My Very Good, Very Bad Cat Page 2

  Over a second glass of wine, we decided that when we returned to the apartment, Kathy would throw more treats at the cat, I would make sure his dish was full, and we would sequester ourselves in the bedroom.

  We got back to the apartment armed for battle. Kathy held the jar of coins, and I had the spray bottle. We would be brave. I opened the door, and the cat leapt at us with a hiss that could be heard throughout Boston. Kathy shook her coins frantically. I held my water bottle aloft, waiting for an opportune time to spray. Kathy threw the treats as far as she could. I checked on the cat food, and we ran to the bedroom, slamming those louvered doors. The lock was a hook-and-eye, and I latched it as fast as my trembling fingers allowed.

  We could hear Psycho eating as we got into our pajamas, laughing nervously about how silly we were. Kathy looked around, admiring Jackie’s souvenirs. She also noted long, silky hair pretty much everywhere. As we got into bed, we saw the hair on the spread and the pillow. Oh my God, I thought, Psycho must sleep in this bed. We each gulped another pill — without water, of course, because we dared not go to the kitchen.

  We told each other to relax and get some sleep, but as our heads hit the pillows we heard the first whump. Psycho wanted in and was throwing himself at the door. Thank God there was a door! Whump again. And again. And now a yowl, a cat sound somewhere between a screech and a wail. How long could he keep that up? Long enough for Dave to knock on the wall and say, “I warned you.”

  But then it stopped. Psycho had given up. It was quiet out there. So quiet that I could hear Kathy’s asthmatic breathing along with my own.

  Then a new sound. Glass tinkling and what I knew to be treasures being knocked off the cocktail table, the desk, the TV stand, and the bookcase as Psycho rose higher and higher and nearer to the bedroom door. Then an explosion! The hook and eye gave way against the tremendous thirty-pound force. The louvered doors blew open, and Psycho flew into the room like a Super Cat, a demon, and landed on our bed. We jumped up screaming. I used my water spray to keep him back. Kathy grabbed the bags, and we ran into the living room. I pulled an ottoman in front of the bedroom door, knowing it would never hold back the behemoth. We grabbed the key and, still in our pajamas, fled the apartment.

  Passing by Dave’s door, we dropped the key in his mailbox, and I swear I heard him chuckling. We got to the car and figured we could get back home by 2:00 a.m. I could see the apartment from the parking lot. We had left on the bedroom lights, but we didn’t care. I worried briefly about Psycho’s food, but figured he could live on his fat for a month. Besides, Jackie would be home in two days. I stepped on the gas and looked back to see the outline of a big, hairy cat sitting on the windowsill.

  Adventure? You can have it. Next vacation, Motel 6.

  ~Eileen Melia Hession

  Catflexing

  Fun fact: A cat’s back is extremely flexible because it has up to fifty-three loosely fitting vertebrae. Humans only have thirty-four.

  Years ago, I had the great fortune to work as a literary publicist for a small non-fiction publishing house in Berkeley, California. For reasons that were never quite explained to me, if a manuscript was odd, quirky, or in any way bizarre, the editors would immediately assign the project to me. Apparently, they felt my personality and talents were best suited for this kind of fare. Looking back, I have to admit, I did seem to have a penchant and sincere love for the stuff.

  During my tenure I successfully promoted everything from cookbooks for bug-eaters to coffee-table books featuring cats that paint. In keeping with the twisted/quirky/oddball theme, I began working with one particular author, Stephanie Jackson, whose book focused on an untapped feline fitness frenzy she lovingly invented and appropriately coined as “Catflexing.”

  Stephanie first penned this brilliant “exercise how-to” as an inside joke. She created a colorful calendar full of photos of her performing a variety of exercises with her two cats as if they were barbells. In all of the pictures the cats look as blissful as she does — perfectly Zenned out in this owner-cat bonding experience. Stephanie gave the calendars to her family and friends as a gift and inside joke. But it wasn’t long before the joke was on her because everyone she knew said it was too good, too hilarious and too “what-the-world-needs-now” to be kept hidden from the public one minute longer. So, reluctantly, at first, the author brought her idea to our publishing house and instantly we knew we had a hit on our hands. And voila — Catflexing was born!

