Ziggy Stardust, cat chronicles

Newsweek ran an article on documenting kitty love. Or rather trying to prove that our aloof cats really do love us after all. They’re not just assholes, and we are not their servant-savants. Now, most quasi-scientific articles on cat behavior are beyond ridiculous—especially the ones that try to (dis)prove the cognitive abilities of cats. Markers of feline affection are even harder to map. Especially if you are prone to  use the behavior of sycophantic dogs as a reference point.

I was always interested in cat behavior, having had cats all my life. Our first cat was a Siamese, who decided that I need a protection and slept with me in the crib. My father was convinced she would smother me, my mother said no, leave her alone. She’s protecting the baby. And so she did. Much later, I also wanted to become a veterinarian, so I was always observing animal behavior. 

When it came to choosing my own kitten from my friend’s litter, this time I let the kitten choose me, not the other way around. The previous kitten I chose on looks alone. Luckily Frosty, a seal-point Saimese with white markings was a good cat. I was sold on Siamese-alley cat mix. You got the best of both worlds, blue-eyed beauty and street-smarts. And hopefully you didn’t get a crossbreed that sang the song of the Siamese cat’s tribe.

There were at least five kittens to choose from the clowder as the purebred Siamese mother proudly surveyed her mongrel litter. Luckily they mostly took after her with Siamese markings and tabby stripes. It was a hard decision, I wanted them all. 

My friend’s stepmother would not let us take our chosen kittens right away, she said they were too young at six weeks, so we interacted with them for two weeks when they came of age to leave the nest. Wise decision. Less trauma for them. My kitten was one well-adjusted cat. He was both adventuresome and trusting.

Most people choose their cats based on quirks and vagaries of beauty, not realizing that the cat too would like to make a choice as to whom he trusts and wants to interact with. Though it took me a while to find his name, Ziggy Stardust chose me. He fell asleep in my lap on his back with paws splayed. My heart melted.

At College of Marin I did a social experiment with my Siamese-tabby mix kitten for a psychology class, we were studying animal behavior. Konrad Lorenz’s imprinted ducklings was my inspiration.

I taught my beautiful blue-eyed kitten to come when I whistled, to lay down, roll over, and to fetch a piece of crumpled paper and return it to me. He performed brilliantly for the class and was unafraid of strangers. We all sat in a circle on the carpet,, and he wended his way in an out of all of us, curious to the end. It was interesting to watch him work the crowd and you could see my fellow students falling in love.

When I brought Ziggy back to school a few months later, he was terrified, and would not do anything at all, except for to hide and yowl. It was a long  miserable day at school for both of us. This was in the days before cat carriers were invented, so I carried him on the bus to and from school. No leash. No harness. He stuck to me like glue. I was his only hope. We were a bonded pair. I never put them in a stressful position like that again.

I trained that cat to do many other things as well. Perhaps the most unusual feat was to convince him to hop into a picnic basket so that I could lower him from the second story window to the ground so he could go potty. Then, after he did his duty, he would hop back inside the basket and ride the elevator back up to my window for his morning snuggle. 

Figby & Ziggy adored my grandmother, much to her chagrin, & she let them inside.

• See Figby & Pishkin a story about two brother cats, and a good example of nature versus nurture.

A BLT for the horse

One afternoon I was eating a rare treat, a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich—something I had recently discovered. My old horse Chiquita, who was grazing on the grass around the front of the house, was so used to sharing snacks with me that she reached over and snatched my sandwich right out of my hand, and gobbled it up. I was stunned as I had barely taken a bite. When she hit a strip of bacon, she was surprised and began nodding her head for all she was worth, because I don’t think she’d ever experienced bacon, or any meat, before in her life. But it was salty and she liked that. See, it all began innocently enough. We used to collect day-old bread from Bordenave and Lombardi bakeries and feed it to the animals. So she thought anything that resembled a loaf of French bread was for her. She looked like Winston Churchill in the war-room with a cigar in his mouth, as she tilted her head sideways, and got a dreamy look in her eyes, whenever she ate those loaves of French bread. Her sidekick, Winky the cat, was standing on his hind legs, wanting in on the action, got a piece of bacon for his efforts.

RIP, Buddy the Cat (Florida Journals) (photos)

The wind was blowing the whirligig, but Buddy couldn’t hear it.

RIP, Buddy the Cat, who at age 19, was nearly old enough to visit the local bar, that’s something like 133 in cat years. I tried to warn my friends that his time had probably come, as he was pissing on the hall floor. I was always stepping in it barefoot. No odor, renal failure, I knew the drill too well. My favorite cats, Cheetos and Jack, both orange bhoys, died of kidney failure. Poor little guy slept on the couch the last few days. No more midnight yowling. And of course, no one wants to hear that their pet is dying. At least he didn’t die on my watch. 

Whenever I was on the couch, Buddy the Cat liked to parallel park along my calf, snoozing hard, it’s a tough life being a cat. Whenever I went outside, he hovered nearby, like a constant shadow. He was deaf as a stump but responded to percussive sounds.

But he also kept me sane under impossible circumstances. He was my constant flame, my fan club, and my tormentor. He had a hellacious medianoche howl. He was able to reach a much louder velocity than what I was able to record on my iPad. He would throw his head back like a little wolf, and he kept me awake most nights with his yowling. So much so, that I needed to visit the bar. Drive me to drink, he did. He always shut up and made baby squeaks whenever he saw me coming, he knew he wasn’t supposed to howl. And he went running off whenever he saw me, he knew the score. So I had to sneak my iPad around corners in order to catch him in action. 

