My Very Good, Very Bad Cat Read online

  A rough-looking Tabby began making appearances but was a bit skittish about staying around. He was huge and scruffy, and we named him Chestnut for two very large, obvious reasons. Soon, a little black kitten showed up, also very skittish, but would circle back around if food were left out for her. It soon became apparent that whenever Midnight was eating, Chestnut would join her. The tough Tabby and little kitten happily shared whatever was in the dish. Of course, I would then go out with another plate of food so they could both enjoy a meal. I realized that whenever the cute little kitten would come begging for food, Chestnut would be hiding beneath a bush and join her when it arrived.

  It was a pure bait-and-switch scam. I’d feed the little kitty, and the big cat would then move in. The two cats outsmarted me!

  What was really amazing was how well the two got along. Little Midnight always finished her food first, and then shoved Chestnut aside and ate out of his plate. They were an odd couple, but also the best of friends.

  Feral cats rarely come close enough to make human contact, and these two wonderful cats were no exception. The only way they would come to a plate is when I was firmly enclosed back in my habitat. That’s why it was impossible for me to rescue Chestnut when I saw a large, bloody gash on his shoulder. He ran off, never to be seen again. My heart was broken, not only for the injured cat, but also for little Midnight, who lost a good friend and protector. For all we know, Chestnut may have gotten his injury defending his little buddy. What a loyal friend.

  Cats are smarter than people. Not only did those two little scamps fool me with their bait-and-switch routine, but they also taught me a true lesson about selfless love and putting a friend before one’s self. Rest in peace, Chestnut. I’ll keep an eye on your friend for you.

  ~Lynn Maddalena Menna

  A Purrfect Escape Artist

  Fun fact: The first Siamese cat came to the United States in 1878. It was a gift to President Rutherford Hayes’s wife, Lucy, from the U.S. consul in Siam (now Thailand).

  Cats, while being clever animals, are sometimes too clever for their own good. One such feline was my parents’ elegant Siamese named Perky (a testament to his always perfectly perpendicular tail).

  Perky had lived with Mom and Dad for many years; however, due to my parents’ declining health, a move to a seniors’ home became necessary. As Mom and Dad remained quite independent, the appropriate choice was a property where each resident had his/her own apartment but shared a common “great room” and dining room. Many of the residents had small pets, so Perky was free to move in with Mom and Dad. Following the chaos of downsizing and moving my parents, the frightened cat hid under the bed for a few days. However, he soon reappeared, adjusted well, and continued to provide good company and comfort for Mom and Dad.

  Things changed, however. My mother eventually passed away, and Dad had to be moved to more secure housing because he was becoming increasingly forgetful but wasn’t ready for a full-scale Alzheimer’s facility. Instead, we found him a home shared by a handful of other residents with early-stage dementia. Full-time staff monitored this home’s residents and managed their care. To make this facility more home-like, each of the residents’ families was encouraged to bring in personal belongings to help make the home more familiar and comfortable.

  Instead of supplying yet another chair or bookshelf for this home, my two sisters and I wondered if we could donate Perky. The answer was a resounding “yes,” and the cat was warmly welcomed. As cats often do, Perky made himself very much at home in his new surroundings and regally prowled the hallways. Both the residents and staff seemed to appreciate their new houseguest while Perky appreciated the increased number of laps to sit in. This may have been the perfect answer, save for one big problem.

  Perky soon learned he could let himself out of the house. He would stand on his hind paws, reach up, and pull the front door handle down with his front paws. The front door would gently swing open, and Perky would casually saunter outside. A smart move, yes? One might think so; however, while Perky could now open the front door, he could not close it behind him and had absolutely no understanding of the huge safety risk this presented. Unless it was noticed immediately, the home’s open front door was an open invitation for the residents inside, who were prone to wandering away.

  No doubt about it, the cat had to go — and quickly! Thankfully, Perky did not have to be turned over to an animal shelter; my older sister adopted him so he remained with the family. Perky could now go outside in my sister’s back yard whenever he wanted — no assistance required!

