How to carry a cat

IT'S SO FLUFFY!

One of our favorite summer movies has been Despicable Me (and for the record, the only movies I actually see in the theater these days are kids' movies. Inception? Did not see. The American? Did not see. Eat, Pray, Love? Nope, not that either. I have, however, seen How to Train Your Dragon, Toy Story 3, and Despicable Me.

But I digress . . .

One of our favorite scenes from Despicable Me features a little girl clutching a stuffed unicorn, newly-won at an amusement park (in a highly unusual way) and screaming, "It's so fluffy!!"

We have our own version of fluff these days and like that little girl, we can hardly contain our enthusiasm.

Meet Lola:



She is about 8-weeks-old and full of personality. She is slowly winning over her cat housemates Ben and Molly. The two-legged housemates were won over from the moment we met her.

Everybody wants to be a cat? Not in our house

Meet Ben.



Ben is Peanut’s cat.



She loves him. A lot. Probably more than she loves me.



She talks to him like he is a baby and wraps him up in a blanket.



He is fairly tolerant of this.

He sleeps in her room, curled up next to her.

She loves this.

Ben had a collar. A black, reflective one. With an ID tag on it.

On one of Ben’s recent adventures, he lost his collar, and along with it, his ID tag.

This made Peanut very, VERY unhappy.

She was convinced he was going to get lost, like, IMMEDIATELY.

So we went to PetCo so she could pick out a new collar and ID tag for Ben.

Peanut is very girly.

VERY.

Ben is now sporting a bright pink sparkly collar. But that is not the worst of it.

Oh no.

His ID tag is a black heart, rimmed with hot pink. One side features his name, address, phone number. The other side? Reads “DIVA.”



Poor emasculated Ben.

(And he thought getting neutered would be the worst of it.)

Wordless Wednesday: Feeling the void

One of our cats, Janey, was killed by a car yesterday. It hit hard for a number of reasons, but most of all because I never saw her go near the road. She usually just sat on the front step or in the garden, soaking up rays or rolling in the driveway.

We didn't have her very long - only 15 months - but she had become an important part of our family.

She was a sweet, gentle, calm cat. She liked to play with elastic hair bands, drink from the bathroom faucet and while she wasn't much of a lap cat, she was very social. She would follow you from rooom to room, run up to meowing when she saw you, and sit close by.

She will be missed.





Click here for more Wordless Wednesday posts.

Haiku Friday: Cat nap

It is 6 a.m.
Hungry cat wants to eat now
Too tired to move

Cat stands on my head
Wake up, food lady! Wake up!
Leave me alone, please!

It is 2 p.m.
Cats are sound asleep in house
Life is just not fair

Crime scene: Do not cross

Case number: NJ 1041366335023940

Incident: Assault

Investigating Unit: Feline Decoration Unit of Protection (F'D UP), a division of the NJ Pet Police

At about 0600 hours on December 16, 2008, Mark Gav of Morris County, NJ walked into his living room to discover it was the scene of a horrific crime.



Upon investigation, officers confirmed the victim was an approximately seven-foot-tall Norway spruce. The victim was lying at about a 30-degree angle, face down against the back of the couch.



The victim was still screwed into its supporting stand, but numerous ornaments were broken and the garland and lights were hanging off of it. The carnage was disturbing even to veteran investigative officers.

(Note, the following photos are rather graphic and not for the faint of heart.)









At approximately 0700 hours, with officers’ consent, homeowners Mark and Kimberly Gav decided to move the victim to the floor fearing their young daughters may try to sit on the victim or use it as a slide if it was left at an angle.



Both homeowners confirmed that the victim was observed to be fully upright when they went to sleep at approximately 2300 hours on December 15, 2008. Homeowners said they did not hear anything during the evening, leading the investigating officer to believe this is an inside job.

They also confirmed that both their pre-school daughters were asleep. The mother checked on one, who was sick, several times throughout the night, while the other spent most of the night in her parent’s bed kicking them and flailing about.

Upon further questioning, it was revealed that the whereabouts of the household’s four cats could not be confirmed at various times during 2300 hours on December 15 and 0600 hours on December 16.

Therefore, all four were brought in for questioning.