I only knew Buddy for three weeks, while catsitting. Not too sure how long that is in cat years. First, there was the cool cat whothehellareyou and whathaveyoudone with my master beloved, I’ll keep my distance and be terribly aloof—week. Then there was the OMG you are my entire universe wherehaveyoubeen allmylife week. And then the lovefest commenced. But I could see how he was beginning to falter, and I knew him well enough to recognize the signs of renal failure. I tried to tell my hosts when they returned, to say their goodbyes, but it was news no one wants to hear. 

A stone-deaf pale flame Siamese colored Persian with a lion haircut, he pretty much followed me everywhere once he realized I was not only the catsitter, I was the gravytrain, the head scratcher, the face washer, the ear massager, and master tail-butt itcher all rolled into one. A few nights after my friends returned home from their concert series, the yowling magically stopped. Even they were surprised. Something was up. Buddy’s card. Gonna miss that little guy, but not his particular rendition of the song of his people.

When I moved his bed outside to the back porch, he was a happy camper.

Facewashing the cat (photos) (Florida journals)

I just cleaned Buddy the Cat’s face with eye drops and a wet toothbrush—he loves it—plus eye medicine. He helps me scrub his little face. I did his ears inside and out too, as they were not very clean. And he went apeshit, he was cross-eyed, and groaning with pleasure, trying to stick his hind feet into his ears and everywhere else. Right now he is grooming his head. He is about 19 years old and his hygiene is sadly lacking. If he wasn’t so old I would give him a bath ASAP.

Buddy the Cat in ecstacy, falling over backwards for a little noserub. He decided I might be alright after all. Gonna miss the little guy. He is a lovely creature. When I scratch his back at the base of his tail, he licks his front, especially his bib. It’s very clean. Since he needs to brush up on personal hygiene skills, this is good. When I first scratched his spine at the base of his tail he didn’t like it, now he thinks it’s wonderful. Lots of head butts. Right now, he is washing my elbow, as well as behind his own ears. Who knew that my elbow was so dirty?

Buddy the inside cat is studying for a PhD in quantum mechanics. That is how he can be both inside and outside at the same time. He also has a minor degree in cat opera, and has the lungs of a Pavarotti. I keep stalking the cat to record his hideous meows, and he always cottons onto me. Imagine this yowl at quadruple the volume, and a sustained yodel, with more vibrato, longing and saudade to it—carrying on for five or more minutes at a stretch, going off like clockwork all through the night. 

Meanwhile, the back porch raccoon decided that the food scraps I put out for her needed a good washing—including the old bread I put out yesterday. Nothing worse than a bad cook making bread soup with cat kibble.

Mi vida loca (cat pix) (Florida journals)

 Mi vida loca. Ana, the weekend care provider arrives today, she is an angel, the other care provider is terrible, plays on her cellphone all day, cada día. Pero Ana se limpio todo la casa. She takes care of my musician friends’ mother, Justa. I am a majordomo orchestrating the house, and I am also responsible for a bevvy of cats who understand todo en español Cubano! Este lenguage es muy rapido, no Rs, no Ss. Todo inmersión. 

Meanwhile, Buddy the Cat yowls his bilingual two-note aria, he is searching for his mortal beloved. I cannot tell him that no matter how many doors he visits, Kirk no esta aqui. The cat has taken to howling beneath my window every night to show his displeasure. I need earplugs and a full night’s sleep. Mi mente explotándo en tongues. Buddy, a declawed flame Persian with a ridiculous lion haircut, is the victim of a careless owner who wanted a plush toy, found safe haven here en la casa de los gatos. He is yodeling in the stairwell, which is an echo chamber. I know he is senile and deaf, I wonder if he can hear himself better there. 

He is 19, which is the equivalent of 133 human years. He has a chronic eye infection, I wonder how much he can see, because sometimes he tumbles down the stairs, and uses his paw like a blindman’s cane. He doesn’t seem to have teeth either. The four feral outside cats, the opossum and the raccoon are blessedly silent. Thank God there are no longer any cockatiels in the mix. But a cloud of escaped zoo parrots from Hurricane Katrina fly across the sky chattering up a storm.

KILLING THE CAT

KILLING THE CAT

Cat wants in and out at the same time
But she is stuck on the stoop of indecision.
Coming and going are one thing to her.
She doesn’t differentiate, however,
she is merely exorcising her rights—
like Schrödinger’s cat. Ah, the variables of physics.
She complains. Looks up at me as if it’s my fault.
We stand in the doorway, frozen in time. And wait.
Maybe we are the thought experiment in action.
This room, this door. This moment in time
caught in the crosshairs. Not the cat—
who is neither dead nor alive,
depending upon your perspective.
And yes, boxes may have been involved.
If I think of her in the box, then, she is dead.
If I don’t, then, she she is alive. Either. Or.
What’s so ironic is that she’s not even my cat.
We wait, contemplate the vagaries of air.
Measure the depths of sky.
And close the door.

3/25/15
rev. 3/25/19
Published in Spectrum 24 August 2020

A bird and a half a day. Cats and bird deaths—an inflated fact?

Photographer friend Jerry Downs posted a lovely photo of an orange spotted housecat sitting on a car hood enjoying a rare bit of sunshine during an otherwise bleak and rainy week. And of course someone had to go and spoil it all by stating how every single outdoor cat was responsible for 500+ songbird deaths in North America. (To the tune of  3.6 million birds a day, or 1.3 billion birds a year). A bird and a half a day per cat? Do the math. Who comes up with this stuff?

To wit, I replied—The cat bird-kill statistic is somewhat inflated....that would be something like a bird and a half per day per cat. I don’t think so. Besides, not all free roaming house cats kill birds. In fact, most pet cats are clumsy lummoxes. Easy targets like lizards and mice run in front of their noses and they hardly know what to do with them. They’re not the ferocious hunters they’re cracked up to be. Besides the males (he’s orange, therefore, has an 80% chance of being male) rarely, if ever, hunt.