  Created with the body-conscious cat-lover in mind, Catflexing fused the athletic and feline fanatical worlds while simultaneously answering the burning age-old question, “How can I maintain my fitness regime without sacrificing quality time with my cat?”

  On one particular sunny summer day in San Francisco, I was charged with the task of finding a suitable stunt cat to “stand in” for the author’s own beloved feline. We were doing a live satellite feed for Good Morning Australia (the Aussie version of Good Morning America) and unfortunately Stephanie’s own cat, with whom she had Catflexed for many years, could not travel to the set that day.

  Luckily, at the last minute, a co-worker of mine came to the rescue by volunteering his own beloved kitty as “guest star” for the job. Frankly, I was relieved to cross that off my to-do list.

  What my dear colleague failed to mention was that his “little puddy tat” was in fact a healthy twenty-nine-pound Maine Coon behemoth that blocked out the sun. (Also, being a rather strange-looking, overweight, angry, drooling, red-eyed sort of cat.) But beggars can’t be choosers. This wasn’t “America’s Next Top Feline Model.” So we would just have to make do.

  Of course, Stephanie’s own cat at home was a seasoned Catflexing pro. And by way of drastic comparison, it floated into the ring at a lithe seven pounds — quite a departure from the wretched Chewbacca cat on set that day. (And lest I forget to mention it, it is important to note that at this point in time Stephanie, though incredibly fit, was about eight months pregnant, and utterly bursting at the seams.) The poor unsuspecting woman was about to appear on live television wearing a Spandex maternity leotard and go right into a routine of dead lifting and bench pressing with a ginormous Wookie Cat.

  The stunt-double cat and Stephanie had never had the pleasure of meeting, let alone “Catflexing” together before. We were running way behind, the director was already counting us down and there was no time for me to warn Stephanie. Stephanie had not even caught a glance of this disturbing fur-squatch (who appeared to be suffering a touch of IBS or similar ailment.).

  We barely got into the studio before “Action!” was called. Peeking out from behind the camera, I crossed my fingers and toes, held my breath and said a silent Hail Mary.

  Being a literary publicist had its ups and downs, but I never expected those to include watching an extremely pregnant client try to heft a behemoth cat up and down on live television! I wondered if there was an Aussie word for “sheer panic.”

  All I could do was watch in horror as the creature screeched, scratched, clawed, spat, drooled and generally pulled some truly ungrateful faces as Stephanie blithely performed her trademark sit-ups and squats, deep knee-bends and over-the-head kitty-cat crunches. It was clear that things were not going to end well, but Stephanie struggled on. The fitness instructor-turned-author-turned scratching post bravely and gracefully stretched her arms and bent down and lifted the irritated, wild-eyed animal behind her neck, onto her stomach and way, way up in the air… all with an almost Zen-like perma-grin plastered on her face.

  It was not until months later, looking back at this moment, that I realized Stephanie’s smile was not so much “beauty queen poise” as it was “I am going to kill the moron who did this to me.” I didn’t even realize that I (and probably most of the crew) had stopped breathing until at last the tortured beast broke free from the workout and escaped in a billowing tornado of dust, dander and fur.

  Silence fell on the studio as the kitty clouds settled. Stephanie, ever the stalwart professional, having re
alized we were still rolling, looked straight into the camera, smiled and managed to calmly say, “Well… it’s not for every cat.”

  Cut to still-store of the book cover. Cue graphics, with store details, fade out. Cue music, fade to black, and we’re out!

  The book, to no one’s great surprise, met with great success. I pitched Stephanie as a guest to various TV segment producers, landing her on some major network programs including The Rosie O’Donnell Show and several Animal Planet programs. My ultimate goal was achieved when I booked Stephanie on Comedy Central’s The Daily Show. I thought it would be perfect for them (and an amazing promotional opportunity for Stephanie’s book — a total win-win). And not only did they agree to do the show, the producers (including Steve Colbert) flew out to San Francisco and did a hilarious in-depth feature segment with Stephanie, her book and her exercising felines.

  We were inundated with calls from all over the world. I remember media people from England calling me and saying, with their sweet British accents, “Brilliant! You know, I rather think one could do this with quite small dogs, as well.”

