Karnak Street Kats

Velvet Saves the House

2008-04-19T11:32:00.001-05:00

Velvet was my childhood pet, a longhaired, black cat. She was a mostly indoor cat, but did occasionally go out during the day. She was always in at night and remarkably well-behaved.

There was one night…

Our house was old with solid wooden walls that were covered with wallpaper. Under the wallpaper was a layer of cloth, the paper adhered to that layer. That one night, Velvet decided to remove the wallpaper and cloth from a large section of wall. She stood on a bookcase and worked upward, then moved to the floor and stripped paper from the lower wall. She worked for hours.

When my grandmother came into the living room the next morning, she was met with shambles. The wallpaper and cloth had been removed to the boards, and the floor was a litter of pieces of paper and cloth. Velvet had sense enough to hide and was nowhere to be seen.

My grandmother told me that she was ready to send Velvet packing or to, at least, become an outdoor only cat. I don’t think that she really would have done that to Velvet, but I do believe she was very upset.

Luckily for Velvet, my grandmother stopped to examine the wall that the cat had spent the night stripping. When she examined the wall, she discovered small insects were crawling all over it. She called my mother who had been raised in Texas. Mom knew instantly what my Wisconsin born grandmother did not. Those insects were termites.

Velvet was forgiven. Thanks to her, the exterminator was called and the termite infestation destroyed before any real damage was done. She must have heard the termites crawling between the wood and the cloth and gone after the source of the sound. Her diligence stopped the damage . Since then, we have had yearly termite inspections.
Velvet saved the house.

Irene Stored

2008-04-11T22:13:00.002-05:00

Last night, as I sat in my bedroom I heard a strange, muffled scratching sound. I looked around but could see nothing unusual. I decided that the sound must be some critter under the house scratching on an outside wall. My bedroom was made by enclosing an old porch. There is not as much insulation as in the rest of the house and the floor boards are not as thick. The sound stopped, so I went to bed.

The next morning, I heard a small, muffled mew. I could not tell its location, but I knew that it was a cat. I called “kitty, kitty, kitty” and the mewing continued. It was coming from my closet.

I opened my closet door. There is a small, blue cardboard chest of drawers in one corner of my closet. Most of the drawers are empty at the moment. I use it to store seasonal clothing. All the drawers were closed. The mews were coming from the cardboard dresser. I began opening drawers.

I pulled open the bottom drawer. Curled up and filling the drawer was Irene, my gray and white cat. The inside of the drawer had been shredded. She had made the strange noise I had heard the night before as she tried to get out. She cried and let me pick her up. I held her a minute, then released her. She went to the water bowl immediately and drank and drank.

I don’t know how long she was in that drawer because she had come in during the afternoon. I don’t even know how she got in the closet, let alone in a closed drawer. A greater mystery is why she did not cry out the night before instead of just scratching. I guess I’m going to have to start a head count before bed each night.

Horatio Disappears

2008-04-06T22:40:00.001-05:00

Horatio was a black and silver tabby that came to us as a feral cat and became a pet. We had a doggy door at the time, so Horatio learned to come and go as he pleased. At night, I insisted that all the cats be in and the doggy door sealed. Usually, this went without a hitch, but one night Horatio did not come in.

I went looking for him. He was a cat that came when called, so it was unusual that he not come when called. As I searched, I called repeatedly. No Horatio. I was worried, so I walked around the block. This did two things (1) if Horatio had wandered farther than usual perhaps he would hear me and (2) I could be sure there was no cat body in the street. We live near two very busy streets and have lost cats to cars before. There was no sign of Horatio, dead or alive. I returned home. Horatio did not return that night.

The next morning, I once more walked the neighborhood, but on a much expanded route. I made a ten block search to no avail. I was really worried. Maybe someone had taken Horatio. I decided that was unlikely because he was shy with strangers.

That afternoon, I put up signs around my block asking for help in locating my cat. I also checked with the local animal shelter. No Horatio.

The next morning there was a knock on the door. A cook with the restaurant next to our house was there. He asked me if I had lost a cat. I said yes. He informed me there was a cat loose in the stockroom of the restaurant. The cat would not let anyone near it. I knew it was Horatio.

The cook escorted me into the restaurant and to the storage room. The owner of the restaurant was there. She pointed to an upper shelf. There was Horatio among the liquor bottles. I asked everyone to step back, then reached for Horatio. He was obviously glad to see me and came into my arms with no coaxing. He did not even knock a bottle over.

How did he get into the restaurant? The owner gave me my answer. She explained that they had worked on the heating and air-conditioning a few days ago. Only yesterday did they discover that a workman had left the vent open on the roof. I knew that Horatio loved to run along the edge of the restaurant’s roof. Horatio must have found the open vent and climbed down, then somehow gotten into the kitchen and then the stockroom.Whatever Horatio had done, it had been dangerous.

When I got him home, I checked him out. He had a long burn on his stomach. I don’t know where he got it exactly, but he must have had a tight squeeze next to something very hot. I put ointment on the burn. In a few days, Horatio was fine. He was confined to the house for the next week. He did not complain at all about his incarceration. When allowed outside, he stayed in our yard. It was a long time before he did any climbing again.

Horatio Loved Telephone Jacks

2008-04-02T12:41:00.002-05:00

Horatio was a classic, black and silver tabby that I caught when he was about seven months old. A feral cat, he was living on the streets and totally wild. To my surprise, he tamed with ease. Horatio loved attention and totally lacked aggression toward humans. He was shy around strangers. In addition, he loved kittens and was always available to be a surrogate to stray youngsters.

As soon as I captured Horatio, I took him to my veterinarian. He was neutered, received a check-up and got his shots. Since he became so tame, he was allowed outdoors, but came in at night.

Horatio was a charming cat, but I discovered he had one very bad habit. He sprayed telephone jacks. He did not spray indoors otherwise. I discovered his bad habit when our phone went out.

I discovered that the wires and connections in the living room jack were totally rusted. Cat urine is very corrosive. Of course, I did not know which of my male cats had done this initially. I replaced the phone jack, but soon it was corroded again.

I replaced the jack again. Now I watched any cat that came in the living room. One day, I caught Horatio in the act. He was the mysterious sprayer.

To combat his spraying, I covered the jack with plastic. That preserved the jack, but did not stop Horatio from marking it. He also found the jacks in the den and the dining room. More plastic covers and new jacks. As long as he lived with us, he periodically sprayed the phone jacks. They were an attraction he could not resist.

Shack Goes Out

2008-03-26T14:23:00.005-05:00

Shackleton, a small, neutered male cat, is an orange tabby with white highlights. His feet, muzzle, and tummy are white while his eyes are yellow-gold. He has lived with me since he was ten days old.

With spring, his goal is to be outside. He loves to bolt out the door whenever I open it whether I want him out or not. Most of the time I block his nefarious exit, but not every time.

I do not want him outside because he does not see well. He had vision problems when he came to live with us. His vision has improved, but he does not have the visual acuity of a normal cat. This is especially noticeable when he ventures across the street. He simply does not see the traffic. I have had more than one heart stopping moment. Nevertheless, I know that he will get out. I just want to control when.

Last week, he and I had a particularly difficult day. I was busy and did not want to worry about the adventuring of my little orange cat. I blocked Shackleton's exit each time. He was obviously annoyed and took his annoyance out on his house mates. Finally, I told him that once I finished my current project I would go out with him. He seemed to understand and settled down for a nap.

I finished my work and began another task. I had forgotten my promise. There was a tap on my leg. I looked down. There was Shack. He tapped my leg again with his front paw, then walked to the front door. I remembered my promise, just as he had. We went outside together.

I had never had a cat ask for attention like that. Shack is unique.

Sugar Ain't So Sweet

2008-03-19T21:19:00.006-05:00

My aunt's cat came to live with me when it became obvious she was pregnant again. Sugar is a faded tortoiseshell who was extremely wary of people. After the kittens were born and weaned, she immediately went into season. During this time, she was very affectionate, coming to me for attention.

Sugar had appeared on my aunt's farm less than a year ago. I assumed she was a young cat. I could not tell for sure because Sugar would not let me pick her up. I made an appointment for her to be spayed. When I took her in, I told the receptionist what little I knew of her history. I was assured that they would do a complete exam and give me an estimate of her age.

When I picked her up late that day, I was in for a surprise. Sugar was not a young cat. My vet estimated that she was at least eight years old. That changed my plan for her. Originally, I had planned to return her to the farm, even though, my aunt had moved into the city. A neighbor of my aunt's had agreed to feed and water Sugar as well as the other farm cats. Now, I knew she was not so young. I decided to let her stay with me as an indoor cat. I would try to find a home, but I knew a cat her age would probably stay with me.

Sugar's affectionate nature vanished with her spaying. She has become the terror of her part of the house. She wants nothing to do with me unless I have food. She barely tolerates my touch. She swats any of her offspring that draw close to her and attacks the other two, older females that share her quarters. Teegar, a large, black, male cat had the audacity to try to enter her part of the house. Sugar drove him back with an all out attack that sent all the cats into hiding. Sugar is no longer sweet.

Dos Tries to Walk on Water

2008-03-16T20:21:00.005-05:00

Dos was a large, orange tabby that came to us as an adult cat. He would sit on the steps leading to the swimming pool so that only his head was above the level of the pool deck and watch us swim. I would talk to him whenever I noticed him. In time, he came around when no one was in the pool. Finally, he accepted our friendship.

Checking around the neighborhood, I learned that he was the offspring of a feral female and had no home. We adopted him and made him part of the family which meant neutering and all shots. He adjusted to everything but being in at night. Until he was much older, he did not willingly come in at night.

One late afternoon in the fall, I began my cat round-up. The wind had been blowing hard all day and for some reason the pool pump was off, so the pool surface was completely covered in oak and elm leaves. If you did not know that the pool was full of water, you would think that this was just a leaf strewn lawn.

The cats came in, all but Dos. I went looking for him. He was sitting on the pool deck. As I approached, he sauntered away. He could easily leave the yard by jumping off the deck onto the drive way if he continued on the same path, but he stopped. He seemed to be studying the pool which was fourteen feet wide and twenty-eight feet long. Did he think that we had filled it in and covered it with leaves?

I don't know. Maybe Dos thought he could leap fourteen feet. He looked over his shoulder at me. I had long since stopped, no longer pursuing him. He looked back at the pool, then started down the deck at trot. As he hit top speed, he turned and launched himself across the pool. For a moment, I thought he would make it. He missed by a little over a foot.

There was a tremendous splash, and Dos completely disappeared under water. Then he bobbed to the surface, paddling. I called to him from the steps out of the pool. He ignored me and swam to the nearest side. He made a lunge and got the upper part of his body out of the pool, then pulled the rest of his body out. He shook himself. I called but he headed toward the front of the house.

I hurried back into the house, through the kitchen, dining room, and living room to open the front door. Sure enough, a very wet, orange cat came in the front door. I scooped him up and headed to the bathroom. Soon, I had him toweled dry and content to settle down for the night.

As far as I know, Dos is the only one of my cats that ever tried to leap across the pool. Maybe he was just trying to walk on water.

Lady Barbara Comes Home

2008-03-12T17:22:00.008-05:00

Lady Barbara, a tortoiseshell female cat, came home after major surgery. She had had a puncture wound into her colon that leaked fecal matter. I had to take her to Texas A&M for the surgery. I was given strict instructions for her diet. No dry food. Every serving of canned food had to have a teaspoon of Metamucil mixed into it. I knew the only way this diet could succeed was to keep Lady Barbara in a separate room. Lady B as she came to be called was put into the solarium and fed twice a day per instructions.

This feeding schedule lasted for six weeks with Lady B growing less and less happy about mealtime. She made biweekly visits to the vet to have her incision checked as well as her general health. She always passed with flying colors. Lady B never protested being poked and prodded. She had a u-shaped scar now on her rear, open-side down. She looked like she had been kicked by a very small horse. Except for the scar, she seemed in excellent health. She was released from the solarium.

Lady Barbara lived fourteen more years. She died suddenly of internal bleeding. My vet believed that there had been other injuries at the time of her accident that finally caught up with her. In all those years, Lady Barbara was an indoor-only cat in the same house. In all those years, she never entered the solarium again. I guess she thought if she did she would have to eat that Metamucil-laced food again.

To learn about Lady Barbara's arrival, click here.

Lady Barbara at Texas A & M

2008-03-06T13:35:00.020-06:00

My mother and I sat in the waiting room at Texas A&M University animal clinic with Lady Barbara in a carrier. We were here to see if this little tortoiseshell cat could be saved. Lady Barbara had a puncture wound into her colon. (To learn how this started, click here.)

At last, a young woman called my name. We were escorted to an examining room where the young woman removed Lady Barbara from the carrier. Lady Barbara promptly jumped onto the nearby sink area. I started to retrieve her, but the young woman told me to let her explore the room, then left. Lady Barbara did explore. She went everywhere but the examining table. We waited.

The door opened; an older man entered and introduced himself. He was the professor my veterinarian had contacted. Behind him came another professor, two postdoctoral students and the young woman, a graduate student. We had a crowd. Lady Barbara, back on the sink counter watched all with interest.

The first professor retrieved her from the counter and placed her on the examining table. For the first time, Lady Barbara did not look happy. Everyone gathered around her as the professor began his exam. He cleaned around her wound (she still leaked fecal matter), then began a careful study of her rear. The others did likewise. Lady Barbara did not seem to find it strange that so many people were interested in her rear end.

The first professor turned to me. "I think that we can help her," he said.

Until that moment, I did not know how worried I was about a cat I had had only a few weeks. I could sense the relaxation flow through my body.

He continued, explaining that this was an unusual injury, one that they had never seen in a cat, and only a few times in dogs. They were overjoyed to be able to work on her. The professor explained that they would not try to repair the tear, but instead, remove the damaged section of colon and reconnect it to her rectum. They would have to make a large, u-shaped incision around her rectum. When finished, Lady Barbara's rear would have been lifted closer to her tail. The only question would be whether any muscles had been damaged. He did not think so. Lady Barbara would have to stay at least a week.

We went home (after paying for the surgery) and waited. Lady Barbara's surgery was the next day. The professor had promised that someone would call every evening.

When the phone rang the next evening, it was the young woman graduate student. Lady Barbara had come through the surgery with flying colors and was recovering nicely. The graduate student promised to call the next day.

