me. The three of us darted around the yard until I was sure my children were cracking up if they were watching from the window.

  I ran out of energy before Meatball did, and he eventually caught the chipmunk. He smacked his paw on the chipmunk’s back, and the animal flipped over onto its back. It squealed and I cringed, waiting for the cat to eat it. Instead, Meatball licked it once and then lifted his paw, setting it free. The chipmunk jumped up, and the chase began all over again.

  He caught the chipmunk for a second time, and the same thing happened. Meatball wasn’t hunting the chipmunk. They were playing. And it was hilarious to witness.

  A few days later, I saw Meatball zigzagging through the yard again. I called for my children to come and watch. “He’s playing with that chipmunk again,” I called.

  We all went out into the yard and watched their game. The kids and I we
re laughing and chasing them until, quite abruptly, the game stopped.

  The chipmunk had run toward our wall of landscaping bricks and squeezed into a hole between the bricks. And Meatball had followed.

  The chipmunk fit into the hole; Meatball did not.

  By the time I caught up to them, Meatball had wedged his head into the hole. “His head is stuck,” my kids reported.

  I tugged on his body and realized that he was indeed stuck. I could hear the chipmunk squealing from inside the hole, and Meatball howling and squirming in response.

  “Quick, guys, help me pull down these bricks,” I said. “We can make the hole bigger and free Meatball.”

  We pulled down several of the landscaping bricks until Meatball wriggled free. He had a few scratches on his head and face. I tried to grab him to clean his wounds, but at that same moment, the chipmunk popped out of the hole and ran away. Meatball darted after him, and their game began again.

  Meatball and the neighborhood chipmunks have formed an unlikely friendship. He allows them to eat out of his food dish, and I’ve even caught glimpses of them snuggling on our front porch.

  My children have even named Meatball’s chipmunk friends. They call them Cat Food, since that’s the first thing we fed them.

  ~Diane Stark

  Reprinted by permission of Bruce Robinson

  The Calico Puppy

  Fun fact: Kittens enter their primary socialization period at two–three weeks of age. This is when the brain is primed for attachment to other beings.

  We have no idea when Poppy, our Golden Retriever, had her rendezvous but by mid-summer it was quite evident that she had been naughty. When our vet confirmed that Poppy would soon present us with a litter of grand-puppies we were at first stunned but that soon gave way to excitement. Since we had no idea whom our naughty girl had seduced we were eager to see what her pups would look like.

  On the Fourth of July the local fireworks were forgotten when Poppy went into labor. Leave it to Poppy to upstage the annual celebration. The sound of distant fireworks heralded in the birth of her three pups. Their parental lineage still escaped us. One short-haired male was brown and white, his brother had a long silky coat like Poppy but was black, and their sister looked a lot like Poppy, right down to her golden fur. Tired but exhausted, Poppy beamed first at her babies at then at us, clearly delighted in the fuss we were making over her and her pups.