Cat Chronicles: No More Cats!
Cat Chronicles: No More Cats!
By Kate Chamberlin
July, 2016
During our 45 years of marriage, we’ve survived living with cats of various ilk and personalities, but, they’ve all been neutered males and named Gato with an alphabet letter.
As I nestled with my little eight-toed, mitten kitten, Gato-A on my mattress, which rested on the floor of my first studio apartment, his purring lulled me to sleep, as well as woke me the next morning–or maybe it was the troop of fleas he shared with me from the shelter and the itching that pursued.
Gato-A did not like the men I dated, but one of them became my husband. They faced each other like two alley cats about to brawl, however, throughout the years, they came to an understanding: They were both here with me for the long haul. Gato-A ruled our household for about 15 years when he died. Fortunately, my husband isn’t dead yet.
Shortly after Gato-A’s demise, my friend phoned to say someone had dropped off a cuddly, tuxedo kitten in her front yard. Did I want him? My children and I went over to check him out and thought he was the spitting image of Gato-A, even though we knew Gato-A couldn’t have sired any progeny. Gato-B accepted my husband and children as litter-mates. The children loved the cat and even my husband got caught giving him a little pat on the head from time to time.
He still professed to not really like cats and grumbled that we’d not get another one when Gato-B died.
At the loss of our sweet, Gato-B, of course, we wanted another cat, but my husband stuck to his refusal to get another one.
One day after he’d gone to work and the children had hopped on the school bus, I was working in my “command center”, when I heard a little mew. Was I hearing things? I followed the sound to our 12 year old daughter’s room.
Apparently, while waiting for the bus, her girlfriend had brought up a kitten, complete with litterbox and food. They’d smuggled it into her room, fed it, and assumed it would sleep all day until they returned from school. Our daughter intended to tell us a tale we couldn’t refuse! She was right.
Gato-C had a leg that had been damaged during birth or gestation, so no one else wanted him. How could we turn out a gimpy gato? Officially, his name was Milo, but we all called him Gimpy Gato.
Unfortunately, he met his demise as the dinner for one of the roving coyotes. My husband was adamant about no more cats. I quietly started to kid around about getting three little kittens. As an elementary teacher, I wanted to name them Winkin’, Blinkin’, and Nod. It was Christmas time, so our son and his friend said we should name them Egg, Nog, and Rum. My husband said they’d be named, No, No, and No!
Gato-D came to us via our college age son. He and his intended bride were moving to an apartment that wouldn’t take pets. The previous year, they’d found an abandoned little kitten, nursed its infected eye back to health, cleaned his coat until it was shiny and thick, and fed him. They fed him so well that his girth made his head look very tiny.
Being used to an apartment, he moseyed right into his new surroundings of our game room. He soon adopted the entire house, the yard, and eventually, commanded the neighborhood. As his territory enlarged, his girth decreased.
Gato-D became a mighty hunter, leaving his trophies on the patio and our front door step. One day I opened the door to let him in and he went directly under the dining room table, instead of rubbing my ankles. Although I’m totally blind, I could tell that he had a mouthful by the sound of his hello meow. Then, I heard him scramble as his prey fluttered up to the underside of the table. His sparrow wasn’t dead! The cat caught the bird, I caught the cat, and they both went right back outside. My husband just shook his head and snickered something about: dumb cat.
Gato-D’s demise was untimely, even though he’d reached a ripe old age. One day, when I let him in, he went directly down stairs and didn’t come back up all day. Usually, he’d come sit with me as I read or wrote my newspaper column. Mid-afternoon, I went to look for him.
As I reached to pet him, my hand felt the wet and sticky feel of his head. He didn’t move, but cried out in distress, as if he wanted to be left alone. Without a word, we rushed him to the vet’s, thinking he’d been attacked by a coyote.
The vet cleansed the three puncture wounds on his head and said that a coyote would never let dinner go. Gato-D had been chased, captured, and shaken by a large dog!
Our neighbor had a big Shepard, so he was suspected of the dastardly deed, but we never confronted the neighbors. We tried to spare our two young children by letting them think that the coyote did it.
It was quite a traumatic end and, as predicted, my husband said: Never again. No More cats!
Now, we are empty nesters. My husband is retired. Our three children of our A-Team are all grown-up and married with children of their own. Even the two grandsons we raised, our B-Team, have flown the coop. Our daughter has carried our tradition of having a family pet to new heights. She has one husband, two dogs, three sons, four cats, a Leopard Gecko, tanks of fish and she thinks we need at least one cat to go along with my retired guide dog and my working guide dog. My husband says, No way; however the other evening, I caught him googling our local Humane Society. That night I dreamt of Winkin’, Blinkin’, and Nod.
Our daughter insisted her 8-year old cat could train my young guide dog that cats are family, not dinner. She swore the cat actually thought he was a dog anyway, because he’d been raised by a Great Dane and a Pit Bull Terrier.
The dog training center had signed off re-training Tulip Grace, saying that dogs are descended from wolves and it is second nature for them to hunt small prey for their dinner.
I thought that living with a cat, might help Tulip realize cats are our friends, not dinner. My husband smirked, “A cat training a dog? I don’t think so.”; however, we accepted Gato-E into our family.
He was a bit over-weight, very loveable with a loud, rattling purr and wrinkled whiskers. His almost curly, marmalade and white fur rejected any of my attempts for sleekness, yet, he loved to be brushed and groomed.
On their first meeting, Gato-E raced backwards in panic as Tulip lunged forward to snarl and growl her greetings. from then on, Gato-E avoided going into any room where he detected Tulip. Apparently, the dog had trained the cat, instead of the dog learning cats are our friends. My husband quipped, “So much for cats rule and Dogs drool.”
Sternly saying “Leave it”, became my mantra whenever the dog and cat came near each other. Eventually, my guide dog associated the reprimand with leaving the cat alone. She doesn’t re-act when Gato-E darts between her legs or butts his head in greeting or jumps onto my lap.
Next week, I’ll start taking her for a walk around our neighborhood to see if she recognizes other cats as family or dinner.
For now, we have harmony within our family. As a matter of fact, yesterday, I found my husband snoring in his heated lounge chair with an orange marmalade ball of fur snoring on his stomach.
No more cats? Indeed!
Acknowledgements: Thanks to Donna Grahmann for some of the warm fuzzes to my Cat Chronicle, and to Edie Pasquini for the photograph of Gato-E.