Since the 1970s, most of the bug population too has plummeted—especially butterflies and bees. Birds eat bugs and pesticide-laden seeds and other birds. They are apex predators. But when it comes to bird deaths, people’s free range pet moggies are unfairly bearing the brunt—convenient scapegoats for all the bird deaths. 

We’ve also systematically killed off or destroyed most of the wild birds’ natural habitat, and also their predators—from kestrels and hawks to cougars and bobcats to foxes, coyotes and wolves— which was never factored in on the annual estimated bird population death counts. 

Instead look to climate change, bird habitat loss, exposure to chemicals, fertilizers, insecticides, and collisions with man-made objects—from cell towers, windmills, airplane engines to cars and windows. A billion birds a year die from colliding with windows. Human impact (and the continued use of pesticides) is the real threat" to songbirds.
 

That said, I’m not for vast colonies of feral cats. They don’t belong here. They should be eradicated. But when someone’s pet moggie sitting outside on a car hood enjoying a spot of sunshine, being held responsible by proxy for massive bird deaths, is a bit over the top. Talk about killjoy.

PETRICHOR

Strange sound on the roof.
First rain of the season.
Acrid odor of petrichor.
Portent of things to come.

10/1/19

Cat Whisperer available for cat wrangling (job/letter)

( I saw the writing on the wall with Neil, off his psychotropic meds, and applied for this job. My life would've been very different had I been accepted.)

Dear Joan B. Owell,

I have the necessary skills you are looking for to deal with cats. Though I am not a veterinarian, I have many of the necessary basic skills, including giving shots subcutaneously, lancing and flushing abscesses, medicating, worming, bathing, clipping toenails, etc. 

I had many bruiser kitties, and so I learned doctoring from the ground up, and my vet took me under his wing, and entrusted me with basic triage techniques. I also had horses, so I also have large animal vet skills as well. I have dressed more serious wounds than I care to tell you about.

I am both a horse whisperer and a cat whisperer. Even shy kitties seek me out for pet jobs because I know all the secret itchy spots. I have the patience to sit on the ground and let the skittish ones come to me. And I have that sooting demeanor that they seek out. I have also held many house/cat-sitting jobs as well.

 I have no trouble being alone for vast tracts of time, as I am a writer/photographer, so I would also use this sojourn as a writers' retreat as well. I have received many grants for my work, as well as teaching grants—I have taught kids poetry and art.

Though I don't speak Greek, I am a fast learner, and managed to pick up Russian when I lived there in the late 1980s, I had created a poetry and art exchange with Sonoma County, in California. Visiting Greece has always been on my bucket list.

I am also an excellent gardener, and general all-round handy-woman. I am extremely self-sufficient, and am in excellent health. Though I am 65, I look 45, and some people say I sometimes act like a 12-year old in that I have my childish wonder and love of the natural world intact. I learned to drive on stick-shift, on gnarly backroads, and of course I can ride a horse, donkey, or even a bull calf, if needs be. Or even a tractor.

I have one concern, with 55 cats, disease can spread quickly. Have they had their feline distemper shots? I lost one of my favorite cats to distemper, and it's devastating. What about feline AIDS? What is your arrangement with the local vet? I assume you have a vast store, or ample access to cat foot (you must buy it by the kilo!).

What are the challenges faced with getting to this island? Is airfare and island transport included, or reimbursed? Is there any provision for time off? (Santorini is on my bucket list.) Or should an emergency arise, is there a plan B? How isolated is this place? Do you have photos of the dwelling? I love rustic accomodations. Light is important to me. I love being outside. I grew up out in the country and close to the land. 

Is your place in Hermoupolis, or perhaps near Kini? What about local village customs? Will I be accepted, or will I be considered the crazy foreign cat lady? (I'm a recovered Catholic, and it looks like it's a very Catholic island. But then again, all those tourists also means it's cosmopolitan as well.) The archaeological museum sounds fascinating. I have an abiding interest in history.

Is there wifi, or internet access? Is there a grocery store nearby? Amernities? My needs are basic. But I need to have a better sense of what my actual salary might be, half time. For example, will it be enough to cover airfare and basic necessities, with a little set aside for the future?

Some of my cat writing

Figby & Pishkin

Cat's up

UNTIL EACH CAT

MONA THE ONE-EYED CAT

NICOTATING MEMBRANE

Celli Cabin Cat Chronicles

PAID JOB OFFER WITH CATS! (this is genuine and NOT a joke - friends, please feel free to verify!). A very special position and living circumstance on offer on a little Greek island called Syros (a small paradise no less!) for a mature and genuinely passionate cat lover who knows how to handle many cats and would love their company!! I am looking for someone who can take over the daily running of my Greek cat sanctuary in my absence. You will have 55 cats in your care and need to be able to overview them all + feed and medicate (big added bonus if you’re trained vet. nurse!). As part of the job you’ll have a fully paid (incl. water & electricity) semidetached modern tiny house with it’s own garden (direct view to the Aegean Sea!) plus a salary. The daily hours is that of a part time job (approx. 4 hours) and the salary reflects the fact that you get the house for free (with everything paid). All expenses for the cats will of course be paid incl. all veterinary care. You will be expected to take the cat to the vet in case of illness and therefore will need to be able to drive a manual car. We are located in a secluded nature preserved area which is very tranquil and quiet in winter time but busy during the summer. You’ll no doubt thrive best if you are the type of person who appreciates nature and likes tranquility - and rest comfortably in your own company. That said, you’ll never feel lonely in the company of the cats and you’ll be expected to live with a small handful of cats in your house. From experience the job is most suitable for someone 45+ years of age, who’s responsible, reliable, honest, practically inclined - and really, with a heart of gold! Apart from feeding the cats the cats will also need heaps of love and attention. You will at times be expected to trap or handle a feral or non-sociable cat, so knowing something about a cats psychology too is important + cat-whispering skills should come natural to you. The job is long term but a minimum of 6 months is required with a 1 month intro at the beginning of October (you will be volunteering for the first 2-4 weeks but with free accommodation). The paid job starts on November 1st 2018. To get an accurate idea of the salary, please follow this link to see an average Greek salary and keep in mind this is a part time job WITH house, water & electricity included for free! https://tradingeconomics.com/greece/wages Please send your application with a photo and relevant information to joanbowell@yahoo.com We will look through all the applications and do Skype calls with the most suitable candidates at the end of August. PLEASE SHARE THIS POST FAR AND WIDE!! P.s. Please don't send concerned messages. All is well and more will be revealed at some later point! ❤️ joanbowell@yahoo.com