Suspect one: BadCat



A black female with white chest and gold eyes, approximately 10-years-old.
Whereabouts during time of crime: Asleep on the homeowner’s bed until approximately 0400 hours.
Past record: In all the years BadCat has lived with homeowners, she has never shown interest in the Christmas tree or its ornaments.
Possible motives: Cat is still extremely pissed off at homeowners for acquiring three cats in March 2008.
Verdict: Possible suspect, but not likely given past record of good behavior.

Suspect two: Janey



An Abyssian-mix with green eyes, approximately 3 years old.
Whereabouts during time of crime: Unknown
Past record: Undetermined, though homeowners feel cat is too fat and lazy to scale a Christmas tree.
Possible motives: May have thought glass bird 2/3 of the way up tree was actual food.
Verdict: Possible, though suspect’s physical size and shape makes it unlikely.

Suspect three: Ben



A striped gray male with brown eyes, approximately 18 months old.
Whereabouts during time of crime: Observed sleeping on sick child’s bed most of the evening and then in homeowner’s bed around 0500 hours.
Past behavior: Unknown history, but has not paid much attention to the tree since it was erected on December 7, 2008.
Possible motives: Fun and adventure, has close ties to Molly, prime suspect in the case
Verdict: Ben remains a likely suspect, possibly an accomplice, but until further evidence can be obtained, is free on bail.

Suspect four: Molly



A striped orange female with gold eyes, approximately 21 months old.
Whereabouts during time of crime: Unknown for entire period under question.
Past behavior: Suspect has shown mild interest in the Christmas tree, crawling under it and batting lightly at low-hanging ornaments, but homeowners did not feel behavior was anything to worry about.
Possible motives: Fun and adventure
Verdict: Remains prime suspect both in plotting and execution, but evidence too circumstantial to formally prosecute. Will remain under close observation by undercover officers from the Feline Decoration Unit of Protection (aka F’D UP).

Officers have already observed Molly returning to the scene of the crime, a classic indicator of guilt. They are especially disturbed with perpetrator’s boldness, staring at them defiantly.



Homeowner has re-decorated tree and tied it to the bolted-in curtain rods behind it, but remains concerned that the perpetrator will come up with new and more creative ways to torture the victim.

As a further preventative tactic, homeowner is now deciding whether cat would make nice mittens or earmuffs and is looking for input. Thoughts?

Cat on a cold shingle roof

We have this cat.

BadCat.



Saved from the arduous life of an alley cat when we lived 10 minutes outside New York City, she is still partly feral deep inside and demands outdoor privileges. She's also incredibly smart. As soon as it gets dark, she sits on the front step and waits to be let in. She knows that with the dark come predators (fox, raccoon and maybe even a coyote) that would love to either beat her up or have her for dinner.

However, if no one lets her in immediately, she climbs up onto the roof of the house for safety.

Now, our house is a ranch, so sections of the roof are not very far off the ground. She has no trouble getting up or down, but once she's up, she'll often sit up there, stubbornly, until someone I climb up to "rescue" her.

I'm not a tall girl. Five-three at best. To reach her, I have to stand on the wrought iron railing on the front step and balance there, holding the edge of the house with one hand while I fish around on the roof with the other trying to grab hold of the cat. Fishing around for her is not easy. She likes to make a game of staying just out of reach. This is really great fun for her. We're talking about an animal who tends to entertain herself by licking her own butt and chasing dust bunnies, so watching me do this is probably the equivalent of reality TV or the Superbowl for her.

Every time I do this - EVERY. TIME. - I think about how incredibly stupid it is. I'm balancing on a railing that's only a couple of inches wide. It really wouldn't take much to slip and take a nasty fall, breaking an arm or cracking my head open on the cement step below me.

I KNOW THIS.

I also know I could potentially lay out there bleeding for HOURS before Mark noticed I was gone, especially if he is in his own world on the computer. If that's the case, my presence may not be missed until morning, in which time I could bleed to death, or, at this time of year, freeze.

I THINK ABOUT THIS EVERY TIME.