  By the way, I found out (after the fact, of course), that the Maine Coon cat we borrowed for the Australian satellite feed? Her name was Monster.

  Brilliant indeed.

  It all goes to show you what incredible, amazing, unpredictable and, yes, sometimes even quirky creatures cats can be. And I am so very glad they are.

  ~Erika Whitmore

  Bootsie’s Pick-Me-Up

  Fun fact: Just like humans, animals react to medications differently, so how your cat reacts after having anesthesia may be hard to predict.

  “Bootsie survived the surgery! The vet says she’s ready for pickup, but I’m swamped. I’ll be tied to my desk for the rest of the afternoon. Could you please take her home for me and get her settled?”

  While I’d never met my boss’s precious cat, we’d spoken of little else that morning. Well known for her nocturnal spats with the neighborhood cats, Bootsie had come home with a nasty gaping wound above her left eye. It had required immediate suturing.

  Of course, I’d take the little darling home. Just two months into my job as the assistant to Sue, the charter bus company’s director of marketing, I welcomed any opportunity to prove myself to my new boss.

  I pulled up to the door of the clinic not thirty minutes later. Smoothing down the front of my new navy skirt, I tossed back my hair and breezed into the lobby, the picture of administrative efficiency.

  “But where’s Bootsie’s crate?”

  Excuse me? Sue hadn’t said anything about a crate.

  The weary receptionist sighed and jerked her thumb in the direction of a teetering pile of flattened cardboard.

  “She’ll have to go home in one of our temporary ones. There’ll be an extra charge, of course.”

  No problem; I was confident money wasn’t an issue when it came to sweet Bootsie.

  Brandishing a fully constructed sturdy pet carrier, the white-coated vet also handed over a small medicine vial.

  “Here she is! She’s still sleepy from the anesthetic. But Sue told you about the pill, right?”

  Not wanting to get my crate-challenged boss into yet more trouble, I nodded.

  “Okay. So, half as soon as you get her home. No more, no less. Half. For the alertness, to help her wake up.”

  I hefted the surprisingly heavy crate under one arm and headed for the car after stealing a quick peek through the nearest air hole. What an angel. Much larger than I’d expected, the ginger gem was curled into a slumbering ball. Poor poppet. She’d apparently escaped blindness by a whisker’s breadth. Her sutured wound was a virulent, angry pucker just above her left eye.

  Time to get this girl home.

  How odd. Halfway up the final hill, just fifteen minutes from our destination, the car began to unexpectedly decelerate. I pumped the gas pedal frantically. The vehicle responded by stubbornly shuddering to a halt in the middle of the curb lane. With the fuel indicator hovering beyond empty and the engine refusing to turn over, I had to accept that I’d run out of gas.

  Muffled rustles emanated from inside the crate; the patient was stirring. I couldn’t abandon my charge, could I? No. But I had to. She was too heavy to carry. Surely, no one would steal her in the short amount of time it would take to schlep down the road to the gas station. I popped open the hood to alert other drivers to the situation and locked the doors.

  As I lurched back up the hill some fifteen minutes later, shifting the gurgling and cumbersome gas container between my increasingly aching hands, my eyes were drawn to a curious image. A tangerine bundle of fury was hissing maniacally while frenetically hurling itself to the top of the driver’s side window and, paws outstretched, sliding in slow motion to the bottom. Over and over. Bootsie. Possessed. How did she get free? The answer came quickly. Bits of shredded cardboard were strewn throughout the interior.

  Time was running out. That requisite half pill was calling. The poor dear was probably scared out of her mind at awakening with a thumping headache in an enclosed box in a strange vehicle. Surely my calming presence would soon reassure her and restore her good nature. I’d have her home in a jiffy.

  I hefted the container to the thirsty tank and quickly poured. Carelessly, as it turned out. Multiple gas droplets splayed onto my skirt and shoes. My head now thick with the gaseous fumes, I opted for the closest door. Startled out of her obsessive leaping, Sue’s darling streaked for the gas pedal, neatly wedging herself underneath. There she remained, resolutely lodged, a virtual hissing machine. Acknowledging that this wasn’t terribly conducive to driving, I summoned the courage to inch into the driver’s seat, tuck my knees up under my chin and begin crooning her name. These gestures proved woefully ineffective; the hissing morphed into plaintive screeches. I took scant comfort in the observation that her stitches remained intact despite the exhaustive escape efforts and subsequent acrobatics.

