My Very Good, Very Bad Cat Read online

In my self-absorption, I forgot to thank her for looking after Angel, my five-year-old Tabby cat. Mind you, there wasn’t much minding to be done when it came to Angel. While I spent long spells of time inside, she spent most of hers outside. Still, we were two of a kind. We lived together, but we weren’t living. Not really.

  In the kitchen, I ran my hand under the tap, but no water came out. Reality kicked in faster than a Serena Williams serve. The taps in St. Michael’s had electric eyes and only released water in short bursts — a safety precaution designed to deter those considering drowning. I wasn’t in there anymore. I was back home. As I turned the handle to open the tap, I heard that familiar voice in my head:

  “You’re as good as institutionalized, dear.”

  I didn’t disagree.

  My family hadn’t visited me once during my incarceration. Judging by the disapproving glares from Angel, she’d had enough, too. I could see her nose pressed firmly against the cat-flap entrance outside. I reluctantly lifted the plastic screen, and she crawled in. I filled her bowls with fresh food and water, hoping she’d allow me to pet her. As soon as my hand went out, Angel flinched.

  “What am I going to do with you, Angel?” I sighed, but my words fell into the empty space she left behind as she fled from me.

  In fairness to Angel, she had good reason to be disappointed in me. When I’d adopted her from the local cat rescue home, she had undoubtedly hoped for a better life than her old one. She’d been abandoned and badly abused and didn’t take kindly to physical contact from any human being. She wasn’t the prettiest of kittens either. Her left ear was missing, and her belly was almost bald. She’d literally torn out her hair. The vet told me it was a nervous habit. Poor Angel was all out of trust, and nobody wanted her. Angel and I had so much in common. I’d walked in her paws many times.

  I’d been thinking a lot about giving her away to a better home. It would have been the decent thing to do. I’d been away so much due to my recurring bouts of depression, it felt wrong to keep holding on to her. Despite all the years I had spent trying to heal Angel’s trauma, she remained unresponsive. I could relate to that. When I looked at Angel, all I could see was my own troubled future. I didn’t want to see it anymore.

  I’d practised with the rope before, so I knew what I was doing. As I wound it around the sturdy attic beam, my conviction grew. My family had suffered enough. I could never give them back the days they had spent worrying about me. My illness had robbed them of the one thing they needed the most — peace of mind. I was going to give it back to them. I had to touch death in order for them to feel alive again. I loved them that much.

  I climbed up onto the old, rickety chair from the dining room. The double knot of the rope felt comfortable around my neck. I gave it a little tug just to make sure it was secure and tight. My feet were a full foot from the floor. I rocked the chair from side to side as I offered up a final prayer for forgiveness. I closed my eyes and readied myself to kick the chair away. I was scared I’d fail, and of all my options, failure was not one of them. I started to count. One. Two. Three…

  Suddenly, Angel was clinging to my left leg, wailing and crying. Her claws dug into me, tearing through my clothes and slicing into my skin. I looked down at her and then back up at the rope. It was clear she needed to go to the toilet and wanted to get out through the cat flap.

  I tried to shoo her away, but the more I did, the more agitated she became. I couldn’t leave her like that. It wouldn’t be long before she went into some corner and peed there. That would be degrading for her. I didn’t like the thoughts of her watching what I was doing either. She’d had more than her fair share of suffering already. Reluctantly, I slid the rope from my neck and climbed down from the chair.

  “Angel,” I sighed, walking down the stairs. “You sure know how to pick your moments.”

  I opened the screen door of the cat flap for her to go through.

  “Go on then,” I encouraged her, but Angel sat down by my heel and didn’t move an inch.

  Suddenly, I felt very tired and walked upstairs to my bedroom. I passed the hanging rope on the landing, a grim reminder of my aborted mission. I’ll try again later, I thought to myself, as I lay down on my bed. Angel crawled up on my chest and spread herself right across my body. She’d never done anything like that before.