I can even see the headline: Woman bleeds to death on front step while husband surfs web

The subhead would be: Cat found unharmed

And yet, I cannot stop myself from climbing up on that railing. I don't know why. Probably because I've never even come close to losing my balance and falling. Also probably because I am a SUCKER when it comes to the animals and will do anything to get them inside the house where it's safe and warm at night.

What I probably need is a good scare. A near miss if you will. A slip that sends my heart pounding, but doesn't result in serious injury. Then, and only then, might I think twice about perching myself back up there. Right? Right?

::crickets::

OK. OK. We all know I'd still climb up there even after a scare. Maybe not immediately after. But at some point.

::sigh::

Maybe, instead of a new iPod I should ask for a ladder for Christmas. And then keep it right by the front door.

Wordless Wednesday: The baby squirrel

We walked outside and it was just sitting there on the front step. A teeny, tiny baby squirrel.



So of course, we fed it.



At one point, it was sitting on top of Mark’s foot, eating.



It ate about three of these big, round crackers.



It was fearless, even climbing up into Mark’s hand.





We put it down under a tree and went out for the night and it came back (with a brother? Sister?) and has been hanging around the kitchen stoop for a few days. We aren’t feeding it anymore (aside from what drops out of the bird feeder) because we really don’t want another pet.

And yes, Mark washed his hands really well after putting it down.

Click here to see who else is wordless today.

Haiku Friday: Inner Tiger

Slinking through the grass
Gold eyes and inky black fur
Inner tiger roars

Thankful Thursday: A return home

We rescued BadCat from an alley in Weehawken, NJ in 2000. She was just a kitten then - only a few months old. Scraggly and skinny, she lived in an alley between our house and another with a host of nearly identical black and white siblings. The others were all feral and terrified of people, but one night she was sitting on our steps so I leaned over and picked her up. She cocked her head, bumping the top of it against my cheek and started to instantly purr. I carried her up the steps and she's been with us ever since.

But living the first few months of her life outdoors made an impression on her. She has a bit of a wild streak. She is smart and savvy. And she simply cannot - will not - live the life of an indoor cat. Denied the outdoors, she sits in a window and yowls - loudly and incessantly. Which is why she has been allowed outdoors since we moved to our current house in the 'burbs. Though she is safe from the dangers of a busy city street, she faces others. Primarily fox, but also coyote, and possibly large birds of prey. She knows this. Like I said, she's smart. And each night at dusk she sits at the door anxious to come inside where it is safe and warm.

The day we went to the Pearl Jam concert, Mark left in the afternoon to pick me up. Knowing we would not come home that night, he called and called for her, but she did not come home. He propped open the door on the back porch so she'd have a safe place that night.

When we came home on Wednesday morning, I called for her again, but she was no where to be found. All day long I'd walk outside and call her name. Later, Mark walked the street calling for her. He then got in the car and drove through the neighborhood, calling her name.

It got dark and still nothing.

I made up "Lost Cat" flyers and hung them on our mailbox. I emailed them to everyone I knew in the neighborhood. I prepared to hang them up in town and drop them at the local vet's office the next morning.

I wept.

Then, around 10 p.m., I heard her. The familiar meow and jingle of the bell on her collar. I opened the front door squealing with joy and she sauntered in with a look of "what's all the fuss about?" on her face.

So today, I am happy and thankful that my little BadCat is home. I'm not sure where she was, but I hope she won't go doing that again.



What are you thankful for today?

Wordless Wednesday: Sacked out

Click here to see more great Wordless Wednesday posts.

Wordless Wednesday: New friends

Click here for more great Wordless Wednesday posts.

Be careful what you wish for

I’ve been wanting a cat. We lost Cottons well over a year ago leaving BadCat as the only cat in the house.

Additionally, Peanut has been asking for a kitten since around Christmas.

But Mark kept saying we didn’t need another cat. That it would just add expense and stress to the household.

Recently, I finally wore him down and he agreed to get a new cat.

So we went to the open adoption a local Petfinder on Sunday. And lo and behold we came home with not one . . .



Not two . . .



But three new cats . . .



It was totally, 100% Mark’s idea to come home with more than one.

It’s a magic number, right?

Though at least one family member isn’t very happy about it:

Still looking for the right gift?

How about a cat? Gift wrap included.