MONA THE ONE-EYED CAT

Jannie Dresser lost her one-eyed wonder,
Mona, a tuxedo cat, who went missing
on a souped-up Saturday night.
She slipped out, thin as a shadow 
through the crack of the door 
into the darkness that beckoned.
Her lone eye fixed on the siren moon
while Jannie, heartbroken, walked the alleys
crooning for her lost cat. I said:
Cats sometimes go on walkabout,
and return a little worse for wear. 
Perhaps she's searching 
for the lost dreams of her other eye.
What tall tales she'll have.

4/23/18
(the cat returned five nights later)

Figby & Pishkin

Someone dumped a calico cat and her three young ginger kittens in the field below our house—at the end of a country road. Someone else's idea of letting the cat go back to the wild to fend for herself. Someone from town stupid enough to justify that rationalization.

The young cat was was literally starving, she didn't know how to hunt, and was unable to care for her babies. Barely more than a kitten herself, we'd watch her flop down on the dry winter grass, as she tried to nurse them, but no milk came.

She was shadow thin. I tried to reel her in with food but no luck. Her trust in humans was nil. We tried to leave leave food out for her, but the bluejays would beat her off the kibble, and she was too skittish to eat if we came near. Raccoons kept a tight night patrol.

Something had to be done, nature was running its inexorable course, but I could no longer bear to watch them starve. As they were sunning themselves in the lower field, I snuck up on them from behind a stump and managed to grab one kitten as the rest scattered to the four winds. I had one chance, and one chance was all I got. I snagged one bedraggled orange kitten and brought him into the house, but not the other. They ran off, forever spooked. I never got another chance.

Figby tamed up easily and he grew into a huge cat in an amazingly short period of time. He lost his pale baby fluff and his sleek adult coat grew in a bright orange with fierce tiger stripes. I realized that the kittens were much older than they looked—which was about 6 weeks. They were more like three or four months old. Because the wild brother didn't get much food, he stayed stunted, and never lost his baby fur.

It was odd to see the twin brothers together, one the size of an adult cat, the other, a dwarfed kitten. Mutt & Jeff. One pale blond, the other a real redhead. They were a perfect example of how nutrition played a large role in the development of young animals.

When my grannie came to America and saw all the sickly children, she said,  They're not feeding the children, in this richest country in the world—she said, horrified. Her ancestors had survived the Potato Famine. So, starvation was always a back-burner story in our family.

I tried everything to lure the wild kitten in. I was winging it. Nothing worked. Then Mamacat and the third kitten died and the little guy was by himself. About as big as a minute. All alone. He'd mew piteously and Figby would amble down the hill to visit him in the lower field, but even his brother couldn't convince him to approach humans. Figby had crossed over to the realm of humans. We were his tribe now. But his brother would have nothing to do with us. 

I tried to lure the remaining wild kitten toward the house on a food ticket. Then he was so lonely, he approached Figby and me, so I sat cross-legged in the dirt, and he tentatively drank from a saucer of milk. Unused to drinking, he did a few faceplants into the saucer, blowing milk bubbles out his nose. He shivered and drank cold milk until his tiny belly was a tight balloon. His pale fur was matted and skimpy and crawling with fleas. Poor fellow didn't even have a decent fur coat.

I tried to tame him. I'd sit for hours behind that saucer of milk, until he got used to my presence. I lured him into the house. It was now or never. I closed the door. He took off and hid under the couch. I bribed him with milk. He'd have none of it.

Ham finally did the trick. So I began trying to pet him...he latched onto my hand and nearly bit through it. I left my hand there in his jaws, and he finally let go, he looked at me uncertainly, then he licked my hand. Went back to his food and shivered. I knew I'd won the battle. (Yes, it got infected.) I scratched his chin and he purred—perhaps for the first time ever.

Runty Pishkin never grew up to be as big as Figby—who, pardon the pun, really was a ham—and he remained skittish to the end. However, with regular meals, his adult coat came in glossy and orange. He too was a handsome cat, but he never grew up to be as big as his brother. Too little nurturing, too late. My grannie said he was a little piscín, a little kitten. That's how he got his name. From the Irish.

Pishkin never grew up. He never tamed up. It really was too late, he was a wild animal. Nature vs. nurture. We fed them inside the house but the kitchen door always had to be left open. Pishkin never learned table manners. He'd growl and yodel as he ate, afraid the food would be taken from him—no matter how much we fed him. He'd hiss and lash out if you approached his dish. Figby was a perfect gentleman, he's sit tall and gaze benignly at his bother, he'd wait until Pishkin had his fill, then he'd eat.

            *               *               *

During my early childhood, I was never allowed to have cats in the house, only outside cats. There was Mamakitty, the founder cat, also a calico stray. But her line eventually died out (with a little help from the pound). We started out with one cat. At one point we had 13, cats; a week later it was a clouder of 26 cats. Dinnertime, they'd come running in thundering herds for table scraps. I'd sing: Here kitty-kitties, here kit-kits, here, kittywits, kittywits, kittywits....