  ~Rick Lauber

  The Kleptomaniac Kitty

  Fun fact: Cats are right-pawed or left-pawed just like people are right-handed or left-handed.

  After responding to a Craigslist post, my mom and I made the half-hour drive to adopt three-month-old Suki and her sister Kimi. Their owner met me in the driveway holding Kimi, who was purring happily. Suki, I was informed, was in the process of “being found.” I was handed Kimi and instantly fell in love. It was a good thing the owner had her hands free, because at that moment a little black thing zoomed out of the open front door and headed straight for the street.

  The owner, clearly well practiced in events like these, made one graceful dive, caught Suki by the tail, and lifted the protesting kitten into her arms. “I’ll just hold her until your mom finishes parking the car,” she assured me. “This one can be a bit squirmy.”

  I loved Suki and her lively act of rebellion instantly, but I was fourteen and the decision to adopt the kittens ultimately lay with my mother. I begged the owner not to inform her of Suki’s latest escape attempt. Probably eager to be rid of the “liveliest” kitten in the litter, the owner agreed.

  It didn’t take long for the whole family to realize what we’d gotten ourselves into, but by then it was too late; each of us had fallen in love with Suki. And as long as she would have us as her humans, we’d be honored to have her as our cat.

  True to her free-spirit nature, Suki spent most of her time outdoors roaming the neighborhood. One day, I noticed she was playing with a gray stuffed elephant, and I asked my parents about it. No one in the house had given it to her so we wrote it off as one of the many things about Suki we’d never understand.

  The very next day, there was a stuffed squirrel in her bed, the same size as the elephant. Now it was clear something fishy was going on. Either the manipulative feline had cajoled an innocent cat-lover into providing her with a second set of toys and other luxuries, or an unfortunate pet had fallen victim to our little kleptomaniac. Knowing Suki’s love of rebellion, we suspected the second.

  Every day, Suki added a new stuffed animal to her collection, and she was accumulating quite a zoo. We were at a loss. How could we return them to their rightful owner when we had no idea where the toys were coming from? We weren’t even sure if they belonged to another pet. What if Suki was swiping them from a child?

  The mystery continued for over a week, until we finally made a breakthrough in the case. While sitting at the kitchen table trying desperately to focus on anything but my geometry homework, the corner of my eye caught movement outside the kitchen window. It was Suki, slick as the day she’d escaped from her first home over a year ago, jumping over our back wall and into the neighbor’s yard.

  With her love of adventure and her tendency to treat rules as merely suggestions, I didn’t think anything of it until she reappeared a few moments later with a stuffed turtle clamped firmly in her mouth.

  A-ha! I’d caught her in the act. Now it was time to get to the bottom of this. Despite Suki’s protests, I retrieved the turtle and grabbed a ladder — my alternative to scaling the eight-foot wall my little kleptomaniac kitty had climbed with ease — and peeked into the unfamiliar yard.

  Sure enough, a basket of stuffed animals belonging to some other pet sat at the doorway. We later returned the pilfered goods and learned that their rightful owner was a two-year-old Collie named Randy and his best friend, third-grader Noah.
Apparently, Randy went with Noah’s mom to pick him up from school every afternoon, and recognizing this schedule, Suki took the time to swipe beloved toys from a dog more than four times her size!

  The toys were returned to their rightful owner with no hard feelings and a few good laughs, and that night I had a talk with my furry thief. “Suki,” I told her as I scratched her favorite spot below her chin, “you’re not a bad kitty, but sometimes you make bad choices.” She kept purring as if she was exceptionally pleased with herself. Somehow, I don’t think the lesson sank in. We’re still vigilant — always on the lookout for Suki’s next “adventure.”

  ~Elizabeth Batman

  The Secret Passage

  Fun fact: If you can’t find your cat anywhere in your house, she could be trapped inside an HVAC duct, drop-down ceiling, wall, or sub-basement.