She did. Lady Barbara was doing well, although not eating robustly. They were waiting to see what happened when she defecated.

I was surprised by her lack of appetite because despite her injury, Lady Barbara had liked to eat. Now, I had something to worry about.

The news was great the next day. Lady Barbara had defecated normally. Everything was working properly. Her appetite was still not what it should be, but all her vital signs were normal.

I asked what they were feeding her. Canned Friskies, her favorite variety. Then the graduate student said, "Oh, we put a teaspoon of Metamucil in every serving."

I understood. I would not like to eat any meal with that stuff mixed in. Poor Lady Barbara.

Despite her distaste for the food, Lady Barbara did well. One week later, I was able to return to Texas A&M and retrieve her. Lady Barbara came home.

Photos of Texas A&M campus by StuSeeger.

Lady Barbara Arrives

2008-03-02T14:57:00.007-06:00

One early spring day, a pretty tortoiseshell cat appeared on our front porch hungrily munching on my cats' dry cat food. I went out to examine the new arrival because I was always aware a new arrival could spread disease among my crew. The friendly cat came to me. With shock, I noticed (smelled first) that she had fecal matter smeared around her rear. I picked Stinky up and looked closer: the cat had a wound near her rectum that was leaking fecal matter. Despite this horrific injury, the cat kept her poise and purred. I named her Lady Barbara after the wife of Captain Horatio Hornblower. (We already had Horatio.)

As soon as I finished examining her, we headed to my vet. He determined that she had received a puncture wound into her colon. He had seen such injuries in dogs, but never cats. He immediately scheduled her for surgery. Meanwhile, I looked for her owner.

The surgery did not go well. My veterinarian was unable to seal the hole. Lady Barbara, however, was otherwise fine. I, however, had no luck finding her owner.

Afer consultation with my vet, he made an appointment at the small animal clinic that was part of Texas A&M University's Veterinary College. Lady Barbara came home until the time for her appointment. She stayed in one of my big cages because of her condition. She remained a sweet cat that loved attention as much as food.

The day of her appointment we left early because it was a long drive. Lady Barbara slept peacefully inside the largest carrier I owned. The carrier was in the back seat. We stopped for a hurried lunch, then on to A&M.

At the clinic, we checked in and waited. My vet had been encouraging, but I knew there was a chance that Lady Barbara was not fixable. Even if the wound sealed, the muscles that controlled her rectum might not work. What would we do if Lady Barbara could not be healed?

To learn what happened next, click here.

The Best Cat I Ever Knew

2008-02-27T19:14:00.005-06:00

Satin was the best cat I have ever known. She was a fluffy, long-haired, black cat that belonged to my childhood friend. Her mother was the infamous neighborhood terror that once chased a boxer over a block, even though she did not have kittens at the time. I don't know how Satin was selected to remain with her mother, but it was a brilliant choice. This was a cat for little girls to play with.

My friend and I would regularly dress Satin in doll clothes. She never complained, even with a bonnet on. Placed in a doll bed wearing a nightgown and bonnet, she lay on her back with her paws draped over the coverlet and did not move. She always seemed happy to be with us. She never struggled, scratched or bit. She always purred.

Satin loved to go bike riding. We had baskets on our bicycles, and one day one of us put Satin in her bicycle basket and took off. I don't remember which of us did that first. I do remember that Satin sat in the basket as if she had been riding in it all her life. After that, we regularly took turns giving her rides, not once, did she jump out.

Satin did have one bad habit. Every Christmas, she climbed the Christmas tree which was usually about eight feet tall. Satin climbed until the tree fell over, then she never bothered it again. The result was her human family put the tree up undecorated and waited until cat and tree fell over. After that annual event, the tree was decorated and remained unmolested.

The whole neighborhood had a crisis the day a speeding vehicle hit Satin. The driver did stop. He received a scolding from the crowd that formed quickly. I doubt he ever drove down Karnak Street again. Satin's jaw was broken and had to be wired back together. Satin had to eat baby food for weeks. She recovered completely, but managed to convince her owners that she still needed baby food once a week. She lived to be an old cat. The whole neighborhood mourned her passing.

Cat Riot

2008-02-23T17:46:00.007-06:00

There must have been a cat riot last night, a riot that I slept through. When I awoke and made my way to my bathroom, I found it in shambles. The toilet paper had been removed from its holder and shredded. Fluffly white confetti was everywhere. The towels stacked neatly on shelves above the toilet tank were now on the floor, except for the hand towel in toilet bowl. I removed that and tossed it in the shower. I have a pair of baskets screwed to the wall; both contain odds and ends. The baskets were still in place, but their contents were on the floor. As I picked up the debris, I noticed several furry faces peering at me from the doorway.

"Did you cats do this?" I asked.

Two furry faces disappeared instantly. The others managed their best wide-eyed stares as if to say, "Not me, I'm innocent."

I muttered something as I picked up more toilet paper confetti, and all the cats vanished. So much for innocence.

After finishing in my bathroom, I headed for the kitchen. On my way I passed the other bathroom. This bathroom has a a built-in medicine cabinet. The cabinet door closes with a latch that must be turned before it will open. The cabinet was wide open. The sink was full of the contents of the cabinet: lipstick, toothbrushes, eyeliner, and powder puffs. On the floor were a couple of brushes and a medicine bottle containing my mother's partial plate. Again, I picked up the remains of the riot. This time not a cat appeared.

At last, I made it into the kitchen. Now, a different set of cats inhabit the kitchen, utility room, living room, and dining room. The two groups are separated by always closed doors. The doors were closed. I was sure that the kitchen, etc. area cats would not have staged a riot. I was correct. All they had done was open one cabinet and remove the salt, pepper, and other spices. Nothing was broken and nothing had been damaged.

I do not know what caused so much activity in both cat camps, but not one them will admit to anything. However, Shack has been know to open the kitchen cabinets. He is definitely a suspect. As to the bedrooom-bathroom cats, the primary suspects are the new arrivals, Rosefire and Greenmist. Questioning continues.

I did not take a picture of this morning's mess, but I did find one that looked all too familiar. Photo by gardenghelle.

Shack Gets Speared

2008-02-20T14:18:00.011-06:00

Shackleton, my orange and white, male cat, insists on going outside. Actually, he slips between my ankles whenever I open the front door. He never stays out too long. When he wants in, he jumps up on the porch bannister and looks in one of the tall windows that flank the front door. I usually spot him as I work at my computer.

After Shack dashes out, he does a quick survey of the front yard, especially the bird feeder (too high for him to reach), gets a drink from the birdbath on the ground (for cats, not birds), then back on the porch to watch the yard. Sometimes, he stops to nibble some grass, so that when he comes in he can throw up on the furniture.

While Shack is small for a male, he is full of energy and seldom wants to be held. He misses my mother, I think, because he likes to sit in her chair. When Mom was alive, she was Shack's special person. Shack does climb into my lap for attention about once a day. (If you want to learn about Shack's arrival, click here.)

One day as I held him, I noticed a swelling on the side of his head just below his eye. I felt the area; it was hard and unyielding. Shack did not like my exam and wiggled away, but the area did not seem particularly tender. I was worried. Lumps on cats can herald cancer. Off to my vet we went.

My vet was not sure what was wrong. He kept Shackleton for observation, but started him on an injectable antibiotic. Shack stayed three days. The lump decreased in size slightly. All of the tests came back showing no abnormalities. Shack came home to finish the antibiotic regimen. If the lump was not gone by the time the antibiotic was, my vet would do a biopsy.

The lump was smaller, but did not grow smaller once Shack came home. I examined him every day, growing more and more worried. On the next to last day of the antibiotic regimen, I ran my fingers lightly over the lump. My fingers felt something. I looked carefully. There was something barely visible in Shack's fur protruding out of his cheek.

I held Shack as I found my tweezers. He did not protest as I pulled the object from his cheek. It was the pointed end of spear grass. The same grass that I had thrown at playmates in my childhood. I called my vet and told him. He agreed with me that Shack had eaten some spear grass and gotten the end embedded in his cheek where it worked its way from the inside out.

I continued the antibiotic, and with the spear removed, Shack's lump disappeared. He is healthy. I spent my free time in the next few days prowling the yard for spear grass. I removed all I found. A year has passed, and Shack has not been speared again.

The proper name for this grass is Nassella leucotricka; common name: Texas speargrass or Texas wintergrass.

Drawing courtesy:USDA-NRCS PLANTS Database / Hitchcock, A.S. (rev. A. Chase). 1950. Manual of the grasses of the United States. USDA Miscellaneous Publication No. 200. Washington, DC.
Photo courtesy: Sam C. Strickland; Wildflower Center Digital Library

Irene Relaxes

2008-02-17T20:26:00.005-06:00

Irene, my gray and white female, has decided that being a house cat might not be such a bad thing. I think the breakthrough came when I provided several rooms where she could stay and where her nemesis, Wellington, was not allowed. Before that, she she usually stayed outside from early morning until dark. Now, she goes out in the morning, but returns in a couple of hours and does not go out again.

She does not like to be held, but she does like to have her head rubbed. For several years, I have made a point of petting her head any chance I get. At night now, she climbs onto my bed, then my chest and waits for her head rub. I try always to oblige. Irene becomes quite irate when I need to move or roll over. She considers it a personal affront.

Irene has also managed to convince me to provide her her own private drinking glass. There is a large bowl of water on the floor that is always available, but she prefers her water untouched by other cats. I do not remember the first time I filled a large plastic medicine bottle for her to drink from, but now it is a habit. When she jumps up onto the vanity around the bathroom sink, I fill her container to the brim. She drinks happily. Since she has had kidney problems in the past, I am glad to indulge her.

Irene still carries on a running commentary on the evils of human hands whenever I pick her up, but she seldom struggles or bites. Once in a while, she obviously thinks I am taking liberties and will still give me a nip. Sometimes, I think it is a test to see if I am as resolute as ever in keeping my hold. (I am.)

My goal is to convince her that a life as an indoor only cat would be quite acceptable.

Harlequin Bites

2008-02-13T13:46:00.005-06:00

An enormous black and white cat began hanging out on our block. I soon determined that this was an unaltered male, that explained his frequent disappearances. He was not fat, just long and sturdy. I asked around and even put an ad in the paper (this was before the internet). No one knew anything about this cat. I tried approaching him, but he was very skittish. Over some weeks, I was able to pet him. Gradually, he became friendlier. Eventually, I was able to load him in a carrier and take him to my veterinarian. There, I had to provide a name. Harlequin came to mind, and Harlequin he became although in time he was just Harley. Harlequin got a full physical (he passed); then he was neutered and vaccinated. When I picked him up, I received a warning. He was a biter.

Harley did not fit in with the other cats because he wanted to attack any cat in his territory. I had a large cage (4ftx4ftx2ft) that I used for sick or injured cats where I put him to recuperate. I made a discovery. He relaxed in the cage and completely ignored the other cats. He also was much more relaxed with me. I formed a plan. Harley could go out during the day where he would be our only outdoor cat. At night, I would bring him in and place him in the cage. To my amazement and relief, this worked. Harley actually loved the arrangement. In the morning he waited for me to take him outside, and when I came home from work, he was ready to come in. I did have to watch where I placed my hands. Too close to his head and Harley would bite. My mother would not touch him.

The day came when Harley got a kitty cold that turned into a respiratory infection. Off to the vet, then home with pills to take. All went well for several days, but Friday night, I was tired and Harley was in a bad mood. As I gave him a pill, he spit it out. I retrieved it and started to drop it back in Harley’s mouth. I don’t know what was the trigger, but Harley nailed me. His teeth went through the flesh of my left hand between the thumb and forefinger, all the way through, double punctures. He seemed to realize what he had done and to have regretted it. I was able to push the pill into his throat then put him back into his cage.

I washed the wound out with soap and water, and tried to squirt antibiotic ointment into each of the holes. The wounds had bled freely. I hoped that I would escape infection. I did not. When I woke Saturday morning, red streaks ran from the holes several inches up my arm. I called my doctor’s emergency number and reached the doctor on duty. I had to demand antibiotics. He wanted me to wait until Monday and see my own doctor. I finally did convince him, and he called in a prescription for three days worth of antibiotics. (Antibiotics are problematic for me because I am allergic to many of them.) I started the antibiotics immediately, and by Monday when I did see my doctor, the infection was under control. My doctor continued the antibiotics, and I healed without incident.

Cat bites are extremely nasty. Always see your doctor if a cat bites you. A friend had to have hand surgery when a cat bite infection did not respond to antibiotics. The surgery was successful, but she was disabled for several weeks. She was bitten because she stopped her cat from biting the vet by putting her hand in his mouth, although that was not her plan. I have been bitten several times and twice needed medical care afterward. Always respect your cat. I have never been bitten by a feral cat, only by a pet.

Snowball's Bed

2008-02-10T14:04:00.000-06:00

Snowball became my maternal grandmother’s cat. She first appeared as a white stray, claimed by no one in the neighborhood. Once I determined that the stray was a female, I knew I must act. Soon, she had been to my veterinarian, had a check-up, shots, and been spayed. She returned to become one of our household.

My grandmother (Granma) tolerated our cats, but they were not allowed in her room. We did not expect this cat to be any different. We were wrong. When Granma was a child, we learned that she had had an all white farm cat called Snowball. Granma informed us that our new white cat was to be named Snowball. Neither my mother nor I had any reason to object, so Snowball it was.

We soon discovered something even more shocking. Snowball was allowed to sleep on Granma’s bed. She had her space at the foot of the double bed on the side opposite from where Granma slept. Snowball was Granmas’s companion in the day, too, sitting beside her or even in her lap.

Granma was 96 years old when she died. Granma had seven children, all still living at the time of her death. All came to her funeral. One son and his wife flew in from Ohio and stayed with us. We gave them Granma’s room to sleep in. Not until the day they were leaving did we learn about Snowball’s behavior.

My uncle and aunt had visited before, so they knew Snowball and her special relationship with Granma. The first night that they slept in Granma’s bed, my uncle wound up on Snowball’s side of the bed. Snowball had taken her regular spot on the bed. My uncle nudged her with his foot to move her away.

Snowball bit his toe!

