Category Archives: The Kids

Daddy’s evil little helper

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We all have our habits, little ruts into which we fall that become comfortable things we wear.  Never have I found this to be more important than with cats.  Felines, you see, are creatures of habit, masters of stability who rely on predictable patterns.  Through these routines they enjoy less stress.  Stress is a cat’s worst enemy, so I support our home’s habits insofar as I’m able.

One such habit stems from my morning customs, from brushing my teeth to shaving (on those days when I do so).  But it all starts with The Kids.

The moment I’m awake, and too often long before then, the patterns take shape.  We lie in bed and play and pet and rub and talk.  We get out of bed and play and pet and rub and talk.  Then we play and pet and rub and talk even more while I’m trying to start the day.

Once it’s time to go in the bathroom, however, I can rely on all manner of assistance.

Loki on the bathroom counter

Loki happens to enjoy his bathroom counter time with Daddy.  Others have similar desires, yes, but he’s the one I’m talking about today.

Understand there’s very little room during these moments for what Daddy wants or needs.  No, it all has to do with Loki.

Keep in mind he sometimes resists being awake even though he’s demanding that his will trump my own.

Loki on the bathroom counter

If necessary, he gleefully tosses my razor to the floor, intercepts my arm while I’m trying to brush my teeth, or stands between me and the sink so he’s not ignored.  As if!

And when I acquiesce and give him all the attention he wants in that moment, eventually he steps aside and makes himself comfortable.  He’s never far enough from the action that he can’t intrude and molest.

Loki on the bathroom counter

Amazingly, I love these habits, these ruts we share.  I know they need such episodes to feel stable and sound.  Nothing in me would deny them such comforts knowing they are happier and healthier cats because of them.

Can you recognize it?

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Vazra lying on the floor looking out the window

Louis A. Camuti, a veterinarian, once made clear the most palpable of fur person truths: “With dogs and people, it’s love in big splashy colors. When you’re involved with a cat, you’re dealing in pastels.”

The relationship between people and cats tends toward the subtle end of the spectrum.  Unlike canines who demonstrate in bold moves, felines enjoy a more casual approach.

So I ask: Can you recognize it?  Are your eyes capable of differentiating Vazra’s adaptation to owning a human like me?

In but a year he has integrated himself into life with the rest of us.  As a point of fact, he has become so attached to me that he now follows me about the house and talks to me incessantly, engaging me in conversation and speaking to me in his native tongue with absolute certainty that I will understand him.  And I do.

Each of The Kids has a distinct voice, one recognized immediately and comprehended with sureness.  When one of them speaks, I hear and I know.  I know what they’re saying, what they’re feeling, what they’re thinking.

And now so too with Vazra.  He’s trained me well.

The love and affection I feel for him has deepened tremendously since his rescue.  I see the same in his feelings for me.

So again I ask: Can you recognize it?  Can you see the feeling of safety, the confidence in his own well-being while in my presence, the comfort of knowing he loves and is loved?

[Vazra]

You’re in the wrong house, ma’am

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I spied some little trinket of nature’s making and decided to go outside to snap a few photos.  I armed myself with the camera and a spare battery just in case, then I unlocked the front door and opened it.

To my surprise, something quite small and agile darted through the doorway, scampered over my sandaled foot, and disappeared beneath the love seat.  I failed to see it clearly due to its minuscule size and rapid pace.

Yet I had not been the only one to see it.  Normally drawn to the front door when opened due to its being used so infrequently, all five of The Kids stood at my feet watching me.  Their attention immediately fell to the floor when our visitor rushed in unannounced.

I pushed the door shut, placed the camera on the cat tree by my side, and turned my focus toward whatever hid beneath the furniture.

Oh, what a drama!

The invader was much smaller than a single breath.  Dark and stealthy, fast and frightened, it rested in safe shadows hoping to remain undiscovered and undisturbed.

I moved this and that out of the way, then I pulled the love seat away from the wall.  But I was not alone.

A handful of predacious felines remained so close that their whiskers tickled me at every turn.  Every nook and cranny exposed by my actions demanded immediate investigation by them.  Whatever shared our abode could not be in more danger. . .

Litter boxes and scratching posts pushed aside, I picked up the love seat and moved it some distance from the wall, perhaps an arm’s length.  Nothing.  Even as The Kids moved in and investigated, I stood bewildered and worried.