  The house was in a frenzy. All of our out-of-town relatives were arriving, along with my sister’s closest friends. Extra tables were brought in, draped with elegant tablecloths and filled with fancy hors d’oeuvres in pretty dishes. We were hosting a bridal shower for my sister.

  When we hosted parties, we usually let Snickers, our adorable, but un-trainable cat, partake in the festivities. But this time we had to exclude Snickers because Kathy, one of our guests, was afraid of cats.

  It is rare that we have to confine Snickers, but when we do, we usually put her in the basement or in a bedroom. But we figured some of the cousins would want to use the ping-pong table in the main room of the basement, and the house would be so chaotic someone would forget and open the door of any bedroom we tried to put her in. So we decided to fix up a storage room off to the side of the basement with her litter box, food, water and her softest bed.

  Just before Kathy arrived, Mom carried Snickers down to her room and closed the door. But not long after Kathy arrived and walked into the dining room, so did Snickers.

  Fortunately, Mom noticed Snickers before Kathy did, quickly scooped her up, and took her back down to her room.

  “We need to keep Snickers locked up for the party. Don’t open the door to the store room,” Mom called to all of us as she came back upstairs. She figured that one of us kids must have opened that door and that was how Snickers got out.

  But just a few minutes later, we heard Kathy say “Eek, a cat!” Sure enough, Mom looked and saw that indeed, Snickers was back!

  Now Mom was embarrassed and apologized profusely to Kathy. She had told all of us that this guest was afraid of cats. Was this someone’s idea of a mean joke?

  “Who keeps letting the cat out?” Mom hollered in exasperation when she saw Snickers.

  When all of us kids swore we hadn’t let her out, Dad decided to stand watch outside the door. He didn’t have to watch long before he saw Snickers walking in the ceiling rafters which extended above the door of the storage room and led right out into the main room of the basement. When she made it out to the main room, she just jumped down to the floor and ran upstairs!

  When Dad reported this, everyone, including Kathy laughed. We had lived in this house for eighteen years, ten years longer than Snickers, and we never knew about this secret passage in the ceiling rafters. When we saw it, we were also amazed that Snickers had jumped so high.

  Ever since this incident, I look at Snickers with an increased sense of wonder. I always imagined that she just slept all day while we were at school and work, and I am still sure she does a lot of that. But I wonder if she also takes advantage of this time alone to explore every nook and cranny of her world. If she could talk, I would love to ask her what else she knows about this house that we don’t.

  As for that bridal shower, and every event thereafter when we needed to confine Snickers, we went back to locking her into the main room of the basement. She hasn’t found a secret passage upstairs from this room, at least not yet.

  ~Allison Nastoff

  My Therapist Cat

  Fun fact: There are several organizations that certify pet therapy teams. Pet Partners’ Therapy Animal Program is one of the largest in the U.S., and the organization has been training volunteers nationwide since 1990.

  Kitty Bites

  Not-so-fun fact: About 40,000 people in the United States are bitten by cats each year.

  When he was younger, there was nothing my cat, Mr. Meow, enjoyed more than wrestling with me. He’d seek me out with this look in his eyes that said, “You ready to play, Mom? Because I am!”

  The second I got up, he’d dash to the pop-up cube (“hut”) that he liked to hide in. I’d throw one of his little toy balls on top, and he’d punch the roof to send it flying off. When I’d reach down to pick it up to throw it again, he’d lunge out and grab onto my arm, biting and kicking me. Or “wrestling,” as I called it.

  “How can you let him do that?” my husband would often ask, appalled.

  It looked much more vicious than it felt. It didn’t hurt. Not usually. Mr. Meow didn’t have front claws, only back ones. He mostly used the pads of his paws, not his claws, when he kicked. And he mostly just mouthed me and didn’t sink his teeth in when he bit.

  Of course, he did get carried away sometimes. He’d get so swept up in the frenzy of playing, he’d forget to be gentle.

  “Owie Meowie!” I’d say to let him know when he bit or scratched too hard or drew blood. He’d respond by taking it down a notch.