My uncle explained that it was not a vicious bite, more of a nip, but Snowball was clearly asserting her claim to her spot. I asked him what he did. He told me he simply moved his feet closer to his wife’s and gave Snowball her space.

Snowball would live for many years. She always slept on Granma’a bed.

Love a Feral

2008-02-07T14:16:00.000-06:00

Wellington the Last

2008-02-06T21:05:00.000-06:00

Wellington is the last cat in the house at night. He will not come when called if it is after three in the afternoon because he believes that I will make him come in. While it is not always true that I want him in at that moment, it is true that I would like him to come in before dark. My other cats trot into the house on command. Even Gamma who adores being outside, dutifully comes when called.

Wellington lurks under the yellow jasmine where he can survey the yard and keep an eye on me. If I have the audacity to invade the jasmine, he trots across the yard, tail high, to the nandina near the house. Further pursuit on my part results in his disappearance under the house. I live in an old house with a pier and beam foundation. There is no basement, just a skirted space under the house where the cats retreat.

Wellington does have one weakness: catnip. If I am really desparate, I can bribe him with a fresh sprig of catnip. This almost always works. Wellington has dealt with his weakness. He simply leaves the front yard long before I search for him. I do not know where he goes although I suspect my neighbor's fenced and locked yard.

The result of all these tactics is that Wellington is the last cat in at night. Once darkness falls, Wellington will come when called. Well, maybe not the first time. If I have been unsuccessful after several tries, I can get in my car and drive around the block. Wellington always comes to meet the car.

As I come up the sidewalk, he lies down in front of me. He wants to be picked up and carried in while being told what a wonderful cat he is. There is only one problem; Wellington weighs in at twenty pounds. He is a lot for an arthritic with a bad hip to handle. My doctor has forbidden me to carry heavy bags of litter or cat food because he fears my bad hip may fail. (I had a bone disease as a child.) I have never told my doctor about Wellington. He probably suspects.

I only have to carry Wellington to the door. He expects to be put down so that he can strut into the house. Once inside, he heads straight to the dry food bowl. He snacks for a moment, then begins his evening patrol of the house. Once satisfied that all his subjects are properly subservient, he takes his place on top of the refrigerator.

Wellington is not the first out in the morning. I think he believes that would be beneath his dignity.

Catnip

2008-02-04T13:33:00.002-06:00

My cats adore catnip. Some will eat it, some will roll in it and some do both. In all my years of owning cats, I have had only one cat that did not like catnip, Dos. He could never understand what was going on with the other cats when catnip was distributed. He would sniff it, paw it, then look at the other cats mystified. I do know that a small percentage of cats are like Dos and do not react to catnip.

I have always had fresh catnip for my cats. When I only had two cats, Teeger and Tippy, a brother and sister, I could grow catnip behind the rose bushes in a corner of my garden. Teeger was a large, long-haired black cat; Tippy a robust tortoiseshell. Both were indoor/outdoor cats.

I was a successful grower for a number of years until Teeger discovered the catnip. I came home from work one summer day to find Teeger lying on his back among the remains of my catnip bed. He must have spent hours there behind the roses. He looked at me dreamily and did not move. The catnip never had a chance after that. Teeger returned day after day to that catnip until nothing remained.

After Teeger's debacle, I had to find a new way to grow catnip. My solution was to switch to a hanging basket. The hanging basket proved successful. I can grow large quantities of catnip in a basket hung from a chain under the oak tree. I trim the catnip back ever so often and share the green bounty with my cats. I think the fresh catnip is particularly good for my indoor cats.

Winter is a problem. I tried bringing the hanging basket inside, but that resulted in total destruction of catnip and basket. I still don't know how the cats managed to reach the basket. Now, I hang the basket on the front porch where it is protected from all but the hardest freezes. For those extremely cold times, I put the catnip in my office which is off-limits to the cats.

My cats know that I have been writing about their favorite herb. They all have that look of expectancy. I will go cut some for them to enjoy.

Gamma and the Pigeons

2008-02-01T20:23:00.000-06:00

Gamma, my gray cat with white feet and white chest, goes out every morning along with Wellington, my gray tabby with white. They race to see who will be the first down the front steps. Wellington usually wins even though he is older and heavier. They then patrol the front yard to determine who has dared to visit over night. My neighbors up the street have a white cat named Sydney who only dares visit when Gamma and Wellington are indoors at night. As far as I can tell Sydney is never allowed inside which makes me sad. There is also the yellow tom who is claimed by another neighbor, but seems to roam widely.

While the boys check out the yard, I feed the pigeons in the alley. I throw out seed and a flock of twenty or so descend immediately. This week the pigeons have been absent some days because a falcon has been cruising the area. Gamma has been very disappointed because he loves the pigeons. Actually, he loves to eat the pigeons. He has never managed to catch one of the flock in the morning, but stragglers later in the day seem to fall prey to him all too often. I sometimes manage a rescue, but too often Gamma disappears with his victim.

Gamma and I often have discussions in the morning as the pigeons eat. "These are my pigeons, Gamma. Do not try to catch them," I say. He looks at me with his yellow eyes and seems to agree that these birds are only for looking, not eating. I tell him to come back inside for breakfast, and he dutifully follows me into the house. Except when he has a pigeon in his mouth, he is very obedient.

After breakfast, he goes out again and begins to plot a pigeon's demise. Luckily, he is seldom successful. There does seem to be an endless supply of pigeons on Karnak Street since the flock never grows smaller. As always, I plan to discuss pigeons with Gamma tomorrow.

Wynken, Blynken and Nod

2008-01-31T13:56:00.000-06:00

Teeger

Wynken

Daisy had three black kittens, two short-haired females and one long-haired male. We named them Wynken, Blynken and Nod. The two females, Wynken and Blyken were identical. In order to tell them apart, I clipped Wynken's tail fur, so that her tail had a blunt instead of pointed tip. All three were lap kitties and very much people cats.

We had dear friends, a married couple, who lived in Gonzales, Texas. She was confined to a wheelchair and home alone in the daytime while her husband worked. Their adult daughter decided that her mother needed a companion. Her father had always preferred dogs, but agreed a cat would probably be better. He contacted me about taking one of our kittens. Shortly before Christmas, Blynken went to live with our friends.

Blynken soon took over their home. During the day, she is the perfect lap cat for my friend in her wheelchair.
When her husband returns from work, he puts on gloves and engages Blynken who turns into a ferocious playmate. Blynken is the cat each of them needed.

Wynken and Nod stayed with my mother and me. Wynken loves attention, but no longer likes to be held. Nod is the lap cat. He jumps into my lap any chance he gets. He is particularly fond of being held when I am at the computer. This does not always work since he thinks the mouse is a plaything. he also assists with my typing. I can blame typos on him.

Nod is now called Teeger. My mother had a stroke a few years after Nod and his siblings were born. Her speech center was damaged. Her diction was perfect; she just lost her dictionary. She could not remember what words meant. Proper nouns were completely gone. If the cat had not resided with us for more than five years, she could not remember their names. Now, twenty years before, we had owned a long-haired, black cat named Teeger. Nod, who was identical to that cat, assumed his name. Mother called him Teeger. I realized that it would be easier for me to go along with my mother's choice, so Nod became Teeger. He adjusted without a problem. Wynken never got a new name. She was The Black Cat to my mother while I continued to call her Wynken. (Mother is gone, but Nod is still Teeger.)

I just checked on Wynken's and Teeger's age: both will be ten in October. How strange, it seems that it was only a couple of years ago when Daisy appeared.

Miss Kitty

2008-01-29T12:49:00.000-06:00

Miss Kitty came to live with me last year. She is a long-haired, orange tabby. Her owner asked me to care for her when he knew that he must serve a prison sentence. Miss Kitty had been his mother's cat. Her owner was in tears when I agreed to take her. (He and I had a history because his dog had helped kill my cat, Abner, the only cat I ever lost to dogs in my 50+ years of having cats.) I knew an older cat had little chance of adoption. Her owner told me she was sixteen, but I think she is not that old.

Miss Kitty moved in and immediately made it clear that she did not like other cats. Her yellowish eyes would narrow as any cat approached, then she would yell in rage if they came closer. This tactic worked well with every cat, but Shackleton. Soon, Miss Kitty had her chair and eating area staked out. She settled into life with my crew.

I learned that Miss Kitty did not like to be handled. She whined the minute I picked her up. The whine became a wail if I did not release her immediately, but she did nothing else. I soon learned that her wail was her general comment on life. However, if I deposited her in my lap, so she was not being held, she relaxed.

Miss Kitty loves to be combed. Actually, she loves for her back, neck and sides to be combed. She thinks anything else is a hideous experience to be commented on with her loudest wails. Since she is long-haired, she must be combed all over. So, despite her protests, I comb her tummy, legs, tail and chest, too. She always stalks off with a swish of her tail when I finish.

I don't know when her owner will return. His sentence has turned out to be longer than he thought. I suspect that Miss Kitty is a permanent member of the family.

Disappearing Cats

2008-01-26T20:48:00.000-06:00

I am always amazed by the ability of cats to disappear, even if confined to the house. My cleaning lady came today, and most of the cats simply vanished. (I really can't afford her, but my arthritis is so bad that some tasks are simply impossible for me. Wellington understands that I cannot bend; he always gets up on something so that I can pet him.) My cleaning lady loves cats and enjoys my friendly ones. Even some of the friendly ones disappear when the vacuum cleaner starts. Not until she has been gone for at least an hour, do any of the vanished reappear.

Cleopatra was the only cat I have known that liked the vacuum. I have a cannister style, and Cleo loved to sleep on top of the running machine. She was quite willing to ride around the house on the vacuum and resented being shooed off when I wanted to carry the cannister. I have never had a cat that would let me vacuum their fur although I know there are cats that like to be vacuumed.

Today, when I went into my bedroom, I discovered one hiding place. I looked at the drapes where sunlight was shining and saw the outline of four little feet. Napoleon was on the window sill with his feet pressed against the drapes. I peeked underneath. He rolled over and looked at me, but would not leave his hiding place. With his feet down, he could not be detected. At least now, I know where one of my gang hides.

Ferals Adjust

2008-01-23T12:11:00.000-06:00

Greenmist and Rosefire, two feral females, just recently released from the bathroom to the house, are adjusting well. Greenmist, the least trusting, is gray with white feet. Rosefire is a faded calico. I was describing her as a tortoiseshell, but now that I have seen her better, I have noticed a white belly. Both still bolt from the room if I appear without warning, but Rosefire has found a den chair that she likes to sleep on.

Both ferals now eat with the other den cats while I am in the room. Rosefire always appears first, eager for breakfast. Greenmist darts in from the front bedroom, but she does eat with all the others. I have managed to pet Rosefire, but not Greenmist. I did have a long conversation with her, but she remains so suspicious.

What is clear is that Rosefire is dominant. Greenmist seeks her for comfort and watches her behavior, then follows suit. Perhaps, if I can convince Rosefire that people aren't so bad, Greenmist will relax too.

You may help support Rosefire and Greenmist by donating to the Karnak Street Kats.

Ferals in the House

2008-01-20T16:42:00.000-06:00

Greenmist and Rosefire, two feral cats that are temporary residents, had been staying in one of my bathrooms. See Ferals in the Bathroom. Since last Thursday, they are loose in the rear portion of the house which consists of two bedrooms, two baths and a den. They have both become phantoms disappearing from view when I enter that part of the house.

Rosefire, a faded tortoiseshell, is the braver of the two. I actually see her several times a day. Not so with Greenmist, a gray cat with white feet, only in the morning when I am feeding canned food do I catch a glimpse of her. Usually, she pokes her head out of the unoccupied bedroom for a nanosecond, then vanishes. This morning, she must have been hungrier than usual because she actually stepped into the den with me for all of five seconds. Rosefire was eating, but keeping an eye on me. Neither cat really trusts me.

The good news: Greenmist and Rosefire are having no problems with the other cat residents of that part of the house including Irene who is not tolerant of other cats. Rosefire has made it into my bedroom at least once. I know because Irene, who sleeps on my bed, hissed at her and alerted me to her presence. As soon as she and I made eye contact, she bolted from the room.

My goal is to tame these two, so that I can find homes for them. Otherwise, they will return to the farm come spring. If I get some help with their upkeep, they can stay longer.

Sylvester the Old

2008-01-17T11:43:00.000-06:00

Sylvester, a long-haired, black and white male, is eighteen years old. He is the oldest cat in the house. I have had Sylvester since he was about four months old, but to this day he barely tolerates me. Sylvester is feral. I trapped him in my neighbor's backyard. My neighbor had seen the wild youngster and asked me to catch him.

I took him to the vet, got him neutered and vaccinated, and brought him home. Released into the house, he became a black and white phantom that appeared for food, then disappeared. Eventually, he became more visible, sleeping on the sofa or on a window sill. He remained untouchable.

Over a very long time, I was able to pet when he was eating his morning ration of canned food. Even then, he would shrink away from my first touch. Slowly, so very slowly, he became accustomed to my touch. I could not pick him up, but I could run my hand across his body with no problem. Sylvester no longer bolted out of the room when I came in.

Sylvester got an upper respiratory infection. His nose dripping, his eyes mattery, he was miserable. I planned my moves carefully. I had a carrier beside his food bowl before I put out the morning repast. When Sylvester arrived to eat, I scooted him into the carrier and closed the door. Sylvester was not happy. He told me so with a mournful wail that dissolved into a cough.

Sylvester spent over a week at the vet on injectable antibiotics. He came home in good physical health, but traumatized by his time away from home. Once more, I had a black and white phantom, but now, one that would not let me touch him even when he ate.

It has taken years, but Sylvester once more allows me to pet him when he is eating and tolerates my presence in the same room as he. My vet thinks that unless Sylvester has obvious signs of illness that he should be left alone. Afterall, Sylvester is an indoor only cat, that has never gone near a door to the outside.

Gamma the Bold

2008-01-15T12:53:00.001-06:00

Gamma and his two brothers, Alpha and Beta, were dumped on my front porch as kittens with their mother, Irene. Gamma is a silver gray cat with a white bib, white feet, and a splash of white on top of his nose. He was about three months old when he arrived. As usual, I planned to make them indoor only cats.