One big kitty cat

This is a really cool video of a lion hugging and kissing the woman who rescued him many years earlier. It's incredible - it looks like he's going in for an attack but instead wraps his giant paws around her neck and kisses her. Love!

No good choices

For years, prior to buying our house, Mark and I coveted a dog. Because we both like bigger breeds, our living situations (apartments or urban settings with no yard) had prohibited it. We’d sit around talking about the possible breeds (Rottweiler? Great Dane? Golden? Greyhound?) envisioning games of fetch and long walks in the park. In time, we agreed on a Rhodesian Ridgeback and as soon as we settled into our home, we began our search in earnest.

In June 2001, we met George through the Rhodesian Ridgeback Rescue Organization’s New York contact. He was 5 and, we were told, “not good” with other dogs, but otherwise “a big mush.”

He came to our house for an afternoon and we fell in love. At 120 pounds, he was big for the breed, and somewhat aloof (classic Ridgeback), but after sniffing us both he came over and gave us a lean, which is his way of saying, “I think you’re cool, now pet me.”

A week later, Mark picked him up and he moved in permanently.

But the relationship wasn’t as blissful as we imagined. He was not just “not good” with other dogs. In reality, he turned vicious—lunging and snarling—at the mere sight of them. He didn’t listen and rarely came when called. He couldn’t walk on a leash and he stole food off counters or tables. He was skittish and nervous and panted anxiously whenever we took him anywhere new.

We blamed his previous owners for failing him by not socializing or training him properly. More so, he seemed afraid a lot of the time. He’d cower if we raised our voice. We wondered if he’d been abused in his previous home and decided minimally he’d been neglected.

A month after he came to us, he growled and snapped at me when I tried to pry an emery board he was chewing out of his mouth. Startled, I contacted the Rescue Organization’s contact who told me George was just trying to find his place in his new “pack.” She e-mailed me some exercises to do with him, such as feeding him by hand and making him wait for food, along with the name of some local trainers.

I worked diligently with him on the exercises, and things got better, but for one reason or another, we never contacted the trainer. And this is where we began to fail him.

George’s behavior was unsteady. The vast majority of the time he was good-natured and mellow, choosing to lay around the house and looking up at us with his big, sweet, chocolate brown eyes when walked into the room and thumping his tail on his bed. Mark and I called him our third couch because he was just a big, lazy, tranquil guy who laid around dreaming most of the day.

We had a lot of fun too. Before we had kids, Mark and I took him to the beach one warm December day and the three of us ran up and over huge mountains of sand. The memory of that day lingers as one of the happiest of my adult life.

Our cat, Oscar, would sit on George's bed - smack in the middle - forcing George to curl up far to one side with his butt hanging off.

And there was no where - absolutely no where - he'd rather be than laying with his massive head in Mark's lap while he slipped into a deep, happy sleep.

But other times, his Alpha nature shone through. He’d literally push us out of the way trying to get in the door first. He’d snatch food right out of your hand if he had the chance and every now and then there would be a growling incident because one of us was trying to make him do something he didn’t want to do.

I gradually came to mistrust him and when Peanut was born I told Mark flat out that if he ever bit her, I’d have him out of the house before the sun went down.

When the girls were babies, I watched them like hawks around George. I feared one of them would crawl over and try to pull up on him, or fall on his bed and he’d bite them. In my active imagination it was always a terrible bite to the face with blood and stitches and permanent scars. Fear kept me motivated and they were never left alone in the room with him.

But as time went on and they got more in control of their movements, I relaxed. It became a non-issue because in all honesty, neither Peanut nor Loaf paid any attention to George. His reputation as a big couch held firm. He bored them and they ignored him for the most part, which was fine with me.

Two weeks ago yesterday, I was working at home and had to participate in a conference call with a client. Mark wasn’t home, so I put in a video. With the kids entranced on the couch, I retreated to the dining room to take my call. I could see them, but I was also furiously taking notes.

The call went long and apparently Loaf got bored and decided to get off the couch. I don’t know what happened exactly, but suddenly I heard a fierce bark/growl followed by horrible, panicked loud crying.

