I have heard it said that people are either cat people or dog people. You either like the dependence of dogs, or the independence of cats, and never the twain shall meet. I think that is too limiting, because the world needs all kinds of personalities to be functional and interesting, and I am in favor of variety.
For example, I would hate to see a world full of people just like me. Oh, I know I have good points; I'm not a completely downtrodden individual, and I do know what I get right. I am kind, generous, straightforward, trustworthy - in a word, I am genuine. [I am not, however, folksy. Genuine and folksy are not the same thing, and I don't want any confusion on that.] I am just who I am, no facade, nothing false about me.
I am also quirky, introverted, prone to seeing the glass half empty (although I do generally temper that with relief that at least something is in there, so it could be worse. Just because I'm not Norwegian doesn't mean I'm not a stoic Minnesota Lutheran.) I am also a first class worrier. I am, in a word, me - unique, individual, inimitable.
While America does have the reputation for being a nation of quirky individualists, I don't think that is really true, and I'm not sure any country can survive if everyone isn't heading in the same general direction. Too much quirkiness makes you querulous, and who wants that laying around the house? Or the nation, for that matter?
But that's wandering a little far afield , I guess, which may be another one of my less stellar qualities. I wander, in case you hadn't noticed. Ritalin anyone?
To get back on topic, I have been the fortunate owner of a number of fascinating feline friends, all of whom have had their own unique personalities. I have had a diva, who considers the world her stage, and she is the star. I have had a cat who mistook himself for a divan, big, overstuffed, and pretty comfortable. My cats have all been unique, and they leave a void as large as any when they are gone, but not forgotten. So I thought I would reminisce about a few of my favorites, since I need a reason to smile today.
My first cat of my very own came courtesy of my big brother, of course, one Christmas when I was probably about eight or nine. He was so cute, little, perky, full of claws. He climbed the curtains and shredded the furniture, a thing of which my mother assuredly did not approve, and which would pretty quickly land him outside on the porch looking in. He was named with the regal moniker, Artaxerxes, a Persian king from the Bible, but of course, I soon tired of that. Art just didn't fit him, either, so he ended up going by Puss-Puss.
Puss-Puss was one big cat. I don't know if he was part bobcat or what, but his paws were enormous, and his head was about as big as mine. He would open his mouth to yawn, and I was always afraid he was going to swallow something vital. Like me. He weighed around 20 pounds at his young and healthy prime, although he wasn't prime too often, given his proclivity for fighting and establishing dominion over all the other cats on the farm.
I loved Puss-Puss for his willing ways. He put up with me hauling him around the yard like a stuffed animal, gripping him tightly under front legs and dragging the rest of him behind like an out-of-control trailer. He didn't confuse himself with a dog, he knew he was the king, but he did allow me to be the royal princess, and he tolerated such abuse as a loving child will hand out.
When he died, I was bereft, and the loss of my friend left big paws to fill. It was a long time before I found another cat that would step into them, and when I did. they were the dainty little feet of a cat who used up most of her lives in one fell swoop. Her name was Cleopatra. [Yes, there is a theme here. I have delusions of grandeur, just like everyone else. And by the way, in case you didn't know, Sarah means princess, so I'm royalty, too.]
As a young adult, I saved my little black royal cat from certain death, and she repaid me with many years of loving affection. She was not always a house cat, personal pet, and part of the family. Her story began as a barn cat, and she lived life hard. Once she was allowed inside both our house and my heart, she never had the slightest interest in going outside ever again. She knew where she had it good, and she was not going to take a chance on messing it up. So when the door opened, she ran in the other direction, hiding behind the furniture or under a bed to be sure she wasn't thrown out in the cold.
Before I rescued her, we had seen her around, but no one could really get close. She was a momma cat with kittens, and she was very protective, almost to a fault. She was first discovered by a former relative, and I must say, Cleo showed her perspicacity for judging the quality of human character right from the get go.
She had made her bed in the back seat of an antique car that my brother and my cousin had set out to restore - a project long abandoned, if not entirely forgotten. She was there with her kittens when this relative entered the machine shed, and the cat came flying out of her bed in blind fury, protecting her young offspring from the perceived threat. While the relative was all for getting rid of the cat permanently, I shared Cleo's opinion and thought she showed perfectly good sense, so I knew we were going to be friends from that moment on.
Cleo was initially fairly hostile toward anyone getting up close and personal, except me. I walked right up to her and petted her, and we were pals from then on. She didn't want to be picked up, but she loved affection and thrived on attention, and eventually she would come running when she saw me, knowing that some pleasurable moments were in store for her.
One day, she disappeared, and after five anxious days of worrying, she showed up again, a disastrous mess of infection and open wounds. We don't know what happened to her, but she was sliced down one leg, with the skin wide open to the bone, and her tail was broken in several places and sliced open as well. We suspected that she got up in the warm engine compartment of a car, and when it started, it got her, and somehow, she made her way back to me.