  Five deafening minutes passed. Then ten. Just as I began to think I’d have to risk serious finger shredding as a result of dragging her out from under the pedal, the little minx suddenly stretched, eased herself out and gracefully leapt up onto the seat beside me. She proceeded to settle in as if this was our normal routine.

  The blessed reprieve was quickly replaced by a horrid reality. The carrier transport option was toast. How was I going to get this hellion into her house? I’d have to wrap her up in something. Naturally, the only solution was my cherished woolen jacket that just moments ago had paired nicely with my now ruined skirt. As I reluctantly eased it off my shoulders, her eyes snapped open. I’d have to be quick.

  She wasn’t pleased. Clutching the now impossibly twisting, hissing and spitting bundle, I stumbled to the front door. After shakily inserting the key, I wrenched it open. Once I carefully lowered the jacket to the floor, the little creature shot out, tore over the carpet and vanished up the stairs.

  My overwhelming relief was once again short-lived. Bootsie still needed her pill.

  It was teensy, the size of a grain of rice. The vet mentioned it had to be cut in half. Was he kidding? No, he’d stressed it quite clearly. Dumping my now repulsively fur-lined, saliva-soaked jacket in the hallway, I headed for the kitchen.

  A quick perusal revealed only butcher’s knives. Wielding the least lethal-looking one of the bunch, I firmly cleaved the pill in two, then watched in disbelief as both halves plopped off the cutting board onto the floor and began rolling merrily along the tiles before disappearing under the fridge.

  Enough. I was done. Time to call for backup. I rang the office and asked for my boss.

  “Hi, Kelly. No, Sue’s gone for coffee. She said she’d be back in an hour or so.”

  Gone for coffee for an hour or so while I was alone with Bootsie?

  Bootsie zoomed into the kitchen, took one look at me and darted back out. I was dismissed.

  And the note I left next to the empty pill bottle?

  “Bootsie’s here. Somewhere. No worries — she
’s more than alert. Trust your coffee break was good. Should you require yet another pick-me-up, you can happily find it under your fridge.”

  ~Kelly L. McKenzie

  Karmic Lessons from the Cat

  Not-so-fun fact: Thirty percent of older cats develop kidney disease.

  What do you do when you are stepmother to a cat that despises you? Even worse, how do you come to terms with that hatred when the feline is named Karma? This was my dilemma years ago. It felt too ominous to say, “Karma hates me,” so I made it my mission to win over the cat and get Karma on my side.

  Karma was a street kitten that decided to follow my boyfriend Andrew home. That same night, Andrew had found fifty dollars on the street and had discussed his views on kindness and karma with a co-worker. He decided the evening was fated and named the cat Karma. Initially, Karma was wild, tearing up the apartment Andrew kept meticulously clean with his sister, with whom he lived at the time. Karma would bounce off the walls, a crazed ball of hair that leaped like a ninja and yowled like a banshee.

  Karma’s love for Andrew was intense. Of all the humans on the street, he had recognized something special in him. He would lie on Andrew’s chest, relentlessly licking his shirt until it was soaked, no matter how many times Andrew pushed him off. He followed him like a shadow and leaped into his arms to nestle in like a baby, adoring and possessive. It was a love story for the ages.

  When Andrew’s sister realized she was allergic to cats, I adopted Karma. Naively, I thought it was a perfect solution. I could have a handsome cat as a pet, and he and Andrew could still see each other. Little did I know that Karma’s love was exclusive, reserved solely for his savior. He was a one-human cat, and anyone else was an interloper, an intruder, an unwelcome competitor for Andrew’s affections. I was instantly public enemy number one.

  Karma despised me with an all-consuming hatred that no amount of kitty treats and catnip would appease. He would sit on top of my bookshelves and swat me on the head every time I passed by. I could see him visibly cringe every time he heard my voice. Friends were startled by the way the cat glared at me with a look of pure contempt.