My grannie said That was it, enough was enough. The cats have to go. (During the 1950s, there were no spaying options. Not like now. Ranchers either shot or drowned excess cats. Billy Joe Bianchi's father, Big Joe, drowned a litter in a gunnysack. I was distracted by the ducklings circling the pool. But I knew what had happened. The pound seemed more humane an option.)

I was allowed to keep two toms: Blackie and Winky, brothers from Mamakitty's first and second litters, were my constant companions. I dressed them in doll clothes, and dragged them everywhere.

The cats put up with my childish ministrations for years, never clawing or biting—though they were, by right, feral cats. Except the time I put a collar and leash on Blackie and dragged him down the road. The Rautio's dog came bounding up, gentle Blackie having no place else  to go, ran up to the crown of my head—raking my face and eyelids and spitting for all he was worth. I had scars for years.

I tossed the cats in the creek at the beginning of summer for their yearly bath. It was a tough love—they were stinky cats. They hated water, but they loved being clean afterwards—and they managed to keep up their personal hygiene for several months. Then, being boys, they'd get slovenly.

Blackie was a gorgeous black-tipped longhair, with a smoky undercoat. He worked hard at keeping all that long fur clean. Winky was a tabby striped shorthair, also with a cloudy undercoat. (They must've had the same father.) Blackie was also a bit of a lavender poofter, he had a thing going with the other male cats. Must've been his green eyes that drove them wild. He'd also steal kittens and tried to nurse them.

Not like the Stone's ugly rogue cat Grayboy, from down the road, who ate all of Mamakitty's kittens one night, and left the heads in the crib for me to find. I reached into the nest expecting to find a cuddle of warm kittens. I screamed and screamed when I pulled out a little orange head the size of a tennisball. Mamakitty grieved and grieved.

But sans litter, meant Grayboy's progeny would soon be on its way. I hated Grayboy, I never wanted one cat more dead than him. One time I managed to catch him by the tail, and dropkick him, but like Bill the Cat, he always came back.

Blackie was fearless and stood his turf. A raccoon got Blackie by the scruff of the neck and tore his throat open one time too many, he eventually ran off and died of an abscess. Another cat—probably that psycho-cat Grayboy as he seemed to relish killing our cats—snagged Winky's eye, pulling it from its socket during a brawl. Winky came back to visit, an apparition from a horror story, as if to say goodbye, and then ran off to die. I had nightmares for months.

Then we had no cats for a long while. Until someone dumped that second mamacat and her kittens in our lower field. Another calico. It was divine providence.

            *               *               *
In one fell swoop, Figby broke all the house rules. He moved into the house and slept on my grandmothers couch—she had a shaggy orange car throw that he thought was his. She was partial to redheads and ginger cats. Figby was a lovefest. He knew that we'd saved him. And that was that. We were his people. He was polite, he never had accidents—he waited patiently at the door to be let out. We were his humans who needed bathing and bathroom supervision.

Figby & Ziggy

When Figby moved into the house, then my Siamese-alleycat cat Ziggy (Stardust) moved in too. They were like bookends. I don't remember how Figby got his name, perhaps from sampling my grandmother's figs. He was a strange cat—he'd try anything we ate—but the name fit him. Figby was also a copycat. Anything my grannie ate—he sampled it too. He loved sharing her tea. OK, so there was milk in it.

But when he sampled her old fashioneds, Manhattans, and Irish whiskey, she'd half-heartedly swat him with a newspaper and he'd just sit there staring at her, purring and critching his toes, gazing at her with big yellow eyes. I can understand a cat eating avocados—and bananas are an odd choice—but booze?

Figby was more dog than cat and every morning he'd stroll in the garden behind my grannie, his tail like a mast, cricked over at the tip, never leaving her side. Pishkin slinked along behind, like a scared shadow, muttering to himself all the while. Hanging laundry and composting also needed Figby's close supervision and approval.

Ziggy & Pishkin

Pishkin was the feral cat, and Figby ruled the house. Each morning the brothers would snuggle like bookends and sunbathe on the kitchen window ledge. Sometimes Pishkin would let me scratch under his chin, he wanted petting too, he'd purr, but he was always too skittish for a full petjob, or, come into the house. He and Ziggy never bonded, other than by species.

I was devastated when Figby died of distemper a couple of years later. (Pre shots days.) Pishkin was inconsolable in his grief, Figby was all he had to anchor him to our world, and so he became wilder and wilder, and each visit more infrequent than the last. The law of nature, wild in tooth and claw, had won out in the end.

Pishkin lived to be a venerable age, always circling our house, always keeping tabs on us, always looking for Figby. He'd look at us as if to say: What have you done with my brother? Then he'd slink off into the pale grass muttering to himself.

Cat bite

My hand was the victim of jealous kitty turf wars, and sustained collateral damage, but it looks like I was bitten by a cobra. Nellie was probably overstimulated after a good ear and headrub—and then Spartan walked into the room. I wasn't even scratching her, my hand was resting on the white bolster as she blissfully snoozed. Spartan was using the cat tree. She leapt straight up in the air and chomped me hard on the hand. He took off, skidding down the corridor. It woul'd've been hysterically funny any other time. She clearly didn't take offense to my swat, or to me, no grudge was held—and she was back for more pets within a few minutes, or is she schizophrenic, Alzheimer's? All this happened right before the automatic catfeeder timer went off... Wonder if that was also a factor? Since Nellie & Spartan are housecats I know there's no danger of outside disease. I wish she had brushed her teeth, or at least gargled before she bit me. Owww. How to sensibly treat it? That Mayo Clinic info is a lot of hysteria.