Gamma was a climber. Nothing stopped him from reaching the top of the tallest bookcase, about nine feet off the floor. He scrambled into every nook and cranny in the house. After only a couple of days, he discovered the deck off the kitchen. The deck, enclosed by lattice including the roof, was accessible through a doggie door. Gamma adored climbing the wooden ladder I had set up there for the cats.

There was only one problem with Gamma's adventures. If he found himself unable to extricate himself from a place, he cried piteously. I then had to rescue him. In the house, there were few places this happened.

At three one morning, I heard those familiar wails. Gamma had got himself trapped somewhere. I got out of bed then realized that the cries were coming from directly above my bed. There was nothing but roof there. I listened more closely. Gamma was outside on the roof!

I hastened to the deck and called him. He must have squeezed through the lattice to get to the roof. Maybe I could squeeze him back through. I tried, Gamma tried, but we could not find a space big enough to get through. I gave up.

I put on some shorts. I slept in underwear and a T-shirt. At three-thirty, I headed outside. I retrieved the extension ladder from its place and put it up to the roof. Gamma was there immediately. I tried to convince him to come down the ladder, but that didn't work. So, with a deep breath (I'm afraid of heights), I climbed the ladder.

Gamma was waiting impatiently. He had had enough of the roof. I grabbed him with one hand and brought him to my chest. Using only one hand to hold on to the ladder, I inched down. Gamma was unperturbed. I think he enjoyed the descent immensely. My legs were weak by the time we reached the ground.

Once inside, I sealed the doggie door after making sure there were no cats on the deck. Of course there were none in sight. I knew where they were: in my bedroom, sitting on my bed where they had all enjoyed my struggles.

Gamma continues to go out, but he is inside every night. He would like to be top cat, but Wellington stands in his way.

Irene the Business Cat

2008-01-13T21:39:00.000-06:00

Irene and her three kittens were dumped on my front porch. The kittens were almost as big as she, but still nursing. I immediately separated the kittens from her, so she could dry up before being spayed. Irene seemed relieved. She is a petite, gray and white cat with beautiful yellow-green eyes. While she was in the house, I had no problem handling her, and soon enough, she was spayed. Again, she seemed to be adjusting to being a house cat.

One morning that changed. As I was letting the boys out, Irene went too. I followed her, but she climbed the nearest tree and would not come down. I returned to my morning chores sure that Irene had been with us long enough that she would not stray. I was only half right. She did cross the street to a neighboring business in an old, two story house where she climbed the outside steps to the second floor. I retrieved her later in the day. She did not enjoy being picked up; she batted my glasses off with a hiss. I held on and we came to an understanding. If I picked her up, she would let me take her home.

Soon, a daily ritual was established. Irene went to work in the morning at the business and allowed me to bring her home in the evening. One day, I headed out to retrieve her a little earlier than usual and encountered a worker at the business. He was astounded to see Irene in my arms.

"We all thought she was a stray with no home. We call her Gypsy."

I assured him that she was a pet that spent every night indoors and that her name was Irene. She simply liked their building better than her home during the day. ( I suspect my outdoor boys have something to do with that. ) He was overjoyed to know she had a home.

Since then, I have discovered that Irene has several friends at the business. Some even bring her treats. None can pick her up. Irene can be a bit of a handful.

Since it is winter, Irene spends less time outdoors. She comes home on her own, enters the house through my office ( I work out of my home), not the front door, and relaxes on my bed. She does seem to prefer to be associated with business wherever she is.

For more about Irene, click here.

Shackleton the Bad

2008-01-09T11:15:00.002-06:00

Shackleton is a young male cat I raised from the time he was ten days old. (You can learn about his arrival here.) He is a golden tabby with white feet and white face and eyes that match his lightest amber hue. While he is not large, he has a fierce spirit and insists on periodic forays outside. However, his favorite pastime is enjoyed indoors.

Shackleton loves to make the females cry or scream or hiss or wail. One of his favorite targets is Daisy, an older black and white female. He waits until Daisy is sleeping peacefully, then attacks. He does no real damage, only startling her, which elicits ear-shattering screams from Daisy. You can almost see the smile on Shackleton's face.

His other target is Miss Kitty, an older orange tabby. Her owner is in jail, so she is living with me for the interim. Shackleton makes sure that Miss Kitty knows that he is stalking her. She begins to wail as soon as she sees him. Her wails increase as he edges nearer. The sound reaches a crescendo as he darts toward her only to retreat. This may go on for several minutes until Shackleton grows weary of the game.

Shackleton does have an uncanny ability to choose to play his game when I am on the phone. With cat screams bouncing off the walls, it is difficult to carry on a conversation. Besides, I usually have to explain that no cat is being murdered, that Shackleton is just annoying one of his housemates.

Yes, I do scold him, put him in another room, etc. He can be detered for the moment, but all too soon he will have a victim in sight. He will once more be engaged in his favorite recreational activity.

Ferals in the Bathroom

2008-01-04T13:04:00.000-06:00

There are two feral cats in one of my bathrooms. Both cats are female and now have been spayed thanks to my cousin. Her husband took them to a local organization that provides low cost spay and neuter services after my aunt managed to lure them into carriers. These two were born on my aunt's farm, but never tamed. Because I was home for the holidays and my cousin was not, I kept the cats until time to spay. Now, they are with me until they are healed and the weather is better.

One is gray with white markings, the other is a faded tortoise shell like her mother. I have decided to call the gray one Greenmist and the tortie Rosefire. Greenmist was the first to arrive and spent several days alone in the bathroom. She was not happy. She literally climbed the walls even managing to turn on the bathroom heater by tripping its wall switch. After Rosefire arrived Greenmist relaxed a great deal. However, one of them managed to turn on the hot water in the sink one night.

I had no problem getting Greenmist into the carrier to go for spaying. Rosefire was a different matter. I spent a half hour trying to get her into the other carrier. I finally used an old wool blanket to throw over her so I could pick her up. I did get her in the carrier but included a soap dish, too. I had only a couple of bad scratches and one small nip. All bled freely and are healing without incident. I have been badly bitten by cats so am very aware of the danger. Interestingly, all the bad bites came from pets, not feral cats.

Both cats are recovering well and seem to have forgiven me for putting them in carriers. Both were in season when spayed, even though they are only seven months old. If my finances improve, I might keep them as house cats. If not, they will return to the farm. Ferals make very good house cats, but lousy pets. Most never become comfortable with human touch. Rarely do they become lap cats. If you would like to support Greenmist and Rosefire, please use the donate button.

Camping with a Cat

2008-01-01T11:28:00.000-06:00

Velvet was my childhood pet. A black cat with an odd personality. She liked people, but did not like to be held. We had one elderly dachshund that she tolerated. (The dog liked her.) She preferred a perch on a tall bookcase where she could observe the world.

We(my paternal grandmother, mother and I) liked to camp and fish. For a number of years, we rented a cabin at a local fishing camp, then we acquired a few lots in a subdivision with lake access. A new tent was purchased, and we began camping on our own land. Velvet had always gone with us when we rented a cabin and stayed inside. Now, we decided that she could learn to camp.

There was no way to keep her in the tent, besides, it was way too hot in the daytime. This was central Texas afterall. I had a few qualms about her in the wild, but my grandmother and mother had no doubts. They were correct. Velvet loved camping. She explored the area around the tent and found a new perch in an oak tree to keep an eye on the world.

As darkness came, she became a creature of the night. One evening as dusk fell, she found something to play with. We were sitting outside the tent on stools enjoying the departure of the day's oppressive heat. Velvet batted something toward us. Whatever it was, did not cooperate. Velvet kept retreating, then herding it back to us. We lost interest, and even the dog stopped paying attention.

Velvet did not give up. Just as I got up to turn on the lantern, she pawed a gigantic tarantula from under Mother's stool. Mother was still sitting, but only for a heartbeat. She jumped up and back. The tarantula was barely visible, but I could see it well enough to know that this was one angry arachnid. It had its front legs raised and its fangs bared. Velvet circled the spider, the gave it a whack that sent it toward the tent. That was enough. I grabbed the shovel, scooped up the spider and tossed it across the creek. Velvet was quite disappointed.

Velvet lived to be an old cat. She always loved camping, but never brought another tarantula to us, a toad or two, but no spiders.

(I have added a donate button, if you would like to help support my continued efforts to care for feral cats.)

Victor Shares

2007-12-27T11:54:00.001-06:00

A friend brought me a tiny kitten in a box. I took one look at this mostly white kitten with crusted ears and scabs all over its body and knew it needed medical care. My friend explained that the kitten had been living under the house of an acquaintance of hers, but that this acquaintance did not want it. Since it obviously needed care, my friend brought it to me. In my life, this is a pattern.

I did not dare touch the kitten because I did not know what was wrong with it and did not want to take the chance of spreading whatever it had to my cats. Without handling the little critter, I could not determine its sex. I decided to call it Victor/Victoria depending on what sex it turned out to be.

I rushed the kitten to my vet. My vet put on gloves before handling the little cat. After a skin scraping, the verdict came back. The kitten had ringworm that had spread all over its body. My vet determined that the kitten was male, so he became Victor. Victor went into quarantine and began treatment. He stayed in quarantine at my vet's clinic for weeks. My veterinarian would not release Victor until he felt sure that the chance of tramsmitting ringworm to my housefull of cats had passed.

Finally, Victor came to live with us. Healed, he was all white except for a black blotch on his head. He was a very sweet cat, but a little shy.

My veterinarian had been sure Victor was disease free. He was wrong. Over the next three months, every cat in the house got ringworm. After I exhausted my vet's supply of medication,I went online to buy more. After weeks of dabbing hairless rings, the disease ran its course. We were ringworm free.

Victor has never learned to be a lap cat, but he likes to have his head rubbed. His ears which were so bad, show no abnormalities.

Gertrude the House Cat

2007-12-16T11:58:00.000-06:00

After her kittens were weaned, Gertrude was spayed as planned. Just getting her into the carrier each time she needed to go to the veterinarian proved a challenge. But after much hissing, spitting and snarling, she could usually be forced into the carrier.

After the stitches from the spay were out, it was time to make a decision about Gertrude, put her outside or let her be a house cat, a not very happy house cat it seemed from her demeanor in the cage. We compromised. For now, Gertrude would stay in the house. We would see how she liked it and make a decision later.

Released from the cage, Gertrude did not go and hide as expected. She first conducted a survey of the house, hissing at any of the other cats that approached. I noticed something immediately, every cat gave ground to Gertrude. Matter of fact, they gave her about five feet. Even Gertrude's kittens avoided her, instead choosing their uncle, Horatio, for comfort. (Horatio was a much better mother than Gertrude. Always willing to groom the kittens and let the play with his tail. He was never ill-tempered.) Gertrude was always ill-tempered, swatting a kitten if it got too close. She seemed to reason that they were weaned, she had done her duty, that was that.

Gertrude settled into the household routine. She was no problem except we couldn't touch her. Then one day I made a momentous discovery. I was combing Horatio, who absolutely adored attention. Gertrude was on the arm of a nearby chair. I finished combing Horatio and leaned over and did a quick stroke down Gertrude's back. I don't know what I expected, but Gertrude surprised me, she raised her rear slightly obviously asking for more. I combed her again. She loved it. She let me comb her back and her head, but when I tried for her chin, the Gertrude of old returned. With a hiss, she jumped back, one paw raised to take swipe at me if I tried that again. I did not.

Over time, Gertrude relaxed more when it came to grooming and petting. My mother made a point of always petting and talking to Gertrude when she walked through the room or sat down to watch television. This paid off. Gertrude now comes to her for petting. However, Gertrude is no lap kitty.

I can pick Gertrude up now. But its sort of like picking up a large, lit firecracker. You hope you can put it down before it explodes. Generally, our contact with Gertrude consists of combing, petting and scratching her head. She has decided Mother is her person, so she sleeps on her bed.

We've decided to keep Gerturde as an indoor only cat. The other cats still give her five feet, except for one male to whom she has taking a fancy. Unfortunately, her temper has not improved, just the other day she threw a screaming fit when Jor, an old black cat, had the audacity to try to sit on the same chair she was occupying. Her eyes still show that lurking insanity that I have come to know is a trademark of Scruffy's kittens.

That Cat Can't Be Pregnant

2007-12-08T13:43:00.000-06:00

Spring had come and with it a couple of tabby kittens who regularly ate on our front porch. Knowing that our time was limited before the kittens would be sexually mature, I set about trying to entice them into the house. One, a young male it turned out, was easy, but the other kitten was far wilder and less trusting. Time passed, but at last one night, the young cat walked through the propped open front door. I closed it behind her. After a wild chase, I cornered her in one bathroom. There I was able to get her into a carrier and then into a large cage that I had acquired for just such wild ones.

She really was wild with a crazy look in her eyes and a nasty temper. The cage had two shelves, and she always retreated to the top one when anyone approached. The morning after her capture, I called my veterinarian to make an appointment for her to get her shots and be spayed. He had an opening in three days which I made for the cat I named Gertrude.

Gertrude was a petite brown and black tabby with a beautiful face, but eyes that spoke of a lurking insanity. She was only half grown and not fat at all. I tried talking to her to calm her down, but she simply hissed at me.

One day passed uneventfully, but Gertrude seemed to be getting more and more unhappy. I hoped she was not sick. When I got up the next morning, Gertrude was lying in her litter box. I fussed at her for sleeping there when she had clean, carpeted shelves to sleep on. I wanted to clean her box, so I opened the cage and shooed her off the box. The day before she had retreated with no problem. Today, she met me with a baleful gaze and a menacing hiss. I persisted. She glared, but finally retreated to an upper shelf.

I stared at the litter box. There in one corner something moved. Two somethings. Gertrude had had kittens! I did not disturb them. Kittens. I had to get something for them to stay in.

I went to the garage and got an old litter box that we no longer used. I washed and dried it, then lined the box with some soft rags and returned to Gertrude's cage. Again, I had to shoo Gertrude away from her kittens. She retreated grudgingly once more. I placed the box next to the litter box and carefully transferred the two kittens to it. I wondered if Gertrude would attack me when I handled the kittens. She did not.

I did a quick inspection, but did not remove them from the cage. One was almost twice as big as the other. The large one was tabby striped just like its mother, the other was solid black, except for a tiny spot of white on its neck. The black one was so small, I was worried.