“I have to go,” I said calmly to my client. “I think my dog just bit my child.” As I clicked the off button on the phone I could barely hear my client saying, “GO! GO!”

I ran into the next room, heart in my throat, remembering all of my visions about shredded cheeks and stitches and blood.

Scooping her up, I carefully examined her face. Red and stained with tears, but otherwise fine, I squeezed her tightly to my chest and brought her into the kitchen so I could sit her on the counter and look her over more thoroughly.

I immediately found the ring of teeth marks on the outside of her elbow. Seeing the raised, purple, angry-looking marks, I began to sob right along with her. The guilt, the horror, the panic of the whole thing came flooding in, along with enormous relief. The skin isn’t even broken. It could have been worse. So much worse. We were lucky.

Since then, George has been sequestered dawn until dusk. The last two weeks have been a series of agonizing discussions and deliberations in my house. What to do? What to do?

My own words echoed in my head: If he ever bites her, I’ll have him out of the house before the sun goes down.

In reality, it wasn’t so easy.

We debated all our options. I called five different rescue organizations (no one called me back). I sent e-mails to every dog lover I know. We debated whether George, already neurotic from being abandoned by one family, could survive being given up again. We thought long and hard about possible ways to keep him sequestered every day, all day in our home.

But in the end the same questions kept haunting us: What if? What if he jumps the gate that we’d been using to keep him in the bedroom? What if we forget to put him away one time? What if one of the kids climbs the gate to get to him? What if he bites again? What if next time we aren’t as lucky? How would we ever live with ourselves?

In the end, we decided to take his life peacefully, on our terms. It was not easy, opting to euthanize a healthy dog, even an 11-year-old dog with a belligerent streak.

There is guilt.

A lot of it.

And tears.

Many.

I have euthanized many animals in my life, all of them very sick and/or very old. This feels different. It’s not as black and white as it should be. I mean, George bit my child – the child who above all I am committed to protecting. This should have been clear-cut.

But it wasn’t. Because I keep coming back to how every master, us included, have failed George in some way. By not being hard enough, firm enough and at times loving enough. By not training him and guiding him. By not teaching him. By being too tough sometimes and not tough enough others. George never really got a fair shake in life.

Don’t get me wrong. I think he had a happy life here. I know he felt deep affection - and he gave it back to us. He had love and food, water and shelter, play time and lots of walks. But without the training and guidance to learn his place, the rest proved to be pretty inconsequential.

I hope wherever George is now that he’s happy and safe. I hope there are no thunderstorms or leashes, but rather lots of sunny spots to lay in and a bowl always full of fresh meat. Above all, I hope he finally gets a home where he is given the guidance he needs to show his caregivers what a wonderful, amazing, loving, special dog he is and can be. Always.

22-pound toddler vs. 120-pound dog

This morning, Loaf (approximately 22 pounds) is walking through the house carrying a plastic toy golf club.

The dog (approx 120 pounds) walks toward her, wondering if said club is food.

He stares at her.

She stares back.

She raises club and whacks dog upon head.

Dog turns and runs full speed down hall.

Toddler wins.

I think my cat is reading my blog

Why? Because she totally caught a mouse last night. I spied her in the kitchen pressed as close to the fridge as possible. Every now and then she'd flatten her belly to the floor like a snake and stab her paw under the fridge.

I thought, "Bah! She'll never get it," and went to bed.

Not five minutes later she's at the foot of my bed meowing a very different meow than normal. Then I hear the bell from her collar tinkle and a soft thump on the floor. More meowing. More tinkling. More thumping. So I turn on the light.

And there is BadCat, tossing the carcass of poor Mr. Mouse into the air.

The thing is? We also caught one in the humane trap Saturday night. Mark drove that one across town and let it go in a field.

So now I'm wondering just how many mice are living in our house?!?! I'm not 100% I want to know, but we will reset the trap tonight. And maybe get ourselves another cat to work the day shift.

Yo! Cat! How about a little help here?

Our mouse is back. Actually, I'm not 100% sure it ever left. It may have just retreated to the attic. A few weeks back I got up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night and as I lay in bed I could hear the faintest scrittch scrittch followed by an even fainter thunk thunk coming from the ceiling above me. It kept me up for at least an hour and the whole time I'm lying there thinking, "you've got to be fucking kidding me? I'm being kept awake by a MOUSE?" I finally fell asleep and have given very little thought to our resident rodent since.