  I was so taken by surprise and overcome with joy that I lay frozen and still. I was aware that any movement from me might cause her to leap in fright. I cried as I felt her breath against my face, her paws possessively clinging to my shoulders. I was so startled by her uncharacteristic behaviour that I forgot about everything else.

  Eventually, I fell into a deep sleep. When I awoke the following morning, Angel was still there, huddled close to my chest and purring gently in my ear. It was only then I remembered that the cat-litter tray was where it had always been — at the bottom of the stairs and not outside. She hadn’t needed to go out. She was truly trying to save me.

  As the new day dawned, so did the miracle. It was the day Angel lived up to her name. It was the day I realized we all have a purpose, and it was the day I chose to live again.

  ~Catherine Barry

  The Scar

  Fun fact: Cats don’t actually “sharpen” their claws. When they scratch on furniture, they are stripping away worn layers from the claw to reveal a fresh layer.

  “Since this is such a beautiful day and it’s Saturday,” Jerry said, reaching for the hairdryer, “why don’t you fix a picnic lunch while I run a few errands, and then we can drive up into the mountains? Maybe toss our lines in the lake and catch a few fish for dinner?”

  As my husband and I planned our day, our large tuxedo cat, El Gato Gordo, purred softly in my arms, gazing lazily at the lush green trees through our upstairs master bath window.

  When Jerry turned on the dryer, Gato bolted in panic. In his hurry to escape, Gato’s claws ripped the soft flesh on the underside of my lower left arm. The cut was deep and bled profusely. After stopping the bleeding and inspecting it closely, we decided no stitches were required. Jerry helped me treat and dress the wound while I insisted no amount of discomfort would interfere with our day’s plans. He left, and I began searching for Gato.

  “Gato!” I called, several times, but there was no answer. Since cats are so intelligent and sensitive to human emotions, I wondered if perhaps he felt my shock at being scratched and feared I was unhappy with him.

  Finally, I found him huddling beneath the stairwell, wide-eyed and trembling. I picked him up gently, favoring my bandaged arm. As I held Gato close, I felt the wild thumping of his heart. Kissing him on the head, I whispered, “It’s okay, sweetheart. It was just an accident. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me.” I sat on the stairs holding and stroking him in my lap until he relaxed. Finally satisfied that he was over his trauma, I released him and started preparing for our afternoon outing.

  I dashed to the store for some chips and dip, and while waiting in the checkout line I met the husband of a neighbor who lived at the end of our street.

  “What happened to your arm?” he asked, noting the bandage.

  After I explained, he responded with raised brow, “I tell you one thing, if that had happened to me, that would be one dead cat!”

  Horrified, I said, “It was an accident! He didn’t deliberately hurt me — he was just frightened.”

  “I don’t care whether it was an accident or not, I’d get rid of that cat!”

  Driving home, I thought angrily, “Well, it’s obvious he’s no cat lover!”

  Several weeks later, the wound was completely healed, but in its place was a prominent white curved scar — almost three inches in length.

  Early one morning as Jerry and I sat enjoying our freshly ground vanilla-nut coffee, he glanced at my arm and said, “I’m so sorry, honey. Maybe the scar will fade with time, and you won’t even be able to see it.”

  I surprised him with my response. “I hope it never goes away! I want to always have this sca
r — as a reminder.”

  “Why on earth would you want to remember that Gato scratched you? Are you mad at him?” he asked, eyes wide. Gato, dozing in the corner, raised his head at hearing his name.

  “Of course not!” I responded, blowing Gato a kiss.

  Then I related the comments made by our neighbor’s husband and how it got me to thinking.

  “Seeing this scar will remind me that, yes, I suffered a minor injury, but it wasn’t about me — it was about Gato and what prompted his action. Gato would never deliberately hurt me. His lashing out at me was a reaction — not a malicious intent — because he was suddenly frightened and felt threatened. People can do the same.”

  I refreshed my cup, inhaling its sweet aroma. After adding more half-and-half with sweetener, I took another bite of my cinnamon roll.