I called my veterinarian and spoke to this assistant, Ann (All names have been changed...). I explained that I needed to cancel Gertrude's appointment. Ann asked me why. I had to explain, that the cat had had kittens. Ann dissolved in laughter.

"You didn't notice she was pregnant?" she giggled.

"No," I admitted. "She looked too young, and she wasn't fat."

"I see," Ann said.

I was a little defensive. "Hey, one of my friends was over last night, and she thought the cat might be too young to spay."

"Well, I'll tell Dr. Carter and cancel the appointment."

I did have another question. "Ann, what's the schedule now. How soon can I get Gertrude spayed?"

"You have to wait two weeks after the kittens are weaned. They should be weaned at six weeks, and you'll have to separate her from them."

"That means it'll be two months before I can bring her in."

"That's right," Ann said and giggled.

I thanked her and hung up. I went back to check on Gertrude. She had moved the kittens out of the clean box and back into her litter box.

"Gertrude, you idiot." I said. I shooed her away from the litter box and moved the kittens back. At least, I would be able to handle these and make them tame, unlike their mother. That's exactly what happened. Leia and Yoda are now part of our family and not wild at all. Gertrude is another matter.

Black Cat Nanny

2007-11-29T11:08:00.000-06:00

I had not planned to adopt another cat. I had noticed a black cat hanging around the swimming pool, but this one panicked at the sight of a person. One day as usual he skittered away as I came out to swim, but I noticed two bloody spots, one on each haunch. What could have happened? I suspected a cat fight. I think that was when I decided to get that cat.
I decided to call him Jor, the word for black in a science fiction novel I wrote. Jor was the first truly wild cat I had ever tried to catch. At the time, I did not know what a struggle it would be to catch him. I had one thing going for me. This cat loved being around our other cats, especially Tribble, and routinely slept on our back deck at night. I spent days mulling over how best to catch him.
He was limping badly by this time, and I grew more worried. My first plan was to entice him onto the deck and throw a large blanket over him. In retrospect, this seems like a pretty foolish idea, but at the time...
I waited and watched the deck. One night, Jor appeared on it. The deck was screened on all sides, but not roofed. There was no door either, just a four foot opening to the back steps. We had a second set of back steps because of the swimming pool. These led from the back bedroom down to the pool. After making sure Jor had settled, I went out the bedroom door, down the steps, then I tiptoed, blanket in hand up the other steps. There was Jor. He saw me and cowered.
This is going to be easy I thought. Jor had still not moved. I raised the blanket and threw it. It landed perfectly, covering him completely. But Jor was no longer immobile. He was heading for the steps, blanket and all, like a giant, cloth amoeba.
I tried to grab the blanket. I did, but I was pulling it off the cat. I stopped and tried to change my grip reaching for Jor and the blanket. I'm not really sure what happened. I had a hold of the blanket plus one cat leg, but it was slipping away rapidly. I leaned over groping for another leg. I got it, but despite my hold, Jor, the blanket and I were moving toward the steps. I needed to scoop him up in the blanket. I lunged forward to enclose the mound of cat in my arms and blanket. No cat. No blanket. The cloth amoeba had changed direction and headed under the portable barbecue grill. I dived under the grill after him.
I'm still not sure what happened. I grabbed for the center of the amoeba. Jor twisted away and shot down the steps while I clutched the leg of the grill instead of the leg of a cat. Score one for Jor.
The next night Jor appeared on the front porch. What followed was a repeat of the night before except there was not barbecue grill to get in the way, so all I wound up holding was the blanket.
New tactics were obviously in order. Jor liked food. I kept cat treats for my other cats. I began tossing a few to Jor whenever I saw him over the next week or so. He did like those treats and would not run off as long as I didn't get too close. The night finally came when I was ready to try to trap him.
As in most older houses in Austin, we had a front door that opened inward and a screen door that opened outward. My plan was simple. I'd prop open the screen door with a brick, and stand behind the other open door. I'd then entice Jor into the house with treats. Once he was in I'd close the door. After that, I wasn't sure, but at least he'd be in the house.
There was one problem, our front door was not solid wood but instead panels of glass with wood frames. I would be able to see Jor as he approached, but he could also see me. To try to improve my chances of not being seen, I turned on the porch light and turned off the living room lights. Now I stood in darkness.
Jor limped up as usual. I stepped out and tossed him a treat. He gobbled it up. I tossed another, a little closer to the door. He cautiously came forward, then quickly swallowed the treat. Now I was ready. I tossed a treat a couple of feet from me, then retreated. I dropped another in the doorway and tossed a third about a foot inside. I stepped behind the door and waited. Jor took one step toward the nearest treat. He stopped and looked around. He seemed satisfied with his inspection and advanced on the treat and ate it. He got the second in the doorway. I held my breath. He stuck out his head looking at the third treat inside the house. He turned and looked straight at me or at least at the door. He looked at the treat again. Cautiously, with the hand away from the door, I tossed another treat. This one landed a good five feet into the living room.
Jor turned his head and peered at the farther treat, then back at the closer one. He took a step forward, then stopped. I waited. He raised his head and sniffed. Would the smell of the house scare him? Would he smell the other cats and feel safe? My heart was starting to pound. This cat was slow.
Another cautious step, then two quick ones and he had the closest treat. I didn't have him though. If I tried to close the door now, I was sure he would retreat outside. More waiting. I was beginning to sweat. All this for a stray cat. Jor studied the last treat. He did like food. He moved toward it. Just as he reached it, I slammed the door. Jor was in the house.
I was not prepared for what happened next. Jor bolted for the closed door. When he realized it was closed, he did a pirouette and ran toward the rear of the house. I pursued him grabbing a cat carrier as I did. The door to the kitchen was closed, so Jor had to turn into the hall. With me behind him, his only chance of escape was the open door into the bathroom or so he thought. He ran in with me a few steps behind. I slammed the door behind me as Jor slithered under the bathtub, one of those old iron ones on feet.
I put the carrier down. It was wire with a wooden frame. I'd never get Jor to go in voluntarily. After thinking a moment, I opened the linen closet and took out one of our largest towels. I draped this over the carrier, so it was completely covered. Getting down on my hands and knees, I peered under the tub. There was Jor, huddled to one side. I placed the carrier directly in front of Jor, then climbed into the tub. I leaned over and tapped the side lightly. Jor did just what I wanted. He headed for the only dark place in the bathroom, the towel-covered carrier. I closed the door on him. I had captured my first feral feline.
Now, I learned what a truly wild cat I had captured. Overnight, I put him in a large cage we had purchased to house any cats that needed isolation. The next morning, I forced him into the carrier again and took him to the veterinary clinic. I had never seen a cat so panic stricken. He was in reasonably good health, but whatever injury he had sustained had left two bald spots on each hip. Will didn't know how much damage had been done underneath, but he thought there had been some damage to Jor's muscles. When Jor returned from the clinic, I decided not to release him. This cat I would try to tame.
Jor returned to his cage. He seemed so frightened of the world around him that I put a cardboard box in the bottom of the cage. I sealed its lid and cut a hole in the side. Now Jor had a retreat. Jor decided this was the only place of safety. He did not come out at all during the daytime, but at night he ate his food and used his litter box. This went on for several weeks. Mother and I assumed that eventually he get tired of his dark retreat, but that didn't happen. Jor remained a box cat.
Because we did not seem to be making progress and now a couple of months had passed, I decided to remove the box from Jor's cage. I did. Now, Jor had to face the world. He did not like to. The cage he occupied had two shelves. Jor retreated to the highest and tried to look invisible. Mother and I made a point of talking to him any time we walked by. Nothing seemed to work. Jor seemed frozen to his perch during the day.
I was beginning to believe that this was one cat we could not tame, but I hated to release him. I didn't know how badly damaged his hip muscles were. He still had bare spots where his fur didn't grow.
After some soul searching, I decided to keep trying to tame this cat. I'm not sure how it happened. I often tried to touch him when I was cleaning his cage, feeding him or giving him fresh water. He never hissed or showed any signs of aggression. Because of that behavior, I felt I could try to touch him. One day I managed to rub his head, just for a moment, but for that moment he relaxed, then he jumped away. Every day I repeated the rubbing and found that I could do it for longer and longer periods. Slowly, some of Jor's fear seemed to disappear.
Soon, Jor asked for attention when we came near the cage. As he grew more and more tame, I decided we could try him in the house. I opened the cage door. Jor did not come out. I left the door opened and went into another room. When I returned Jor was still in the cage. He stayed there another day with the door open. Some of the other cats joined him in his cage, but he did not leave it. Finally, on the second evening he came out. For a while, he retreated to the cage if anything scared him, but over time he found other places to hide and abandoned the cage. He still let me pet him, but only if I cornered him first. Some pet, I thought.
Jor did love to have his head rubbed. It was almost an obsession. If you could once touch him, he would stay as long as you rubbed. One evening while I was watching TV, Jor walked into the room. He stopped and stared at me. I reached out my hand, but said nothing. He never reacted well to speech. Jor blinked then walked over cautiously and bumped my hand. I did as requested and scratched his head. That one incident changed Jor completely. Soon, he was climbing in my lap and demanding attention.
He loves to be combed, and I have found a place he loves to be combed where no other cat in the house even wants to be touched, the back of his rear legs. He lays on his back in my lap and purrs while I comb them. If I stop, he cries. Jor has gone from box cat to lap cat.
Jor had become so tame, that I thought he could be trusted to go outside some. Several of our formally wild cats do this with no problem. The first time I let him out, I assumed that all I would have to do was sit down and he would come to be combed and petted. Wrong. Jor would not even approach me. To my shock, he would not let me near him, and he would not come in. He did not come in that night or the next. He got wilder by the day. I tried setting the trap. No luck. The days stretched into a week, then another. One evening, I was on the front porch when he appeared. I retreated to the front door and opened it. I called him. He looked at me and then the door. He pointedly kept his distance as he walked in. I closed the door. He ate first. I did not try to pick him up, instead I went to my chair in the den. Sure enough, Jor came in, climbed in my lap, and bumped my hand for attention.
I petted him, then reached for the comb. I started to comb his rear leg when he twisted away from me. Something was wrong. I hauled him back in my lap and looked. At the base of his tail was a huge sore. He had been in a fight, gotten bit and now had an abcess.
The next day I took Jor into Will. He cleaned the abcess, gave Jor a shot and sent him home with antibiotic pills and a tube of stuff to rub on the sore to keep it from closing, so it could heal from the inside out. I had to rub that stuff on for days, it must have hurt terribly, but Jor never tried to scratch or bite. Needless to say, I have not let Jor out again. Although he did get under the house once, but that is another story.
Besides his sweet disposition, we discovered that Jor had another talent. He makes a fine mother. We had finally trapped Scruffy and her last litter. The kittens were small, but Scruffy weaned them without any interference from us. Matter of fact, she didn't want much to do with them. The result was four kittens that harassed any adult cat in the house for attention, but not for long.
Once the kittens picked on Jor, they had a nanny. Jor would groom them endlessly, let them climb all over him and chew on his tail. I didn't realize how great his devotion was to the kittens until some days later. I walked into the den one evening and saw Jor lying in his favorite chair. With him were the four kittens, nursing. I looked again. There was no doubt, the four kittens were lined up each sucking on something. Jor seemed quite content. The kittens were purring. I thought this might be a one time event, but I was wrong. We decided to keep the kittens and until they were over six months old they went to Jor for comfort. They nursed until they were four months old. I have a picture to prove it.

Moriarty at the Vet

2007-11-22T15:29:00.000-06:00

(Names have been changed to protect the innocent and not-so innocent, me)