Until tonight when Mark yelled from the kitchen, "I think we still have a mouse."

Me from the living room, "why do you say?"

"Because it's swimming in the dog's water bowl."

Eh?!?

Sure enough, there it was - middle of the water bowl - submerged to it's little neck, desperately trying to gain some traction to propel itself to freedom. And then it did. About .00067 seconds before Mark could slap a newspaper on top of the bowl. And all the while our cat was sleeping soundly in the bedroom, completely oblivious.

So our handy dandy humane mousetrap is loaded up with peanut butter, ready to go. Because Lord knows, we can't count on the cat to catch it.

Tribute to a friend

1995

Today, I said good-bye to one of my best friends and most loyal companions – Cottons, my cat of 21 years.

Twenty-one. Think about that. If she had been a person, she’d be an adult of legal drinking age. I’ve loved her several years longer than my husband. And there is only one friend I’ve known longer who I still stay in regular contact with.


1997

She had two striking features—her bright, Arizona-sky blue eyes and her thick, glorious white fur.

That fur - oh my. It was like rabbit fur: thick and soft. I loved running my hands through it and brushing it until it gleamed. But it had a tendency to get everywhere. It was all over my bed and pillowcase. I’d wake in the middle of the night with cat hair up my nose and stuck to my eyelashes. I’d find it on my toothbrush and in my hairbrush. Huge balls of it would blow down our hallway like tumbleweeds.


With Peanut in 2004

For years, I was unable to walk out of the house without being covered in it. I have lint rollers everywhere—in the car, at work, and several at home. And of course, despite my best efforts to integrate more color into what I wear, I still have a primarily black wardrobe. So it was always noticeable. I was endlessly picking it off of me.

Her fur on my clothes became my own private joke. It became my mission to cover the world with Cottons’ fur, leaving cat hair everywhere I went. Commuting by bus in and out of NYC, I’d always pluck a few hairs from my jacket and leave them on the seat next to me in hopes that they’d stick to a future passenger and be carried elsewhere. The same with airplanes. Spreading her fur was my own personal version of “you tell two friends, and they tell two friends and so on, and so on.” I imagined her fur circling the world sleeve by sleeve.

I dropped her hair all over New York City: Central Park, the Public Library, the Seaport, the Port Authority, Grand Central and numerous museums, subway lines, bars, dressing rooms and restaurants. She was left on the Weehawken and Staten Island ferries and was deposited amidst incredible flowers at the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens. She was even dropped – twice – in the lobby of the World Trade Center.


Cottons and Loaf, October 2005

But it didn’t stop there. Cottons made it to Bermuda and Africa’s North Coast where I stood on a beach in Tunisia and let a tuft of her fur fly along the Mediterranean. Tossed from the bell tower at Notre Dame, she danced over the streets of Paris. Her hair went over a cliff in Jerome, A.Z. and was dusted onto the floor of a cable car in Albuquerque, N.M. It flew from my hand over the railings of Niagara Falls and the Grand Canyon.

She found her way to Moab and Milan (both the one in Italy and the one in Michigan); San Francisco and Dubuque; Boston and Houston. She was left in the sand of beaches across this nation: from Cape Cod to Florida; the Jersey shore to Cannon Beach in Oregon; Montauk, Long Island (extreme east) to Queen’s Bath in Kauai (extreme west).

From the local Gap to a trans-Atlantic flight, she went where I went. Always with me. Always in my heart.


My first baby, November 2004

So today, after we buried her in the yard next to a new Rose of Sharon shrub, I looked down at my shirt. It was coated with her fur. I started pulling hairs off in clumps and tossing them into the air. Some fell to the ground around my feet. Others seemed to take flight – soaring up into the summer the sky on their way to another place. Gone from sight but not from memory.

So if you’re ever out and about and look down to find a long, pure white cat hair on your clothes and can’t imagine how it got there, please take a moment to think of Cottons and her amazing traveling fur, and the girl back in NJ who is still missing her.