  “How so?” Jerry asked, eyeing the last doughnut on the plate.

  “Cutting remarks can sometimes be made by those closest to us — someone we trust and feel safe with — and I want to remember that. Shouldn’t a friend be given the same compassionate understanding as a pet? Just as I wouldn’t think of getting rid of Gato because he hurt me, neither should I immediately react by getting rid of a friend.”

  Jerry nodded as he gave in and took the doughnut.

  “Rather than taking offense,” I continued, “wouldn’t it be better to learn what prompted their out-of-character action? Maybe their response was due to something totally unrelated to us, and they simply reacted out of fear, insecurity or pent-up frustration — by lashing out at whoever was the nearest.”

  Setting down his cup, Jerry reached for my hand and clasped it gently. “You mean like the other day when everything had gone wrong at the office, and I came home and rudely lashed out at you? Oh, I know I later apologized, but it had to have cut you deeply at the time — it was so unlike me,” he said, eyes watering. Releasing my hand, he took my arm and gently caressed the scar. With a boyish grin, he said, “I noticed how you looked at your scar after my inconsiderate comment, and I wondered why — after all, it was healed. You never retaliated or lashed back at me in response, but the tears in your eyes said it all. Now I know why.”

  That was decades ago, and since that time both Gato and my husband have passed on. But just as I wished, my scar still remains. I thank God that although it has faded, it is still visible. It is an ever-present reminder that validates an old proverb, “A friend loves at all times.”

  And since I am a friend lover as well as a cat lover, it helps me to resist the temptation to kill a friendship over a self-defensive swipe or an unintentional wound.

  ~Kitty Chappell

  Mother Love

  Fun fact: In order to be fertile, cats require at least ten hours of light a day.

  From the moment a child enters the world, the mother knows she will do whatever it takes to protect her child — even giving her life if she is called upon to do so. One of the strongest and most courageous examples of Mother Love I ever saw was demonstrated, brilliantly, by our feral cat, Miss Henrietta. It happened a number of years ago. Our family of four resided in the old McClew farmhouse in the small town of Burt, New York, three miles south of the Lake Ontario shore.

  Along with purchasing the 125-year-old farmhouse and orchards, we inherited a beautiful, golden-colored German Shepherd named Sandy and two female barn cats. I became especially attached to the beautiful, black-and-white feral I came to call Miss Henrietta. Our other cat, Matilda, was much more aloof than Henrietta and not at all interested in any kind of relationship with us.

  We were told Matilda and Henrietta had lived outdoors all their lives. They were used to being on their own. However, we still provided them with daily food and water, and also took them to the vet for checkups and vaccinations. They more than earned their keep by helping to control the rodent population in our barn, certainly a greener alternative than using toxic poisons.

  Both cats had minds of their own. Each knew exactly what she wanted and what she did not want. For example, I was certain that friendlier Henrietta would want to live inside our cozy farmhouse, but I was wrong. She had no interest in staying in our home and let us know that. When I brought her inside to feed her, she would hightail it out the kitchen door if someone opened it, not even finishing her meal. She did, however, accept us fixing up a warm and cozy home for her on the second floor of our barn.

  When my small boys, Chrissy and Timmy, were outside with me, Miss Henrietta purred when she saw the three of us coming toward her and often followed us on our excursions around the farm. I took those soft, soothing sounds as a greeting — like she was saying to us, “Hello, happy to see you again.” One day, she surprised us all with a gift — a frog she had caught near our pond. I broke into a big smile, realizing this was a sure sign she was becoming fond of us. After all, you only give gifts to those dearest to you.

  One day, this independent feline finally let us pet her — a real breakthrough. She actually seemed to like our affectionate behavior. However, if a relative or friend came for a visit, Miss Henrietta was nowhere in sight. She only responded favorably to our little family — no one else.

  I have so many happy memories from our five years on the farm. I learned many lessons about country living, as well as life lessons from our farm animals. One of those “animal lessons” happened during a short period when we had auctions. People would drop off articles they wanted to sell, and we would keep everything in our barn until there were enough items collected to warrant an auction. We would then hire an auctioneer and make all the arrangements necessary for a successful event.