And I do mean she came back to me. I will never forget seeing her dragging herself toward me from under a bush, meowing pitifully, and then laying down at my feet, as if she knew help had arrived and she could just let go and give up. It was so touching and so sad, such trust that somehow, I would make everything all right again, when she was clearly beyond help.
I realized that she was a dying animal, and not wanting to cause her additional stress by taking her out of her familiar home, I took her up to the haymow in the barn to make her comfortable for the night, or what was left of it for her, at least. I brought her some food and some water, both of which she took slowly, but with grateful glances my way, while I petted her and talked soothingly to her. I went and got some antiseptic spray that was left over from the adventures of Puss-Puss, thinking that it might offer her some pain relief, if nothing else. I didn't try to clean her up or mess with her broken parts, because I feared I would cause her additional pain for no real benefit, and eventually, I laid an old blanket around her to keep her warm and left her for the night.
Imagine my shock when I came up in the morning, expecting a body, and found her alive and waiting for me right where I had left her. The food had been touched, the water had been drunk, and she was still hanging in there. It was obvious that this cat had a will to live, and she had entrusted her life to me, so I knew there was nothing else to do but take her to the vet. She may have been a farm animal, nothing special, not valued by many people, but she had entrusted her life to me, and I wasn't going to let her down.
After an operation to amputate her tail, drains hanging out from all her wounds, and dozens of careful stitches in her leg and back side, that cat began to heal. It was the most amazing recovery I've ever witnessed. I took good care of her, to be sure, watching her drains, changing the dressings, washing the wounds and nursing her back to health, but she had an incredible will to live, and she was grateful for everything I did.
Cleo and I had forged a bond, and when she had used up eight and a half of her lives, she came to me, and I had saved her. She knew it, I am certain. After that, she followed me around the house, where she had now become ensconced as yet another full fledged member of the family that was not my mother's idea. But she took to Cleo with good grace, and when I moved out and into my own apartment shortly thereafter, Cleo came with me to keep me company, and to be my constant companion.
Cleo was obviously a better judge of character than I was. When she met my ex, she didn't think much of him, despite everything he did to lavish attention on her. [I really should have paid attention to her astute observation that he was clearly up to no good.] He kept insisting on trying to make friends with her, sure that if he just worked hard enough, he would win her over. That resulted in one of the more humorous moments of my life.
I was quite sick in bed, and he stopped by to see if I needed anything. Cleo, as usual, ran to hide in the closet, and he chased her down. He grabbed her out of the closet and picked her up, whereupon she decided he had gone too far. She let him have it, meowing angrily and peeing on him right then and there. He dropped her unceremoniously, mad at her, and mad at me for laughing at the sight of him dripping down the front of his shirt. She was one up on me where he was concerned, that's for sure.
Cleo moved many times with us over the years, and was a well traveled pet. She lived in Minnesota, Iowa, Tennessee, and Kansas. She got lost in a bed in an Iowa hotel where we lived for 18 days while we tried to find a place to live, and she got into the air vents in Kansas when we left them uncovered while we re-carpeted the floors. She chattered her teeth every time she saw a bird, and she even put up, briefly, with a dog that was barely tolerable on a good day, and never seemed to lose her knack for being friendly to a fault, once she had adjudged you well.
We lost Cleo shortly after our last move into the house we now inhabit, when she lost her battle with the cancer that had rapidly ravaged her little body. It was a sad day when she slipped away from me in my arms, and I cried salty tears over her again, just as I had so many years before when I thought she was going to be gone too soon. But I knew that I had given her a wonderful life, and she would have nothing to complain about when she got to kitty heaven, and I was grateful that her final resting place would be one where I would live for many years to come.
We planted an apple tree over her grave, and it has given me a lot of comfort over the years to feel that she was a part of that tree that now shades and provides privacy for my house. I eat the sweet apples and am reminded of that sweet cat who chose me to be her savior, and in return, gave me so much love and trust in return. She taught me a lot about the power of grace, and what salvation really means, and she gave me a glimpse of what true spirit is about. When I falter, I can think of her trusting example, and I know that reaching out is the way to find a path out of whatever pain you may have. By trusting someone greater than yourself, you will find your own salvation, as well. Cleo was a gift from God, and I have no doubt that he knew what he was doing when he brought us together.
When Cleo passed away from us, I didn't want another cat again. I couldn't bear to get attached to another animal, only to have them die too soon. But that decision couldn't withstand the power of a little girl to beg and plead and demand the pet she thought she was entitled to have. So after too little time for me to heal, but a long enough time to appreciate someone new, we decided to add another member to our family, and we adopted Meow.
We started out wanting a kitten, of course, because everyone does. Kittens are cute and playful and fun, and they don't have a lot of bad habits that you will have to break. Somehow, though, when I laid my eyes on Meow, it was evident who was going to be my cat. There was something in the way she looked deeply back into my eyes that let me know she had claimed me, and I was about to embark on another journey with another cat who knew I had saved her, and was determined to be sure I never forgot it.