Soaking it now. Feels good. Seems like swelling is abating. it's a puncture—two punctures. I’m too late for hydrogen peroxide; so I doused with triple antibiotic cream. I get the toxic part, but not the hysteria. If all that is posted about catbites were true across the board, none of us would've survived childhood. I've been bitten many times. The wounds didn’t bleed a lot but I did squeeze it. Top of hand.im in a bit of a dilemma in that I can’t have a Tetanus shot w/o violent side affects. These cats NEVER go out. Ever. Hydrogen peroxicde doesn't fizzle so at least the wound surface is clean. Im soaking it—no Epson Salts—so I used baking soda.

My grannie always bathed our infected wounds in potassium permanganate, or boric acid. Localized swelling—each puncture is about nickel-to-quarter sized, but it's combined to about silver dollar size. yikes! Jane the NP  I called up said 80% of all catbites become infected. Cellulitis (not thunder thighs!) is the problem. Localized swelling, no fever. Been making little baking soda poultices too. Nothing like a little kitty jealousy to stoke the fire. Soaked it all day long on the hour in Epson salt/baking soda water (from my baking soda poultice)—swelling's almost all gone. Punctures are open. Nothing to drain. I also have the cleanest whitest nails ever. A UK site said to wait 24 hours  before panicing—24 hours later, it's almost back to normal. Slightly warm, not hot like this AM.

Problem is that Spartan is skittish, so Nellie takes advantage of it. You can't quite pet him. Always out of reach. Clearly Nellie didn't even want to share that ephemeral petting space.Yikes! when I was a chile I decided I would put Blackie the cat on a leash and take him for a walk like a dog. Neighbor's dogs came bounding down to say hello. Blackie ran up to the crown of my head and proceeded to hiss and spit and rake my face. I had scars on my eyelids and cheeks for ages. They eventually faded. NO antibiotics, no doctor...I've been chomped and scratched many times.

This bite. Definitely a deep bone bruise. Hurts when I use it too much. Soaked it all day yesterday and today. No fever, or swelling now, just a teentsy 1/8" redness around thumb joint wound, but not the other.  Peroxide between soaks. I am keeping an eagle eye out. I saw my knee doctor, he said my hand was fine—and that if it swelled, then it was infected. Still hurts a bit. He verified that cat bites were bad—but it’s the body's job is to fight off infection—which mine did, swimmingly. Sans antibiotics, TG. See, I took so many in my early 20s that I had an immuno-meltdown, and became sensitized to everything. Took ages to undo the damage. So I tend to avoid antibiotics, if I can.

Someone once dumped a calico mother and three ginger kittens at our house—end of Barranca Road. Someone else's idea of letting the new mother cat go back to the wild. She was literally starving, unable to care for them—so I snaggged one kitten and raise him, but not the other. Figby grew huge while his wild brother stayed stunted. Mama and third kitten died and the little guy was by himself. He was about as big as a minute. I tried everything to lure him into the house on a starvation ticket. Then I tried to tame him. I'd sit for hours behind a saucers of milk, until he got used to my presence. Ham did the trick. So I began trying to pet him...he latched onto my hand and nearly bit right through it. I left my hand there, and he let go, then licked my hand. I knew I'd won the battle. (Yes, it got infected.) Runty Pishkin never grew as big as Figby—who, pardon the pun, really was a ham—and remained skittish to the end. FIgby loved sharing tea, old fashioneds and whiskey neat with my grannie. Anything she ate—so did he. He loved her that much. Bananas and avocados I can see, but booze? He was more dog than cat and strolled with her in the garden, never leaving her side. He was a lovefest. He knew we'd saved him. I was devastated when he died of distemper. (Pre shots days.) Pishkin was inconsolable, Figby was all he had to anchor him to our world, and so he became wilder and wilder with each visit.

No Mouser, Jack

Ceilidh the young Siamese-tabby spent the other morning diligently staring and chatting at the bottom of the file cabinet. We took out the drawers, found nothing of interest—other than the usual odd lost things—so, that's where it went! No errant lizards. Eventually she was rewarded for her vigilance: a pink-eared field mouse staggered out in circles from under the cabinet, cute as a cartoon cutout.

With a spectacular leap, Ceiildh caught the dazed mouse, but then the marmalade cat, Jack stole it out from under her in midair. Then he brought the mouse into the living room to share his new toy with us. 

I have been bringing him new catnip and feather toys in order to make friends with him—he's very shy. I am clearly a danger. Not a certified petter. But he's thawing—I'm the bringer of toys. It's taken several weekends to convince him I've no plans to eat him. So he shows his appreciation by playing with his new toys.

Jack and Ceilidh waiting for the feathers to make a run for it.

Jack sat on the carpet and put down his new mouse toy to check it out—but it up and ran away on him. The perplexed look on his face was priceless. I laughed so hard, he got upset and lost track of the mouse.

Then my cousin Sinead leapt off the couch screaming like a banshee: get the mouse! Get the mouse! Jack, don't let it get away! as it made for the stairs, then it headed for the gap under Dave's bedroom door. Not a good outcome. He'd be really pissed off if a mouse moved in. Luckily, the bathroom door was wide open. Sinead headed them off and chased them both into the bathroom. 

Then Sinead threw a growling, hissing Ceilidh into the bathroom for good measure, and blocked off the bottom of the bathroom door with a towel. The bathroom was now the designated cat dungeon of shame. The only way out was a coup de grâce. Like that was going to happen.

But the field mouse must've escaped down the drainpipe hole in the sink cabinet. No other exit was possible and clearly the cats didn't eat him. Two confused cats now think the bathroom is possessed, or Sinead is. Or maybe both. Sort of like vacuum cleaners. Very bad objects.