  I remember one particular auction that turned out to be the largest sale we had at the farm. People came from as far away as Kansas. My husband and I, of course, wanted everything to run smoothly.

  The Friday before the big Sunday afternoon event was a beautiful, sunny day. My boys and I were outdoors having a grand time exploring the farm grounds. I heard a truck pull up in our driveway and immediately recognized our neighbor, Doug Bottom, who was bringing over last-minute auction goods.

  Doug had brought a friend along to assist with the unloading. My boys and I quit our exploring to watch what was happening. We noticed Doug’s two German Shepherd dogs had come along. They were beautiful, lively dogs, running all over the place and exploring the new surroundings.

  Miss Henrietta had just given birth to four adorable kittens. The birthing had taken place in her warm, safe living area on the second floor of the barn. Mama cat was extremely protective of these little ones, as well she should be. And though she would let our family near her new babies, she did not want anyone else hanging around them.

  When I saw one of Doug’s dogs begin to race up the barn steps to the second floor, I immediately thought of the kittens’ safety. I started running in the direction of the stairs, but Miss Henrietta was well ahead of me. She had already sensed the possibility of danger to her little ones and was now in “protect” — or should I say “attack” — mode. To Henrietta, those two words meant the same thing.

  That fierce mother cat, about one-eighth the size of one of those dogs, hurtled down the stairs, two at a time, screeching loudly and looking quite ferocious. Miss Henrietta leaped onto the back of the intruding dog, burying her claws deeply into the shocked animal. Our German Shepherd visitor, now scared to death, howled in pain. Before you could say “lickety-split,” both of Doug’s dogs were speeding back to the safety of his truck. Once Henrietta saw the danger had passed, she went back to tending her babies.

  Henrietta in action was something I will always remember. Because her babies were in danger, no mountains were too high to cross, no oceans were too deep to swim, and no German Shepherd was too powerful to tackle.

  I never really understood that kind of protective love until I became a mom. Once that happened, I knew I would put my life on the line to keep my children safe and protected. It is just what mothers do, like courageous Miss Henrietta, our beautiful black-and-white mama cat.


  ~Kay Johnson-Gentile

  Healing Heartache

  Fun fact: According to the Delta Society, the presence of an animal produces positive results in safety, self-esteem and in dealing with loneliness and depression.

  The guy I was interested in fell for a nun instead of me. When I first heard the news, I called an old boyfriend who I could depend on. I cried, “Now I’m losing guys to nuns! These women aren’t even trying!” He responded with all the compliments I needed to assuage my humiliation, but his true opinion on the matter manifested in a package he sent to me three days later containing a calendar called “Nuns Having Fun” and a note that read simply, “Hahahaha! Nuns really DO have all the fun!” The vintage photos on the calendar showed nuns on roller coasters, nuns doing tricks on bikes, and nuns having more fun than I’d had while dating in my thirties. These were single women the world didn’t pressure into finding love or living a fairy tale, and they were happy.

  I decided to move out of my apartment and into an actual house, one where I could set down roots and redefine my version of “happily ever after.” I found a sweet, historical home previously occupied by an elderly couple. The wife had died, and the old man wanted to live near his children, but he would have to leave one thing behind. “Will you please take good care of my cat?” he asked. “She’s spayed and doesn’t need anything but food and some attention now and again. It would mean so much to me if you could take care of her.” His eyes were so earnest, I couldn’t say no. I had never owned a cat, but I understood his broken heart. I told him I would pamper her. He smiled, then said, “Well, if you’re a woman living alone, you’ll need a good cat. Her name is Ms. Thang, you know, like slang for ‘thing.’ ”

  My first act as the owner of this gray fluffy creature was to change her name to Edie. She responded with approval to the new name with my first pop of a cat-food can. Edie ate her food like a lady, and then spread out like an odalisque on the patio table. Then the others appeared.