Some coaxing and petting drew away the killers long enough for me to move the furniture even further away from the wall.

Then I spied it!  A Mediterranean gecko (a.k.a. house gecko; Hemidactylus turcicus) so small that I feared any of the cats could swallow it in a single motion.

Before it could move, I reached down and enveloped it with my hand.

Who knew a closed fist still provided enough room for some creatures to run?  I didn’t, yet I could feel the tiny lizard rushing about looking for an exit.

I knew it wasn’t safe.  I knew its fear would drive it to leap away as soon as it could.  Photos would be impossible.  Still, I grabbed the camera and headed outside to release it.

The moment I opened my hand, it scurried across my skin, me turning my appendage rapidly to compensate.

Finally, it perched momentarily between thumb and knuckles.  I snapped the only picture I could take.

A very small Mediterranean gecko (a.k.a. house gecko; Hemidactylus turcicus) climbing over my hand

And then it was gone.  With one bold leap it flew away from me, landed on the patio fence, ran with utter abandon to the nearest wall, and disappeared around the corner.

I felt my job was done.

[btw, I assume it to be a female because many of these exotic lizards are parthenogenetic; I could be wrong, but it’s still a safe assumption; also, if you look at the larger size of that image, you’ll get a very good understanding of its size; it’s shorter than the length of my thumb (and I mean from tip of nose to tip of tail); this indeed was a young’un in every sense of the word]

Dreamy quietude

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…these are the times of dreamy quietude, when beholding the tranquil beauty and brilliancy of the ocean’s skin, one forgets the tiger heart that pants beneath it; and would not willingly remember, that this velvet paw but conceals a remorseless fang.

— Herman Melville, Moby Dick

Grendel sleeping in a bit of shadow with sunlight dancing nearby

There are times when I ponder how much of the predator I take for granted, how safe I assume myself to be when in the presence of master hunters.  But years of love and pure trust cannot restrain the killers hiding behind gentle purrs.

When Grendel began suffering from debilitating asthma attacks—before we knew what was happening, we visited a veterinary specialist to have an ultrasound performed.  Our fear?  Cardiomyopathy.  The prognosis included an unrecoverable illness and a short life.

Standing in a room of cold metal furniture and porcelain tile, where even the fluorescent light cast pale shadows made of sickly forms, tears welled up in my eyes as I pondered the future of Sponge, of the cat who knew no strangers.

Curtly, as though describing some experimental object with no feelings, the doctor explained how the exam would be performed and what I should expect.  I made clear then that Grendel should be given anesthesia.  The doctor disagreed.

He called for a veterinary assistant to help manage the situation, after which I placed Grendel on a slab of metal and told him everything would be alright.

But I lied, something I did not know at the time.

The moment the vet turned on the clipping shears to shave away a bit of fur to make way for the ultrasound equipment, my little tiger became a ferocious beast.

All four paws pierced the doctor’s hands with splayed claws expertly utilized, each sinking deep and penetrating flesh until the vet dared not move.  And in the blink of an eye this gentle feline turned and bit through to the bone of one the of the veterinary assistant’s hands.

Meanwhile, I tried my best to calm and sooth the savage beast, to assure him no harm was meant and no harm would occur.  This had the unfortunate side effect of placing one of my hands directly in the path of destruction.

Grendel’s teeth pierced my skin and went clean through to the other side of my hand—from both directions.

Then in the blink of an eye, a movement so quick as to be invisible to we humans, he released each of us, stood, turned, leaped from the table, scurried to the opposite side of the room, and promptly sat in a corner and watched us with the same compassion-filled eyes I’ve come to expect from him.  It was as though he immediately regretted the mayhem, that he understood the cries of pain were caused by him. . .and he found it distasteful.

As for me, I could see clean through my hand.  Two holes made for a perfect view.

Needless to say, the doctor followed my advice and used anesthesia (gas) to ensure a less deadly exam.  He also assured me he would not report the wounds to the state as required by law, especially considering they resulted purely from his own negligence and failure to abide by my wishes.  Good thing, too, for I would have owned that veterinary clinic before it was over.

But the point is this: Melville was right about how we too often ignore the dangers lurking beneath the dreamy quietude.  Whether it be the ocean, a thunderstorm, raging rapids, or a beloved animal sharing our home, we must respect nature, respect what she can do without warning.  We must always respect the beast she represents.