Ceiildh spends her time hunting for that lost mouse, and mewling forlornly all over the house while Jack, the bum, keeps berzerking up and down the extra tall deluxe cat tree—nearly capsizing it. Some sort of a killer victory dance. 

Jack's a bit of a blond on a good day—he's not very clear on the subject of cat-and-mouse. He fetches his toy squirrels and catnip spider and brings them to Dave ever so nicely, chases feather wands, drags the big blue feather duster upstairs to attack and thump it like a mighty lion, blue feathers everywhere like pieces of fallen sky—but clearly, he's no mouser.

Jack, clearly he's no mouser. Not jack.

Ceilidh is inconsolable in her grief—somehow she knows that she's missed out on that big primal first kill. Bugs don't count anymore. Better luck next time. Hopefully she'll know what to do. Jack, well, he's another story. However, our feet poking out of beds in the middle of the night are fair game. And they must be punished.

Ceiildh = Caylee, means a party in Irish.

SOMEBODY'S MOGGIE

SOMEBODY'S MOGGIE 

He scratched at the front door
insisting we let him in.
Somebody's senile moggie
inspected the living room,
sat down, then looked at us
as if we'd lost our minds
rearranging the furniture like that.
We were a generic match
and the floorplan was familiar
so he ambled over to where
the food bowl should have been,
it was there last time he looked—
he puzzled it out, and posed, 
rail-thin, then yowled mightily.
We obliged with a saucer of milk.
Blue Willow to match his eyes. 
He sniffed. Shook his head.
Not his cuppa, apparently.
And so, he gazed at us
with crossed eyes, trying 
to set his world right.

6/20/13

Cat's up

Hmm, the April poetry prompts haven't been doing it for me lately. They're stacking up like lumber. Not a good sign. My goal is to write 60 poems for Poetry Month. I've got 13 poems.

Blue-green acid test.

Today, instead of finishing my taxes, I did 6 loads of laundry, gathered up my art supplies I'll need for Tartan Day at Ardenwood in Fremont (set up is tomorrow afternoon.) Got lost in a time warp in the garage where I store my art supplies.

Other chores beckoned. Catsitting gig in particular. While on enforced chair time, kittysitting, I played with Picasa, and took some Koolaid colored acid test photos of myself with my laptop for a possible avatar photo for new Twitter account. How very Andy Warhol. Maybe I should take some photos holding a soup can?

Whadda ya mean, a corgi puppy?

Spartan, who has finally settled in for his 15 minutes of scheduled laptime, is fascinated by the laptop's PhotoBooth software countdown: 1, 2, 3—FLASH! He quizzically peers into the laptop screen, pats it gently.

Played with Facebook—made myself a new Fan Page as my students, the kids from Cleveland Elelmentary School have found me out and I'm being deluged by myriad friend requests. Not sure if I want to friend them all. Will have to watch my Ps & Qs.

Played with the cats. Played with a wine cork. Played with a wine glass. Washed the turtles (and their pond). Joined Twitter.

Today, the cats were bad, very bad. I guess they decided to help themselves. Last night, they got into the 25 lb. bag catfood underneath the kitchen sink (even though the door was rubber-banded shut—apparently they're smarter than toddlers) and tore a big hole in the bottom of the bag. There was a huge mountain of catfood on the floor. I shovel it into a dustpan like a miner collecting slag coal.

I should've guessed something was up when I came in through the back door. They still played me as usual but they were acting so guilty. My routine: pick up the mail in the lobby, come up the back stairs and cats usually come to greet me on the bookshelf at the door.

Nellie-cat usually stands on the shelf and wants to kiss noses with me (whisker tickles) and Spartan attempts to trip me with some fancy ankle weaving. The object of their desire is food, I'm merely the bearer of good things. The kissing routine is merely greasing the wheel. Sophistocated cat-begging.

This time, the cats were both on the floor and they were unusually subdued. Pile of catfood in the kitchen explained it all. Don't tell me that they don't know right from wrong. They acted guilty before I found the evidence.

It looks like they both tried to eat as much of the kitty kibble as possible, so needless to say, they didn't get fed. They each drank a bowl of water, so I guess the catfood swelled their little bellies tight. Means I have to stay extra long today to make sure they don't explode.

Not sharing McBoing-boing!

I had a horse like that once, a canny begger, she'd sneak into the barn and take apart a haybale and make a huge nest of it with her nose. I had to put nails through the garbage can lids we used to store the sacks of grain like deadbolts because she was quite dextrous with her lips—she could open garbage can lids up to get to the oats inside.

And the same story: if I caught her in the act, she definitely looked guilty. Then it was walking duty. I had to walk her for hours to make sure she didn't get colic and die. (She eventually did die from overeating—but then, she was 32 years old).

I was often awakened in the middle of the night by my horse flipping over tall aluminum garbage cans and noisily rolling them around in the corral in hopes of shaking loose some oat treats. Some oats did sift out under the lid—so her bad behavior was rewarded.

Surveying the cat kingdom.

I'll be cat/turtle sitting duty for nearly three weeks and I am constantly amazed at their strength of personality and sheer willfulness. Felid manipulation and terrapin tantrums revolve around food. Never a dull moment. This is a job I could grow to like.

I use the opportunity to prep for my poetry classes—read kid poems, comment on them, type up samples for the next day. April is poetry month—and also the busiest month of the year for my teaching gigs. Cat seem to prefer to sit on my lap only when I'm ready to type—uncanny how they choose the most awkward time possible for lap fix. It's all about the object of their affection.

