Karnak Street Kats

Dos was a street cat. He was a large, orange tabby who would come into our back yard and watch anyone there from a safe distance. Over time, he became a resident and a member of the cat household. We had him neutered and got his shots. If he was in the house, he loved attention. If he was outside, he was the street cat that did not want to be touched. Climbing was his favorite activity. He climbed every tree and even the deck poles up to the roof. He seemed happiest when looking down on the world.

Dos is two in Spanish. We already had a large, orange tabby (Golden) when Dos appeared. Dos was number two. Golden had a very pointed face; Dos a round head. Facing either of them, you knew which cat it was. From any other angle, identification could be difficult. One thing helped: Golden did not climb.

Dos had been with us several years when he developed a lump on his left front leg. The first thought was a cyst. Our veterinarian decided to remove it and have it biopsied just in case. The results were devastating. Dos had an untreatable cancer. To make sure of this diagnosis, the vet sent another tissue sample to Texas A&M veterinary school. A&M confirmed the diagnosis and suggested that the cat be euthanized because the cancer had surely spread to his internal organs.

Except for the leg where he now had an unhealing wound, Dos seemed fine. After consultation with our veterinarian, we decided to amputate the leg. My biggest concern was Dos' quality of life. How would a born climber do without a leg? I knew that three legged animals did just fine, but Dos would be grounded.

Dos came home and healed well. His front leg had been removed at the shoulder. We kept him inside until the stitches were removed. He had no trouble getting around, and the other cats seemed to see no difference.

The day came when Dos went outside. He chose the day, not me. He scooted by me as I went out the back door, then to my horror he jumped to the rail and reached out to a deck pole. He hesitated only for a glance at me, then he shinnied up the pole and took his usual position on the roof. How would he get down?

Dos came down by way of the oak tree that grew near the porch. He had no problem scaling whatever he wanted. The missing leg made no difference. The only change in his behavior was a desire to be picked up and carried to the house. He would come to me in the yard and wait to be picked up. Once in my arms, he relaxed and purred.

A year passed and Dos seemed well. One day I went outside to find Dos crouched at the foot of an elm tree. He looked at me, but did not move. I called him; he did not move. He simply meowed. I hurried to him and picked him up. Once inside, he did not move from where he was placed.

A trip to the vet confirmed the worst. Dos was dying. We had him euthanized and an autopsy confirmed that the cancer had spread throughout his body.

I do not regret my decision to have his leg amputated. Dos had a very good year climbing trees.

Betsy was a small, tortoiseshell female, that appeared on our porch one day. I asked around the neighborhood, but nobody claimed her. Years later I learned that a neighbor had found her in a parking lot and brought her home. When the neighbor learned that Betsy had adopted us, she decided to say nothing and let Betsy be ours.

At the time we had three other cats and four dogs. Betsy adapted to the household without a problem. She was a very calm cat, but she wanted to be with people and did not like being left in the house with the other pets. We had a cabin near Marble Falls in those days and went there every weekend. Usually, we just took the dogs and had a neighbor check on the cats who were left with plenty of food and water if we stayed overnight. Betsy did not like this.

One Saturday morning as I called the dogs to the car, Betsy came running. She jumped in the back seat and sat down, the dogs piled in after her. Betsy did not move. After a family discussion, we decided to let Betsy go with us. She made the trip with no problem, enjoyed the cabin (I had packed cat food) and joined the dogs in the back seat when it was time to come home.

This soon became a routine and Betsy went with us whenever the dogs did. One problem did develop. Betsy liked to curl up to sleep in the back seat. The dogs bounced from window to window. Inevitably, Betsy got stepped on. I could always tell because she made a strange grunt whenever that happened. Eventually, I purchased an all wire container with a metal tray in the bottom that Betsy could curl up in. I secured it with a seat belt. Betsy slept happily and the dogs could not step on her.

I have never had another cat that would ride so calmly in a car. All my others needed to be in a carrier. Betsy was unique.

Cleopatra was a street cat, a small, gray and black tabby with just a hint of orange on her muzzle. She first appeared at my home to eat dry cat food. She was very self-contained, but not wary, and my first impression was that she belonged to someone. After a pregnancy and kittens, I knew she belonged to no one.

We took responsibility and had her spayed. She also received her shots. At first, we let her come and go as she wanted during the day. But sometimes she did not return at night. I discovered that she was hanging out at a nearby cafeteria begging for handouts. Cleo had to cross two busy streets to reach the cafeteria, that was too dangerous, so Cleopatra became a house cat. She adjusted without a problem.

My mother loved hamburgers and fries. Because she had problems keeping enough weight on thanks to Parkinson's Disease, I catered to her tastes. At least once a week, I brought home hamburgers and fries from Burger King (sometimes I also included small salads). At these meals we learned Cleo's peculiar tastes.

Cleopatra loved french fries. She would jump on the table to steal a fry off a plate. If I was slow setting the table, she would simply burrow into the bag for her fries. If you tried to thwart her by scolding her to get off the table she ignored you. Cleo had learned a great truth: there was no corporal punishment in this house. I tried spraying her with water. She half-closed her eyes and pulled her ears down, but she did not budge. The only thing that worked was to physically remove her from the table. She would wait at least a minute before returning. Only feeding her french fries stopped her. What made all this odd was that she never behaved like this except in pursuit of french fries, and she would pass up hamburger for fries. I think her early years on the streets had developed her taste for fries.

The other cats preferred meat. Sometimes they would nose a fry to see what Cleo found so tasty, but none of them ever ate one. Then Shackleton came to live with us. This little kitten watched everything that Cleo did. When she ate french fries, so did Shack. I thought as he grew up he would stop, but just like Cleo he developed a fondness for fries.

Cleopatra is gone now. She made it to eighteen plus. Shackleton still eats fries.