Do I ever fear Grendel?  Or the other cats?  Of course not.  Even at that moment when I stood looking through my hand watching blood waterfall into the sink, I knew he meant no harm.  We caused the episode.  He merely acted in self-defense like all living things would.

Yet even now when I think of that moment, I realize within each of The Kids rests a slayer who only several thousand years ago was a wild animal, and that wild animal still lies within, wrestling just under the surface for the right trigger to set it free.  Thus is nature.

Don’t mess with Woman

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Kako lying on the floor

She looks all sweet and innocent lying there, doesn’t she?  You’d think her an angel when she deigns to bless the world with her own kind of sweetness.  But don’t be fooled.  She’s equal parts sugar and vinegar, and the sugar’s only there to put you at ease so she can get her way.  Remember, she’ll hit me if I point at her.  She knows that’s the cousin of discipline, so she gets her preemptive strike in before it goes any further.  And there are other tales, but let me share this one with you.

Derek called me and asked about dinner.  I was running late from work, so I told him to grab something on the way home as I’d be there shortly after he arrived.

I completed my duties at the office before making my escape.  I drove home quickly, parked the car in the garage, then stepped inside the air conditioned space.

“Don’t push me, Woman!” I heard him say with a great deal of jest in his voice.  He loved pushing her buttons, Derek did, for her adamant disposition always won the day.  He therefore enjoyed the challenge of making her make him behave. . .or at least do what she wanted.

He continued, “I told you you can’t have any until Daddy gets home.”  By then he was looking at me, as was she.

With one front paw resting atop the coffee table, she stood on her hind legs swinging at his hand.  He was trying to keep her at bay.  He would gently push her away, she would come back more obdurately than before, swinging all the while, and the game would cycle through again.

But my presence changed all that.  She turned immediately and looked at me, an insistent call for some of his chicken still ringing from her open mouth.  Then her approach changed.  If she couldn’t get to his food directly, she’d use me to get what she wanted.  That always worked.

Without hesitating, she dropped from her perch, turned, and ran to the kitchen where I stood.  She griped the whole way.  I don’t mean she meowed or howled or whined.  No, she griped.  In fact, she told on him as she trotted to my side.  There was no denying what she was saying.

“Daddy, I told him to give me some chicken and he said ‘no.’  That’s a pretty dumb one you got there.  You better tell him to give me some of that chicken right now before I take it.  Don’t make me hurt him, Daddy.  Oh, and by the way, he’s been teasing me, too.  You know, telling me I can’t have any until you get here, and even then I might not get any, and all that crap.  I’ll kill him if you don’t make him give me some chicken, Daddy.  I mean it.”

Her entire waltz across two rooms echoed these complaints throughout the house.  She was very unhappy.

Both Derek and I began laughing uncontrollably because we knew precisely what she was doing.  She was telling on him, yes, but she was also making it clear she wouldn’t be putting up with any more of his shenanigans.

Once I caught my breath, I looked at him and said, “Now that Daddy’s home, you’re gonna pay.  You heard the lady.  Either she gets some chicken or you lose some blood.  It’s now your choice.”

Again we laughed.  Nevertheless, she understood me enough to know the hammer was down.  She turned tail and ran back to his side, propped herself up on the coffee table once again, and reached into his plate to grab a bit of chicken.

One quick glance back at me proclaimed loud and clear she’d get her way because Daddy was home, and Daddy said she was gonna have some chicken, by golly, and I mean post haste.

Derek moved his hand and let her fetch a piece of fowl, one just right and to her liking, which she pulled from his plate and dropped on the floor where she could focus on its sumptuousness without his interference.

I’ve never forgotten that day, a moment of time when she challenged everyone involved to get what she wanted, beating up on one and manipulating the other.  Sure, she was willing to put the hurt on Derek if she had to.  Using Daddy, though, made more sense as it required less effort.  And it always worked, as she knew quite well.

It’s no wonder she’s never purred for anyone but me.  I often thought that hurt Derek’s feelings when he was alive.  I mean, he knew her as long as I did.  Still, she loved him and cared for him through his illness, yet never did she purr for him.  That was a gift meant only for me.  I think it’s because she knew she could manage me better that way, better if she lived up to Derek’s nickname for her: Daddy’s Girl.

She still only purrs for me, and more importantly, she still manipulates and abuses me at will just so she can get what she wants.  I love this little lass!