Although I only learned of Moriarty's adventures secondhand, I think they are worth telling. Moriarty was a black tom cat that appeared on our doorstep in pretty bad shape. I managed to get him in a carrier and take him to my veterinarian. Once Moriarty arrived at the veterinarian's, he was sedated, examined and neutered. He had several abscesses, so he was put on injectable antibiotics. After the first couple of days, he settled down. Will came in and gave him a shot every day without much problem. Moriarty did not try to escape.
On Sunday, Will came in to give him his shot. Moriarty was peacefully curled up in his cage, a black fur ball. Will opened the cage, the cat seemed unperturbed, so Will did not grab Moriarty immediately. This was what Moriarty had been waiting for. In one fluid motion, he uncoiled, leapt out of the cage and sailed past the startled Will.
Now, normally, Moriarty would soon have been a prisoner again, but not this Sunday. At one end of the room was a custom made tub designed for bathing large dogs. The tub was surrounded by a plywood outer wall. There had been some problems with the drain, and the plumber had removed the drain pipe section. Moriarty found the tub, then the drain hole and retreated into the cavity between the tub and the outer shell. He could not be reached.
Will decided that he would have to get the cat out. He did not want a wild cat prowling through the clinic. The only way to reach Moriarty was to take off the outer plywood shell of the tub. Will set to work. Soon, he had one section removed, but Moriarty remained just out of reach. Will removed another section, and Moriarty once more moved out of reach. Two hours later, the tub was exposed, but not Moriarty. He had squirmed his way into the wall where the water pipes entered the tub. He could be seen, but he was well back in the wall. When Will reached for him he hissed and gave fair warning that the docile cat of the cage had vanished.
After some thought, Will filled a large syringe with a tranquilizer. He then returned to Moriarty. Reaching toward him, he waited until the cat hissed, then squirted the tranquilizer into Moriarty's open mouth. It did not seem to phase the cat. Will repeated the process. Gradually, the tranquilizer took effect, Moriarty stopped hissing, but still could not be reached. Will got some food and left it out. A few minutes later a slightly tipsy, black cat emerged from the wall and staggered to the food. He was immediately scooped up and put in a cage. Moriarty's great escape was over.
When I picked Moriarty up a week later, all that Will said was that he had gotten out once, but no problem. It was two weeks later when I learned from Ann of that Sunday afternoon spent dismantling a tub and squirting tranquilizer into a very unhappy cat.
Moriarty would not see Will for almost two years, but when he came again, Moriarty remained true to form.
After almost a year, Moriarty started coming on more or less regular basis for food and now for petting. It was spring and his visits became more regular, and he more affectionate. I hoped that he would decide to become our yard cat at last. Then Moriarty stopped coming. Maybe someone else had adopted him. I walked around the neighborhood and saw him dozing on a porch about a block away. I talked to him, but while he looked at me, Moriarty did nothing else. I assumed that he had finally found a home.
After several weeks of absence, Moriarty showed up early one Saturday morning. I was glad to see him and opened a can of food just for him. He looked like he had lost weight. Was he being fed regularly? Maybe I had been wrong, and he hadn't been adopted. Moriarty finished eating, and came to me for attention. I reached down and petted his head. He turned to rub against my leg. I noticed a bare spot near his tail. I peered at it. There was a scab, but it didn't look bad. Moriarty turned around, and now I was looking at an open wound. I tried to see better, but Moriarty didn't like that. He danced away.
I didn't know what to do. What I had seen was almost surely an abcess that had opened up and drained. However, I knew that did not mean it would heal, the infection might be too far along. Should I try to get Moriarty into the house? What would I do with him if I did?
He needed antibiotics, and the only way to help him was to get him to the veterinarian. Moriarty had let me pet him. Would he let me pick him up?
I went into the house and got a cat carrier. I brought it out and placed it on the porch bannister. Moriarty looked interested, but not alarmed. I petted him again. Carefully, I reached down and placed one hand under his chest while I petted his neck and shoulders with the other. I lifted Moriarty. Nothing happened. I put him down and stroked him some more.
I opened the door of the carrier. I repeated the petting and stroking. Again, I slipped my hand under his chest. I picked him up. With the hand that I had been petting him I covered his eyes, then I swung Moriarty up and into the carrier.
He went in without a struggle. I quickly latched the carrier door. Just in time, because Moriarty hit the door and hissed. He rattled the door once more then retreated to the rear of the carrier. Moriarty was quiet on the way to the veterinarian's office. I hoped this was a good omen. It was not. Once inside the door of the veterinary clinic, Moriarty began to yowl. This sound was not the plaintive moan of a poor, trapped creature, but the warning cry of a very angry beast.
Will's daughter, Sara, was at the reception desk. "What have you got, Ms. White?"
"Moriarty, he's got an abscess, I think." Sara only worked part time at the clinic, she didn't know that Moriarty was not one of my regulars.
"Do you want to leave him?"
"Yes, I do," I answered. I waited as she pulled his card, then explained what I had seen.
"Okay. Anything else?"
"Just get him checked in before your father finds out I've brought him in."
Sara's eyes widened.
"This is the cat the crawled into the plumbing."
Sara nodded and grinned. "I've heard of him."
She came around the reception desk to get Moriarty.
"Be careful," I said. "He's a wild one."
There was no need for my warning, Moriarty increased the intensity of his yowling and when Sara picked up the carrier, let out a truly nasty hiss.
"I see," she said. "We'll call you when he has been examined."
As soon as she left, so did I. I really didn't want to be around when Will discovered Moriarty.
Two hours later, at home, the phone rang. Sara was on the line. Will had examined Moriarty. He had an abscess and needed a course of antibiotics.
"Do you want to give them to him or have us do it?" Sara's voice had a strange tone as she asked.
I thought that was the funniest question I had heard in a long time. I couldn't stop from laughing. "Me, give antibiotics to Moriarty?" I pictured my hands dripping blood, my blood. "No, I'll let Will do it."
I could hear laughter in the background at the clinic. Someone there remembered Moriarty.
"Okay," Sara said.
"I'll call Monday and check on him."
"That'll be fine, Ms. White. Good-by"
"Good-by."
Monday, I called, Moriarty was doing fine, but needed to stay. Meanwhile, I suspected that Marian had developed an ear infection, so I made an appointment for her for that afternoon.
At three o'clock, I was at the clinic and in one of the examining rooms with Marian. She had an ear infection. Will cleaned out both ears, then put in some ointment and gave me some to take home.
I put Marian back in her carrier. "How's Moriarty doing?" I asked.
Will gave me a funny grin and said, "Fine, I'll bring him out for you to see."
A few minutes later, he returned with Moriarty who was still not a happy cat. Will had him clutched in a tight grip by the scruff of his neck, and I could tell the arch in Moriarty's back that it was a good thing.
As Will put Moriarty on the examining table, he emitted one of those menacing yowls. Will seemed unperturbed.
"Look here," he said, holding out Moriarty's tail with his free hand.
I saw a round hole, obviously in the process of healing.
"I think a couple of more days, and he can go home."
Moriarty let loose with another scream. I couldn't tell whether it was anger or fear.
"Good. I hope he hasn't been too much trouble."
Will got that funny look on his face. "Well, the day you brought him in, I let him out in the examining room. He was a little rambunctious."
"Not too bad, I hope," I answered. No wonder Will kept a death grip on Moriarty.
"No, I closed both examining room doors before I let him out. I better get him back to his cage."
Will left with Moriarty, and I headed for the receptionist. "Will says Moriarty's doing fine."
"Yes. That's some cat, I don't even go back in the treatment room with him there."
Will came back. We chatted a minute, and then I left with Marian.
I was getting into my car when someone shouted. I looked around. It was Ann.
I waved at her. "I thought you were taking the summer off?" I said.
"I am. Starting Friday."
"Are you coming back?" Ann had indicated in an earlier conversation that she might not.
"Yes."
"Good."
We talked about her plans for the summer for a few minutes, then I asked the fateful question. "Have you seen Moriarty?"
Ann began to laugh. "Did Will tell you what happened?"
"He said Moriarty got out. Nothing else."
Ann laughed harder. "When I came in late Saturday morning the clinic really smelled."
I tried to look unconcerned. Had Moriarty sprayed the place? Cat urine had its own special aroma.
Ann continued. "Will let Moriarty out of the carrier in the examining room. That cat went wild, careening round and round. It was like a tornado hit. Broke every bottle on every shelf."
"Will didn't tell me," I said.
"Yeah, I'm not surprised. He just stood in the middle of the room saying, 'Drucilla got him in the carrier.' We couldn't figure out how you did it."
"Moriarty was very sweet when I picked him up."
Ann looked very skeptical.
"He really is gentle at home."
More skepticism. Then she said, "It was really funny when we got Sara to call you about giving the cat antibiotics. That was after he had destroyed the examining room."
I nodded. "I thought she sounded strange."
Ann grinned. "We all knew the answer to that question."
I grinned back and shook my head. What else could I do?
"You take care, and I'll see you at the end of summer."
"You too."

Two days later, I was back to pick up Moriarty. He had had his last antibiotic shot and been pronounced well enough to get his vaccinations. Will gave them to him just before I arrived. Moriarty was not a happy cat.
I didn't see Will, he was with a client. I paid my bill and left. There was no charge for breakage.
When I got home, I put Moriarty in his carrier on the porch. Mother came out to talk to him, but Moriarty was not mollified.
"Get him some food. He needs to eat before he leaves," Mother said.
"He's not going to eat. He's going to take off when I open that carrier door."
Mother could be stubborn. "Get him some food."
I nodded and soon had a can of cat food dished up. I brought it out and placed it by the carrier. Moriarty did look at it.
"He's not going to eat." I repeated.
Mother was not one to give up. "Well, he'll know it's there. Let me go in before you let him out."
After she got in the house, I opened the carrier. Moriarty scooted out just as I predicted. He glanced at the food again, then headed down the front steps. He didn't run, but he moved purposefully. I watched as he headed across the neighbor's yard without a backward glance. I figured we wouldn't see Moriarty for a long time.
I was wrong. That evening Moriarty appeared on the front steps. I went out. He came to be petted. I rubbed his head and stroked him. He purred. All was forgiven. I went in and got a can of his favorite cat food. I gave it to him. He ate it all. Usually, he left after eating, but not this evening. He returned to me for more attention. I gladly stroked and rubbed him. Finally, satisfied, he laid down on the front steps.
Moriarty now comes every evening and morning. If anything, he's more lovable than before, and he let's me pick him up to pet him. I told Will he must have given Moriarty sweetness shots.
Will just shook his head.
Another year passed with Moriarty becoming tamer. I was thinking about making him a house cat. He was getting older. As spring gave way to summer, Moriarty lost weight. At first, I thought it was the change in seasons, but he seemed to be growing less active. One day I noticed he had not moved from his spot in the yard all morning. I went over and petted him. He barely responded. I knew he was in trouble. I went in the house and got a carrier. I set it on the porch and opened it. Moriarty paid no attention. That was not a good sign. I went over, scooped him up, and put him in the carrier. He glared at me briefly, then sank back into his lethargy.
By the time I got him to Will, I knew that Moriarty was gravely ill. He just did not respond like the old Moriarty. I told the receptionist the problem, and left him to be checked. The call a few hours later was a shock, but not a surprise. Moriarty had feline infectious peritonitis. There was no cure, and it was contagious. I told Will to put Moriatry down, then I cried.

Betsy and the Christmas Ornaments

2007-11-12T22:29:00.000-06:00

Betsy was a small, tortoiseshell, female cat that joined a household of more dogs than cats. Betsy liked the dogs better than the cats. She enjoyed their company and had no fear of them.

One Christmas we noticed that the glass ball ornaments if the Christmas tree were being destroyed one by one. We found them on the floor all over the den smashed to bits. We blamed a cat since the ornaments came from the middle of the tree, but didn't know which cat was the culprit. I found out one day when I returned from shopping to hear the crunch of an ornament breaking.

I tiptoed to the den door and peeked in. Betsy was sitting on the back of an overstuffed chair pulling an ornament off. She pulled the ornament onto the back of the chair, then looked at the dogs who were all grouped in front of the chair. Betsy looked at them, then gave the ornament a bat that sent it careening across the room. The glass ball did not break when it hit the floor but rolled along the rug toward the wall. The ornament never made it to the wall. The dogs were in hot pursuit. The first dog to reach the ball pounced with both feet and the ornament collapsed into a pile of glittering shards.

Betsy waited until the dogs had killed the ornament and returned to the chair before she selected another glittering ball. She followed exactly the same procedure, and the dogs happily destroyed another ornament. I decided that was enough. I shooed all of them out of the den and closed the doors. The mystery of the ornaments had been solved.

Toby Takes a Dive

2007-11-07T17:32:00.000-06:00

Toby, a huge, brown and black, classic tabby, loved to drink water from the tap in the bathtub. Mother spoiled him by turning on the water whenever he jumped in the tub. Soon, when Toby saw Mother in the bathroom, he jumped in the tub and waited for her to turn the faucet on. He tried to train me, but I was less obliging than my mother.

We lived in a house that is now pushing 100, but was about 75 years old when Toby lived with us. The water line from the meter to the house needed to be replaced because our water pressure had dropped to an unacceptable level because of deposits in the pipe. Since removing the line meant that we would be without water for several hours, we filled the bathtub with water. The tub was an old claw-footed one that could hold water to a depth of a foot and a half with no problem.

Mother was brushing her teeth in the bathroom when Toby appeared in the doorway. I now quote my mother: "I told him there was water in the tub, but he just didn't listen." I can see Mother telling Toby, who, of course, launched himself into the tub. Again, I quote my mother, "I don't think he ever touched bottom, he came out so fast." Toby had touched the water as he left a wet trail out of the bathroom and into the den where he began the task of licking himself dry. Mom followed with a towel and assisted the drying process.

It was weeks before Toby would jump into the tub without looking first.

Betsy Bites the Hand that Feeds

2007-11-01T15:34:00.000-05:00

Betsy was a small, tortoiseshell female that loved to ride in our car. She was also very calm and tolerant of the other cats and even the dogs. I never had any problems handling her or caring for her. All this changed when a white cat named Tribble came to live with us. (A friend died and we inherited Tribble.)

Betsy hated Tribble, a neutered and declawed male. Just how much she hated him, I found out one day. We kept the two in separate areas of the house, but Betsy always lurked by the door seeking entrance into Tribble's territory. One day she succeeded in gaining entrance to Tribbles' lair.

Betsy was about half Tribbles' size, but she had murder in her heart. I heard the sounds of a serious cat fight in the front bedroom. I found Betsy trying to kill Tribble. She had him down and was attacking furiously. I grabbed Betsy with my right hand by the scruff of her neck, expecting to be able to control her. I was wrong.

Betsy was in a killing rage. If she could not kill Tribble, she would settle for my hand. She twisted in my grasp and bit my hand repeatedly. The pain was excruciating. Betsy's teeth sank to the bone. I dropped her. My hand dripped blood in big plops on the wood floor. I studied the holes in my flesh and knew I needed to see a doctor.

Betsy simply attacked Tribble again. Now, I made a mistake. Instead of grabbing Betsy with my already injured hand, I reached for her with my undamaged hand. I believed I was better prepared and could control her this time. Wishful thinking! I had no better luck. Once more, Betsy attacked my hand. This time I was prepared for the pain. I held on as she chewed on me, literally gritting my teeth against the pain. I carried her to the bathroom leaving a trail of blood droplets. I flung Betsy on the bathroom floor and slammed the door.

My mother had arrived by this time and was comforting Tribble who appeared to be in shock, unmoving, but panting. I retrieved a cat carrier and placed Tribble in it. By now, both hands were throbbing and swelling. I had stopped bleeding. My mother carried Tribble to the car and joined me for the drive to the vet. We left Tribble at the vet's and headed for the emergency room because I was rapidly losing the use of my left hand.

At the emergency room, I explained what had happened and assured them the cat was not rabid, she was my pet. The doctor insisted on x-rays for both hands because of the swelling and my inability to move all my fingers. Nothing was broken. I received a prescription for antibiotics and advice to follow up with my doctor. I had two weeks of purple, then yellow, painful hands, but I did heal without incident (cat bites can be very serious). The real problem was telling people that my own cat had done this and realizing if I had only used one hand, only one would have been damaged.

Betsy was calm when we returned home. She was returned to her side of the house, and we scrupulously made sure she remained there in the years that followed. Tribble received minor injuries, but no deep bites. Betsy never tried to bite me again, but she never had a temper tantrum again either.

Dos Climbs Trees

2007-10-17T13:58:00.000-05:00

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 Goes for a Ride

2007-10-09T14:43:00.000-05:00

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 Eats French Fries

2007-10-04T13:30:00.000-05:00

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.

Toby Catches Squirrels

2007-09-27T14:17:00.001-05:00

Toby, a large, black and tan classic tabby, was declawed when he came to live with us. He joined a household of four dogs and two cats without any problems. My bedroom had a door that opened to our fenced backyard. This door had a doggy door so our dogs could go out at will into the yard. Toby immediately learned to use this exit. The back yard was about sixty by forty feet with a six-foot chainlink fence, two large trees and a boxwood hedge in the rear. Toby had sense enough to stay within this yard's relative safety most of the time.