  It was actually our wrestling matches that gave me the courage to face my biggest fear: needles.

  “Fear” is perhaps too tame of a word for how I viewed needles. I had an extreme case of needle phobia. It came with lots of drama — tears, profuse sweating, nausea, diarrhea and fainting. It was usually in that order and rapid-fire, one symptom right after the other.

  It was humiliating and embarrassing. I was a grown woman, for goodness sake. I should have had better control of myself!

  For most of my life, I’d been able to avoid needles as much as possible. Then I was diagnosed with cancer. It quickly became clear that routine injections and blood draws were inevitable.

  Most nurses were sympathetic and tried to do everything possible to assuage my needle-phobia symptoms. The nurses at my oncologist’s office quickly realized that lying me down helped with the nausea, diarrhea and fainting. I still cried and sweated, but it beat them having to worry about me falling over and breaking open my head.

  For a couple of months, chemo left me too sick to play with Mr. Meow, which he seemed to sense. He’d never been a particularly snuggly cat, but during my chemo days he’d perch on my chest for hours.

  One of the first times I felt better enough to wrestle with him, he bit too hard. I realized his teeth hurt more than most of the needles I had to deal with.

  “How come I can handle you biting me, Mr. Meow? I don’t experience all the chaos I do when I get shots.”

  His answer? He grabbed me tighter and bit harder. It was so hard that he drew blood — and quite a lot of it.

  “Yowie Meowie!” I hollered, quickly rushing to tend to my wound.

  As I cleaned myself up, I thought about how much his teeth puncturing my skin still hurt afterwards. It was rare for shots to hurt me like that.

  And blood draws? As Melissa, the phlebotomist at my oncologist’s office, said before she’d stick me, “Get ready for the bee sting in three, two, one…”

  They usually weren’t much more than a bee sting, either. Just a quick little prick.

  Yet, I didn’t much like bees either. They conjured up images of suffering, too.

  But my cat? He conjured up happy feelings of fun times.

  I decided the next time I had my blood drawn, I was going to tell myself “Kitty Bites” and see if it helped.

  A couple of days later, I got the chance to put my theory to the test when I went in for my three-week checkup. The familiar anxious feelings were fluttering in my stomach. Tears welled in my eyes.

  Melissa took me to a room and lay me down. As she got ready to put in the needle, I closed my eyes and repeated silently ove
r and over, “Kitty bites. Kitty bites. Kitty bites.”

  “All done,” she said. “Wow, I’m impressed. No tears today. What gives?”

  “Wait, what? You’re done?” I asked, incredulous. I hadn’t felt a thing! I didn’t even feel sick afterward.

  I couldn’t wait to get home and tell Mr. Meow. Of course, he couldn’t understand me. All he wanted to do was wrestle, and I happily obliged.

  It wasn’t long before I was able to sit in a chair and have my blood drawn — sans tears, nausea, diarrhea, or fainting.

  Needles to this day are still not my favorite thing. However, as long as I repeat “Kitty bites” and think of Mr. Meow when being poked, I can handle it.

  ~Courtney Lynn Mroch

  Angel

  Fun fact: All Tabby cats have a distinct M-shaped mark on their forehead.

  On the way home from the hospital, I stopped at the hardware shop and bought the rope. I discreetly camouflaged it behind a rug in the boot of the car. I was just about to slam it shut when my neighbour appeared by my side.

  “Becky? How are you?” she asked.

  “Feeling much better, thanks,” I lied.

  I’d just been discharged from St. Michael’s psychiatric hospital. It had been my sixth admission, and I only ever seemed to come out marginally improved. It seemed pointless to tell her the truth, that I was worse than ever. I remember thinking that if I’d been in a general hospital and been diagnosed with heart disease or cancer, I’d probably have gotten a more sympathetic ear. All I had was plain old depression — an invisible cross that had weighed heavily on my shoulders for two decades.

  “If you need anything…” she patted me on the shoulder.

  “Just ask. I know…” I said in my head, getting into the car.

  It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. My malaise was mine, and mine alone.