Meow lives up to her name. In spades. There isn't anyone who meets her that doesn't immediately say, "Oh, I see why you named her Meow!" She talks all the time. She is, in fact, the most vocal cat I have ever been around. She talks, she cries, she whines, she practically sings. She is never quiet. Meow is a cool cat on the move, as long as there is no one around that she doesn't know well, and she has a lot to say while she does it.
Meow loves meal time more than life itself, and starts anticipating her evening meal around nine o'clock in the morning. She meows, she whines, she looks angry with her tail swishing hard. Then she meows again, this time long, drawn out, like a train whistle as it flows away from you.
She has an ill disguised disdain for the dogs, whom she has clearly identified as a lower life form than herself, and has no time for their shenanigans. And yet, wherever they are, that is probably where you will find her. When they are gone, she is lonely and bored, with nothing to entertain her or to help her while away the hours. She looks around for them, wandering from place to place, and you can see she is wondering where they have gotten off to.
Meow is on a different schedule from the rest of the family. While the dogs are yawning and clearly prepared to head for bed at dusk, Meow is just opening one eye and deciding what kind of a night it is going to be. After a full day of sleeping in various locales, she is ready for the strenuous hour or two ahead which she will use for exploring, hunting, searching for the perfect ending to her meal time. Eventually, as all animals in our house apparently must, she ends up in my bed with me, often laying with one paw touching my face, or perhaps her entire body laying on me.
Interestingly enough, she seems to have some confusion over which species, exactly, she is a member. She often comes when she is called, and she follows me everywhere around the house, sleeping in whatever out of the way cranny she can find in whatever room I am in at the time. I am rarely out of her sight, making her one more in the long line of creatures that follows me everywhere I go in the house. [The last time I used a bathroom by myself was 1982, and I'm not kidding.]
Meow has a quirky personality. We attribute it to a hard life as a kitten. She was picked up off the street, but she is obviously a good cat by nature, because she is as docile as a limp potholder. She doesn't like to be held, vocal disparagment is sure to follow if you try, but she is otherwise a loving and attentive pet, who likes to be a part of the action, if at a safe distance.
Most important to me, she has never once missed the litter box. That is a first class quality in a cat, a five diamond rating for sure. She can be counted on to do the right thing, every single time, for which I am especially grateful. {And if you have to ask why I am grateful for that, you would have to have had a cat that didn't understand the concept of a litter box. One time taking care of business elsewhere, and you will warm right up to that litter box, rest assured.]
Meow's favorite game is called Hit the Dog. First, she will find a place to lay where the dogs won't notice her. A favored spot is the piano bench, which is a little higher than they are usually looking, given that they generally have their noses to the ground. She will lie there plotting and even practicing her swipe, waiting for her big moment. Then, obligingly, sooner or later, a dog will approach. As the unsuspecting victim walks under the bench, [and the anxiously waiting cat,] she will swipe her paw across their face. BAM. They never knew what hit them. They are confused, bewildered, gobsmacked, every single time. It is a never fail, sure fire guarantee of feline fun, and they play that game more or less every day.
The best story, however, took place when the smallest dog, TidBit, who has always been smaller than Meow, was a puppy. TidBit is a terrorizer, and he started to annoy Meow early on. He would chase her. He would try to entice her with a toy, hoping she would grab it away so he could grab it back and dominate her. Meow, of course, simply thought he was dumb, and would look at him with the sort of distaste you reserve for chicken that has rotted in the package in the back of the fridge because you forgot it was there.
One day, Meow was laying on the bottom step leading to the upstairs, when TidBit trotted by. I'm not sure what got into her, but apparently, she had reached her dog tolerance limit, and she let him have it. Her paw shot out like a bullet from a loaded gun and swiped across his body, sending him flying across the floor. He laid there a moment, clearly trying to grasp what had just happened to him, and why he was lying there three feet from where he started, without having planned the event. It was a crowning moment for Meow, and she clearly felt her work was done, because she slowly stood up, stretched, and stalked away, tail help high, and smug attitude radiating like rays of light from the sun.
These days, I am the Pied Piper of cat-dom. If I am so foolish as to go for a walk without a dog, [one of them lives for the chance to go on a walk, while the other one hides in terror at the very mention of a word that starts with w,] I will be sure to have a cat or two following me in procession, like so many ducks off to the pond. I feel like Dr. Doolittle sometimes, talking to the animals, and drawing them in like a creature celebrity, surrounded by the paparazzi.
My daughter recently got a fish from her boyfriend when she was having a bad day, and I am not allowed to interact with it. [Unless I'm cleaning the fish bowl, in which case, I am free to talk to it all I want.] When an animal comes into this house, it will be a matter of moments before it sizes up the situation and knows which side its bread is buttered on. And animals are not dumb. If you have the bread and butter, they will be your friend for life. They have priorities, and they are in the right order.
Cats are independent creatures, to be sure. But once you let one into your heart, they will be there to give you warm fuzzies forever. Or is that the cat laying on my face again?