Because Toby was declawed, I did not expect him to be a very effective hunter. I was wrong. One day I heard a commotion in the back yard, dogs barking, a strange screech, and the sounds of running. I was in my bedroom and headed for the door to see what was wrong. I never reached the door. Toby bolted through the doggy door with the dogs in pursuit. The dogs were not after Toby, but his victim, a full grown squirrel clutched in Toby's jaws.

I closed the french doors that led from the rest of the house into my bedroom and grabbed the nearest dog. Somehow, I manage to shove all four into the next room. By this time, Toby had released his squirrel who was now on the curtain rod above my bed. Toby contemplated his prey and began an advance across my bed. I grabbed him and put him with the dogs.

I heard the squirrel running along the curtain rod and turned to see Tippy, my spayed female cat, halfway up the curtain. I don't know where she had come from, but she was trouble. Tippy was the killer in the family. She never played with anything she caught. She always killed it, quickly and cleanly. I climbed on my bed to get her, but she jumped to the dresser in pursuit of the scampering squirrel. I heard the doggy door pop as Tippy's brother Tigre bounded into the room. The squirrel and I had a chance now, because Tigre was a clutz whose main talent seemed to be blocking Tippy from her prey. Today was no different. Tigre joined Tippy on the dresser and body blocked her off. She landed on the floor with her tail lashing her anger with her brother. I grabbed her, and she joined the dogs and Toby. Tigre had now managed to send my jewelry case off the end of the dresser. Luckily, the box landed on the bed. I grabbed him and stuffed him past his sister who desperately wanted back into the bedroom.

Toby was on an armchair watching me through the glass of the french door. I began to suspect he had planned the whole escapade. I opened the back door and looked for something to shoo the squirrel with. I did not see anything, but there was no need. The squirrel saw the opening, flew off the curtain rod onto the floor and scampered out the door. I shut the door behind its bushy tail.

Of course, through this whole ordeal the dogs barked, Tippy scratched at the door, Tigre stood on his hind legs digging at the glass, while Toby sat on the back of the overstuffed chair enjoying it all. Toby would bring in other squirrels, always alive, and release them in the bedroom, but never again would the whole cat and dog family be in attendance.

Toby Wears a T-shirt

2007-09-24T11:23:00.000-05:00

Toby, a giant, tan and black tabby, lived with us for many years. When he as about ten, he developed some lumps on his side, so off to the veterinarian he went. Dan (not his real name), my vet, did an exam and decided the lumps should be removed and biopsied. Toby took the exam well; he seemed to enjoy the attention. He was not happy when I left him. His surgery would be the following day.

Dan called me the next day. Toby had done well during surgery and all the masses had been removed and samples sent for exam. I could pick him up tomorrow.

I arrived the next afternoon to retrieve my cat. Dan came out to speak to me, and I feared the worst.

"Toby's fine, but there is a problem," said Dan. "He pulls out his stitches. He took them out last night. I stitched him up again this morning with metal sutures. He took them out as I carried him back to his cage. I've restitched him and bandaged him, but he is removing the bandage. You'll have to rewrap him to keep him from the stitches."

I tried not to smile as Dan described Toby's actions. The exasperation was clear in Dan's voice. I could see Dan struggling to hold the twenty pound cat and keep him from removing his stitiches. Toby could be very quick.

Dan's assistant brought out Toby who sported a large, white gauze cumberbund. Dan indicated where he had made his incision. It was long, but not deep. Still, Toby needed to keep the stitches in for at least ten days.

I took Toby home and left him with my mother. Access to the doggy door was blocked. I then headed to the nearest dime store (This was a long time ago.) There I purchased several toddler's and baby's T-shirts. You see, I knew a friend of mine had experienced a similar problem with her golden retriever and solved it by having her golden wear a T-shirt that covered its injury. I thought I would try the same thing with Toby.

When I returned home, I found my mother holding Toby. She told me that was the only way to keep him from tearing his bandage. I tried the T-shirts on Toby. The one that proved the best fit was bright yellow (the only color that size came in). Toby's front legs went through the sleeves and the shirt ended a couple of inches from his rear legs. I thought that this could not work. Of course, it did.

As long as Toby had the shirt on he did not touch his bandage. He wore it even at night. We kept him inside, but he soon began to complain. So, when Saturday came, I went outside with him. I chose the front yard because I could sit on the porch and watch him. Soon, Toby stretched out on the walk in the sunshine wearing his new yellow shirt. I had picked up another so the other could be washed.

I watched Toby enjoying the morning. When he got up for a stroll, I went with him. As I followed him around, I realized that cars that passed slowed down as they reached our house. After a moment's reflection, I understood. None of Toby's bandage showed, these people thought I was a crazy cat lady that dressed her cat in baby clothes. I suspect I was the talk of our neighborhood for a long time.

The biopsy showed a benign growth.

Toby Climbs a Tree

2007-09-06T17:55:00.000-05:00

Toby was declawed. He had arrived at our house that way, but that did not keep him from climbing trees. We had dogs and a doggy door, so there was no keeping Toby inside. Usually, he stayed in our fenced backyard with the dogs, but occasionally he ventured into the front yard.

One cold, wet November day, Toby took a stroll in the front yard only to encounter a pack of three dogs. Barking madly, they chased Toby up the pecan tree. I heard the commotion and ran to see what was happening without stopping to put on a coat. Toby was about sixteen feet off the ground with his front legs wrapped around the trunk of the tree and his rear ones resting on a branch. He was only about two feet from the top of the tree. I yelled at the dogs and they took off. I had not seen them before and did not see them again, but they had done their damage.

With the dogs gone, I assumed that Toby would make his way down the tree. He did not move. I went back inside to put on my jacket, then returned to call Toby. He looked at me, but would not come down. I retreated to the house once more. Maybe if he were alone, he would leave the tree. I knew he was physically able to climb down even without claws because I had seen him do it many times. Today, however, he would not budge.

The weather was not improving. The intermittent rain had turned to sleet. I called my vet for advice. Did he think Toby would come down on his own? Maybe not came the answer. If he had been really frightened, he might not want to come down anytime soon. There was also the possibility that he had gone so high that he was afraid to move. Usually, my vet said he would advise just to give Toby more time but not in this weather. I needed to retrieve Toby from the tree.

I owned an aluminum extension ladder. I carried it from the garage to the front yard. I was much younger and healthier then. I tried once more to convince Toby to vacate his perch. He did not even twitch. With considerable difficulty, I managed to prop the ladder against the tree with the top of the ladder about a foot below Toby. The diameter of the tree was only a couple of inches. I wondered if the tree would hold. (In later years, I would have at least made sure my mother was home before I did this, so she could call for assistance if I fell.) Up the ladder I went. Once I was about five feet off the ground my fear of heights began it's assault. I had to think about every movement as I crawled higher. One hand always had a death grip on the ladder. Ice was beginning to form on the ladder's edges.

At last my head was even with Toby. He did not even move to look at me. I edged higher now holding the tree with one hand. Toby had always been willing to come to my arms, not today. I realized I would have to pry him from his perch and that would take both hands. I did not think I could do it. My fear of heights was simply too great. I took a deep breath. Toby needed to come down. I released my grip on the tree and reached for Toby. He did not move. Whether from fear or cold, he was unresponsive. I pried his front feet loose from the tree one at a time, then somehow swung this twenty pound cat against my chest and held him there with my left arm. I began my very slow descent.

When my feet rested on solid ground, I was shaking. I put Toby down expecting him to make a beeline for the backyard and then into the house through the doggy door. Toby simply crumpled on the grass and remained there without a single change in position. Now frightened for him, I scooped him up in both arms and headed for the house. Once inside, I put Toby on the kitchen table, grabbed a clean towel and began to massage and dry him at the same time. To my relief this worked. Toby perked up, jumped off the table and headed to the utility room where food awaited. I sat down, my knees weak. Both of us had survived our high escapade.

Toby the Housecat

2007-08-29T13:02:00.000-05:00

Toby is gone now. He lived with us for over fourteen years before kidney failure killed him. He showed up on our front porch asking for food. Mother fed him, of course. He was an enormous cat, not fat, just big. His head was even with my knee when he stood on all fours. A classic tabby, he was fawn and black with golden eyes. I told my mother that such a beautiful animal must belong to somebody. She responded, "Someone dumped him." I think now that she was correct.

Even though we had dogs, Toby did not leave. He probably knew that for all their noise, they liked cats. The second day he appeared on the porch, I decided to take a closer look at him, so I could place an ad in the newspaper ( this was long before the internet). He was neutered, then I discovered to my dismay that he had been declawed. Neither Mother or I believed a cat should be declawed. We also believed a declawed cat should never be outside. (Toby would change our opinion on that.) Then I noticed that his head was lopsided. One side was much larger than the other. It only took me a moment to determine that Toby had a large lump on the side of his head just over his jaw joint. He did not protest as I felt it and that scared me. I thought cancer.

Off to my veterinarian, Toby and I went. When we arrived, I was asked for a name for my new cat. "Toby," I said without thinking, and Toby he was. The veterinarian examined the lump, and Toby never moved.

"He's a good cat. I think this is an abcess that needs to be drained," my veterinarian said.

She took a scalpel out of a drawer, then made an incision. Toby did not like that, and it took all my strength to keep him on the table, he wanted to leave, but he did not bite. The veterinarian was correct. Yellow pus flowed out of the incision in a torrent. Once drained, she filled the hole with antibiotic ointment. I left with pills and ointment and instructions to bring him back if he did not improve. He did.

I placed an ad in the paper and asked around the neighborhood, but no one claimed Toby. Soon, he was part of the family, unphased by four dogs and two other cats. We did not try to make him an indoor only cat because we had a doggy door that opened into a fenced yard. We hoped Toby would have sense enough to stay in that yard, and for the most part, he did. The yard was surrounded by a six foot chain link fence (tough neighborhood, bars in back and a flop house across the street in front). Toby loved to perch on a fence post and survey both the back yard and the adjacent alley.

One day, my mother was in the back yard trimming shrubbery. Toby had assumed his normal perch on the fence post where he could supervise. My mother was five feet two inches tall and not big. That meant there was a twenty pound cat with the markings of an ocelot teetering on a metal fence post about a foot above her head. Mother was not concerned. Toby did this all the time. If he lost his balance, he simply jumped to the ground.

Suddenly, she heard a man yell, "Ma'am, ma'am, look out for that wild cat."

Mother looked around, the only cat in sight was Toby, who had now decided to jump to the ground beside her.

"Ma'am," yelled the man who was sprinting toward the fence, "Run."

At that moment, it dawned on Mother that the wild cat the man was so concerned about was Toby. As the man reached the fence, Mother reached down and petted Toby.

"He's no wild cat. Toby is a house cat."

The man simply stared at mother. "Are you sure?" he finally asked.

"Yes," said Mother. "He's our family pet."

The man shook his head, turned and walked away.

Mother heard him mutter as he left: "That ain't no house cat, that ain't no house cat."

Daisy Lives Next Door

2007-08-12T13:12:00.000-05:00

Daisy, a black and white female, appeared nine years ago. She showed up on our front porch one morning, a small blimp gobbling dry cat food. I called to her expecting her to flee as did most of our cat visitors. She took a few steps back, then stopped. I talked to her,"nice kitty, kitty, kitty..." as I tiptoed closer. She came to me. I petted her, then took a chance and scooped her up. She purred. I hurried inside and placed her in a carrier. She growled. I knew she needed to see a veternarian before I introduced her to my pride. I also knew she was very pregnant. I delivered her to my veternarian with the request to check her out, then left. My vet kept her overnight. The next morning, his assistant called. "She's disease free. Come and get her before she has the kittens here." I picked her and three days later, she had five kittens.

All was not well, however, while Daisy was disease free, she was in poor overall condition. She had not been eating regularly and was really just skin and bones and kittens. My vet was afraid we would lose both mother and kittens. She came home from the vet with vitamins, supplements and instructions to feed her all she could eat. Eat she did, and I gave her vitamins and supplements that she thoroughly enjoyed. The vet suggested that I also bottle feed the kittens after their first week of life to take some of the load off Daisy. So, twice a day for the next six weeks I fed the kittens.

There were three black kittens, one black and white, and one white. Two of the black were short-haired, one long-haired. The long-haired black was the only male in the litter. I named the black ones Wynken, Blynken and Nod (the male). The black and white one became Rosie and the white one Violet. All enjoyed their extra feedings and all enjoyed attention. After a few days, I noticed that the little white one had dirty feet. I was surprised because I changed their bedding twice a day, and Daisy was a very good mother bathing her babies regularly. On closer examination, it turned out the feet weren't dirty, the hair was getting darker. Violet was a Siamese. I asked my vet who informed me that Siamese are born white, then develop their distinctive markings. Violet grew to be a beautiful seal point Siamese.

Daisy was a superb mother as long as the kittens were nursing. Once weaned, though, she decided she had no relationship with these little things. She was absolutely sure that she had never seen them before and that she wanted them no where near her. The kittens soon attached themselves to one of our older neutered males who happily became their surrogate mother.

Daisy put on weight and seemed none the worse for her time with the kittens. We tried to integrate her into the pride. She would not associate with any other cat. Her antipathy aroused a reciprocal feeling in two of the younger males. They desired nothing better than to torment Daisy.

We had hoped to make Daisy an indoor only cat. We did not succeed and soon she was venturing outside regularly. Over time, we found out that Daisy was checking out the neighbors looking for a new home. Most would not allow her inside, a prime prerequisite, or there was another cat already in residence. Daisy wanted a home where she reigned alone. At last, she found a compromise. Our next door neighbor did not want a cat, but she did enjoy feline visits. Now Daisy goes over in the morning, stays all day, then returns home and indoors for the night. We have fewer cats now, so she tolerates this arrangement.

Shackleton Appears

2005-11-26T14:42:00.001-06:00

One spring afternoon, I opened the front door to find the woman who cleaned house for me standing there with a shoebox. Instantly, I had a sinking feeling, shoeboxes meant trouble. Baby possums, birds and other critters always arrived in one of those cardboard ubiquties. Elena (I'll call her that) smiled at me and removed the lid of the box. Sure enough, inside was a kitten, a tiny orange and white fur ball, one eye closed, the other just beginnning to open. I knew from those eyes that this little one was less than two weeks old, too young to be separated from its mother.

Elena began a detailed explanation in Spanish. While my ability to understand Spanish far exceeds my ability to speak the language, very little of what Elena said registered. What I did understand was that I was the solution to the problem. What problem? I made Elena repeat her story, and I interrupted frequently to be sure I understood.

The kitten had been found in the garbage behind the restaurant where Elena worked nights, by a busboy putting out trash. The kitten's helplessness had caused a stir among all the staff. Even the restaurant owner had been brought into the discussion of what to do with such a tiny one. Elena happily told me that she had announced to all that this was no problem because she knew a lady that would care for the kitten. She, of course, meant me.

While I appreciated her confidence in me, I knew it might be ill placed. A kitten this young, separated from his mother, was not likely to survive. I told her that even as I checked my watch. My vet was still open; if I hurried I could get the kitten to him. With a quick explanation to Elena I headed out.

I arrived at my veterinarian only minutes before closing. My vet, Dan, was also familiar with shoebox catastrophes. Without a word he took the box. My first question was "Will he live?"

"He's about ten days old, but he has a chance. Let me keep him over night. Does he have a name?"

"No, I haven't thought of one."

Dan's assistant chimed in, "We'll call him Baby Kitty."

The next morning I called around ten. I knew from experience that the clinic settled down around then and I could expect immediate help. "How's the kitten?" I asked.

"Doing fine. You can take him home."

Ten minutes later, I had the shoebox and its orange contents again. Dan said, "it's a male. You'll need to feed it often and stimulate it to defecate and urinate. I think it has a good chance."

I headed to the nearest locally owned petstore to buy kitten supplies. As I purchased the requisite bottle and formula, everyone had to see what was in the box. Everyone oohed and ahhed over Baby Kitty. Many had never seen a kitten so young. Baby kitty did not seem to mind the attention.

When I reached home, I knew I had to devise a way to keep my adult cats away from this little one. The solution was to ensconse him in the largest cat carrier I owned. I made a litter box out of the top of the shoebox, covered in foil. Wishful thinking. I fixed a bed with a clean towel in the rear, but the kitten looked lost. Then I remembered. I had a black and white stuffed cat for visiting kids to play with. I found it and soon the kitten was snuggled up between its front paws. That stuffed cat would be Baby Kitty's surrogate mom until he was several months old.

The next week and a half went well. Baby Kitty loved his bottle and responded appropriately to stimulus. I had noticed that he was not as active as kittens his age we had raised before. At first, I just decided that it was the lack of a mother that made the difference, but a few more days passed and I knew we had problems. Baby Kitty did not seem able to see even though his eyes were open, and he was not walking at all. Back to my vet and half day stay for evaluation.

When I picked him up, the diagnosis was not good. He was blind and his rear legs did not work although he had feeling in them. Dan thought the kitten had neurological damage either from birth or from being tossed in the trash. I asked for a prognosis. There, I was luckier. Dan thought that there was a good chance that Baby Kitty would be able to see because most to the problem seemed to be a lack of muscular control of his eyes. Dan just didn't know about the legs. He had never seen a kitten with this problem.

When I reached home, I told my Mom, who had Parkinson's Disease, the diagnosis. Mom looked at me and grinned. "He'll fit right in."

I understood instantly. I had a problem with the nerves leading up the left side of my head into my brain. Mom had had a stroke as well as Parkinson's. What better place for a brain damaged kitten than with two brain damaged women.

Baby Kitty did fit in. Mom would sit on the front porch in the mornings and Baby Kitty sat between her feet. He played with her shoes and her shoelaces. Slowly, he was gaining eyesight, but those rear legs just did not work. He sort of scooted around Mom's feet and played with those rear legs as if they had no connection to him. Then one day he managed to get both rear legs under him. Baby Kitty stood up.

From that moment on Baby Kitty worked at walking. Obviously, he had to think about what he was doing. He also had no idea where his rear legs were, but he walked. His gait was slow and stumbling and since he could not see very well, he ran into everything and fell often. He persevered.

By his next check-up, he was almost normal. Dan was satisfied that Baby Kitty would lead a full life with little noticeable handicap. Dan was correct.

Baby Kitty has grown into an adventurous, although smaller than average cat. He has a name - Shackleton (Shack for short). Shackleton was an Antarctic explorer who did not give up when faced with life and death struggles. My Shackleton has that same fierce spirit.

You are dead, cat

2005-03-30T16:09:00.000-06:00

My mother was dying. The doctors had all agreed. Her sixteen year struggle with Parkinson's Disease was ending. She had pneumonia, and now she'd had a heart attack. There was nothing to do but make her comfortable.

I knew she hated to be alone, so I stayed at the hospital as much as possible. Friends stayed with her when I did leave. I only went home to care for the cats, clean up and change clothes. The cats were not happy.

I tried to keep all the cats inside, but Irene, a gray and white, female Houdini, figured out how to escape via the latticed deck. Two days had passed since I'd been told Mother would die; two days had passed since I had last seen Irene. There was dry food on the front porch and water, so she should be okay, but I worried because I had not seen her.

On the third day, my answering machine blinked at me as I came into the living room. I punched the play button.

"I need to speak with you about a delicate situation," said the male voice who then went on to identify himself as the manager of a nearby store. I'll call him Joe. He left me a number to call.

I waited until I was back in my mother's hospital room before I returned Joe's call. "Joe, this is Jan. I got your message."

Joe hesitated, then said, "You have a gray and white female cat?"

"Yes," I answered, knowing what followed could not be good.

"When I came to work this morning, I found a gray and white cat on Karnak Street. She'd been hit by a car. She was dead."

Poor Joe, days of staying alone with my mom trying not to give in to grief, had taken a toll. I could no longer contain my emotions. I broke down and cried, telling Joe, between sobs that mother was dying, and I didn't know what to do about Irene.

Joe told me how sorry he was, then offered to take care of Irene's body. I thanked him and took him up on his offer. He disposed of Irene. I spent the rest of the day in tears.

I was crying for more than a cat. Mom had fought Parkinson's for so long and so valiantly. She was still able to dress herself although I helped at times. She should have had a few more years. The women in our family make it into their nineties, mom was just in her eighties. It was not fair, and I did not want to lose her.

Two more days passed. Mom was not one to give up without a fight. I continued my schedule going home only in the morning. The third day, a friend stayed with my mother in the evening, so I could take a break. I returned home after dark.

As I pulled up in front of the house, I could see the silhouette of a cat sitting on the front steps. I wondered if I had a feline visitor or if one of my cats had escaped just as Irene had.

I walked up the front sidewalk. The cat did not run. The cat was Irene.

All I could say was, "You are dead, cat."

Those words did not bother Irene who waited patiently. I picked her up and carried her into the house.

(I sealed the doggy door that led to the latticed porch. No cats would go out that way while Mom was in the hospital.)

I do not know whose cat Joe disposed of. I had not seen another gray and white in the neighborhood. I have not told Joe yet. Why ruin his good deed?

Mom died a week later.

Abby's Back

2004-10-22T13:06:00.000-05:00

The time had come to take Abby back to the vet's for a check-up and perhaps more surgery for her ear tumors. I had an appointment to drop her off early one morning, so that she could be sedated for her exam. Remember, Abby is feral and will not be touched (over your mangled hands, my dear). Anytime the veterinarian needs to do an exam, he has to sedate her.

The night before, she sat on the love seat in my bedroom with her little pink tongue sticking out and stared at me for hours as if trying to read my mind. I did nothing, I thought, to raise her suspicions. I did not touch the carrier, did not close any doors, etc.

The next morning, Abby had vanished. I searched all her usual hiding places, she was nowhere to be found. I looked under the bed, on top of the bookcase, under the cedar chest, behind the TV, under all the chairs in the den and even in the closet. I did turn up Molly, another feral black cat, who hissed at me when I found her under the footstool.

I called my veterinarian's office and told the receptionist the problem. She told me that if I brought Abby in by noon, the vet could examine her, but she probably would have to stay the night.

I decided to resume my normal morning routine in hopes that Abby would reappear. I fed the cats their morning ration of canned food and ate my breakfast. Abby did not appear.

I worked for a while (my office is in my home), then resumed the search for Abby. No luck. I knew that she had not gone outside, that she had to be in the house, but I could not locate her. By now, I had acquired several cat helpers, who thought that when I sprawled on the floor to look under furniture, I really just wanted to play with them.

After almost an hour of fruitless search, I gave up. I called my vet's office and canceled Abby's appointment. I rescheduled for two days later.

Abby did not appear for the rest of the day.

That evening as I sat watching the TV in the den, I glanced at one of our padded chairs. This chair is like an oversized dining room chair with a padded seat and back. Tonight it had five legs.
I looked more closely. The fifth leg definitely had fur on it. Gently, I poked the bulge in the lining. Abby exploded from the chair and clamored up on the bookcase. I had found her new hiding place.

I think Abby knew when to admit defeat. Two days later, she did not hide, and I easily corralled her into the carrier. Well, there was a small chase, but nothing like her previous escapades.

The veterinarian did need to do further work on her ear, so she stayed a few days. She came home even wilder. Of course, since she had more surgery, she has to go back again. Oh, well.

Wellington Rules

2004-09-29T13:14:00.000-05:00

An acquaintance brought Wellington to me, a small kitten running wild in a restaurant parking lot. His gray tabby marks highlighted by a white muzzle, stomach and paws made him look like a model for a kitten calendar. I already had a Napoleon( white with a few black markings) and Josephine (long-haired, white with a mostly black back and black ears), so it seemed appropriate to name the kitten after the Duke that defeated Napoleon at Waterloo. I did not suspect how appropriate the name would be.

I always worry when a kitten is introduced to my horde of cats. While all are amazingly tolerant of each other, there are spats, outbreaks of jealousy, and general jockeying for rank and attention. Kittens are often intimidated by the activity. Not Wellington. He grew quickly and soon began working his way up the cat hierarchy.

Napoleon was one of his first conquests. While Napoleon was older, he was not a large cat, weighing less than nine pounds. Wellington, less than half-grown, weighed about seven pounds, but already possessed the will to dominant. Play fights between Wellington and Napoleon inevitably turned into real combat with Wellington the victor. After a few of those encounters, Napoleon surrendered. Any time Wellington entered a room, Napoleon exited.

Wellington continued to grow and continued to strive toward the goal of being top cat. Only a few of the older females seemed able to subdue him. He solved that problem by ignoring them and choosing other opponents. Finally, Wellington, full-grown, weighing in at nineteen pounds, emerged as ruler of the pride.

Wellington's daily routine consists of prowling through the house searching for opposition. If there is none, he will swat another cat just to reinforce his dominance.

Our oldest females, both eighteen, Cleopatra( a classic brown and tan tabby) and Dot (a black and brown tabby with generous splashes of white), remain the only cats he cannot dominate, although he tries occasionally. Both respond with swift swats and vibrant hisses that send him in retreat. This is remarkable because both are rather small females, but age and experience does make a difference. While Cleo and Dot could reign as the matriarchs of the household, their only desire is to be treated with the respect they deserve and left alone.

Napoleon and Josephine have become Wellington's most frequent targets. If Wellington has not satisfied his desire for dominance by cuffing the first subservient cat he encounters, he goes in search of Napoleon or Josephine. Wellington harasses his victim until he or she surrenders, just as if he is making sure history always repeats itself, and Wellington again defeats Napoleon at Waterloo.

Abby's Sick

2004-09-26T13:24:00.000-05:00

I trapped Abby fourteen years ago. She was a three month old kitten then, the daughter of a feral cat. Sometimes, wild kittens tame and become fairly normal house cats. Abby chose to remain wild.

Now, understand, she lives in the house, never goes out, uses a litter box, comes to eat when dinner is served, and sleeps on the furniture, but she never comes closer than three feet to any human being or allows a person to enter her sphere of separation ( that magic three feet). She's not too fond other cats, either. Her favorite perch is on top of the tallest bookcase (about nine feet off the ground). There, she will listen to me cajoling her to come down to floor level and never acknowledge that I exist. She does know her name and responds to it (when not on the bookcase), either by staring at me with a look of total disdain or bolting from the room as if her life was threatened. She is untouchable.

So a month ago, when I noticed some sort of discharge from her ear, I knew I had a problem. Abby has been to the vet a few times, for her initial exam and shots, and to be spayed. Each time has been a circus with me performing most of the tricks.

The first problem was to isolate her from the other black cats that I own. (Too many times, I have pursued a black rear end, only to discover the front end was not the cat I wanted.) I closed off rooms, isolating the den and bedroom, Abby's favorite hang outs, then I shooed all the cats that I could find out of those two rooms. Then I grabbed a cat carrier and searched for Abby. She was in the bedroom, but immediately headed for the den. There, she scampered up the bookcase to her favorite perch. I stood on a chair, positioned the carrier in what I hoped would be her path, and used a broom to nudge her down. Abby jumped down, did a neat pirouette and cleared the carrier with no problem. She then headed for the top of the French door, positioning herself above the stereo.

I scrambled over to her, I'm arthritic and much less nimble than when she came to live with me, so it took a moment. She waited patiently on the narrow door, her eyes gleaming with the cunning of her wild ancestors. Once more, I climbed on a chair. Oh, I have vertigo too, so I'm less than steady. The carrier was in my left hand, door open. I intended to place it where I thought she would come down if I reached for her with my right hand. That did not happen. A wave of dizziness hit me, and I flailed my arms to keep from falling off the chair. I did not drop the carrier, instead I rotated it in a wide circle as I fought for balance. At that moment, Abby decided to leap from door to the stereo. As if I intended it, the carrier's mouth swung between Abby and the stereo as she jumped, and she landed inside the carrier with a thud, forcing the carrier down against the stereo . Somehow, I held on to the carrier and closed its door. She was trapped. Don't tell me God doesn't have a sense of humor.

Off to the vet we went.

I had assumed that she had an ear infection which could be treated with antibiotics. That turned out to be only part of the problem. She had tumors in her ear. She spent a week at the vet's then had surgery. She's home now, but there is more fun to come. She has to go back for a check up.