Weirdly, the two red-eared turtles also seem to crave human attention—especially the little one. When I sit in the chair near their tank, he tries to get as close as possible and claws frantically at the glass—even after he's fed. He's either ravenous or rambunctious or both. The other one, who is more reserved, prefers to bask under the sun lamp, with nose pointed skyward.

Did you mention bananas?

Their owner emails from the other side of the world, says: Oh, he always does that. He just wants to be hand fed. I tried that with turtle kibble but he clamped onto my finger instead. I couldn't shake him off. So I resorted to hand-feeding him yuppie lettuce. The white vee of his beak was in stark contrast to the forest green of his skin. He was a little surprised by the texture (of the lettuce, not my finger), and spat it out as if it were poison. Not dried turtle kibble or mealworms. He woefully looked up at me as if to say WTF is that? And then begged some more.

Why yes, I'd love a knuckle sammich.

But when the other turtle slipped into the pond to investigate the lettuce it was suddenly desirable. And then the lettuce wars were on. He attacked with gusto—snorting water out of his little nostrils like a dragon or one of Charles Darwin's imps of darkness—the Galápagos marine iguana. Little green confetti piles of shredded lettuce floating in the pond.

Oops, now I have to clean their pond. What goes in... Must be one of those retrograde days when the animal planets are in mischief mode. Even the turtles were bad today. When I was cleaning their tank, the little one kept trying to sneak out of his loose-lidded tupperware dish. Like a child, he'd push the lid up, check it out to see if the coast was clear and then try to crawl out onto the carpet, first one front leg over the edge of the plastic bin, then the other. He was the epitome of caution stepping out in slo-mo.

But then he'd spot me and drop back down into the dish like a Jack-in-the-box. Then he'd pop his head back up, pushing the lid up slowly. Then down. Up. Down. Up. It was quite comical. The cats keep an eye on him, if he gets out of his Tupperware bowl, they'll gnaw on him. Not a good move.

Spartan runs up the curtain, hangs in space over the turtle tank as they bask under the sunlamp; he's like a furry astronaut contemplating a moonwalk. They ignore him. The wire mesh lid keeps furry intruders out. But a cat can dream of big game conquests.

And I'm still unsatiated, I haven't written today's poem...not for lack of fodder. My mind's a hamster wheel of random thought. But the photo of me holding Spartan peering into the laptop camera looks promisingly obscure for a Twitter avatar. I slip out the door into the last nuance of dusk, stars nibble on the horizon.

MdBoing-boing, my favorite thing.

UNTIL EACH CAT

UNTIL EACH CAT

Until each cat has had its scheuled laptime

I can't leave, so I wait in the teddybear chair

alternating between wine and cake

to boost my flagging energy. I'm too knackered to write

after teaching 120 fifth graders the origins of poetry.

I have a headache and coffee grounds between my teeth.

The cupboard is bare so I toss some chocolate chips

ground coffee, butter, an egg & Bisquick into a mug

and zap the mess a minute in the microwave.

I'm elated over my hockeypuck of a cake.

It delivers a payload of chocolate chips and coffee

but until the words come, the cats are properly cuddled

I can't go home. The cats are aloof. Playing hard to get.

The greedy turtles are watching my every move.

Maybe they should be writing the poem.

A mourning dove calls, lonesome in the palm tree.

Sirens in the distance wail like a pack of urban coyotes.

Somewhere, a truck is backing up. Anemically beeping.

Or a mockingbird is practicing his monotone notes.

A neighbor cranks up rap music. I hate listening

to someone else's loud car music—like second-hand smoke.

The cat hangs himself on the screen door for the third time.

I rummage through drawers to find scissors.

Kitty's first toenail trim. He's having none of it,

and turns into a wild animal fighting for his life.

I'm patient, I hold him close, and pet him.

Snip. Growl. He has a wide vocalic palette of sound.

He seems pleased now that he doesn't snag the rug when he walks.

The apartment pool reflects a patch of sky on the ceiling.

I'm desperate for blue-eyed sleep,

I've never been one to nap. Not like the cats.

I distract myself with Twitter, a friend just got back

from taping a segment on the Tonite Show,

bagpipe jokes abound. But it's not yet tonight.

Until then, à bientôt. Until this is not a poem.

I will sit and wait.

4/7/10

take the phrase "Until (blank)," replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and write the poem. Possibilities include: "Until we meet again," "Until tomorrow," "Until monkeys fly out my butt," or even "Until blank" (why not?). Until we meet again, have a great Wednesday!

PARTLY CAT

Partly because the cats refuse to settle in for a nap

partly because there's cat fur on the keyboards

(am I ever glad that I bought that keyboard condom)

& partly because a fruit fly, in love with my laptop screensaver

is crawling over my every word, I'm partly at a loss for words.

Ok, I admit, so I didn't strike when the iron was hot

& that afternoon chocolate partly clouded my judgement

& the kitchen faucet is singing a sleepy water song

& cat # 2 is on my lap

but the laptop battery is heading into the red,

still no poem, partly because ...

APRIL PAD—Partly...

OK, I'm resisting, here...

CONSIDER THE CAT

Spartan meows lonely as the rain on the horizon.

My job is to cuddle him an hour a day

while his owners visit Paris in springtime

but he'll have none of it. I try holding him,

rolling the ball, offer cat treats, speak in silly kissy voices

you wouldn't want to be caught dead uttering in public,

all I get for my efforts is ribboned flesh.

I try sitting in different couches to entice him.

Nothing works. He won't stop circling the kitchen

meowing piteously for all things lost.

He tries different languages, translations of lost meows

but nothing works. They're inexplicably gone.

And I can't tell him, this many days on the calendar of hope.

Living up to his name, he eschews affection and toys.

Keeps a spartan existence. I think:

what if he dies of loneliness while they're gone?

Only on my watch. I've grown accustomed to the idea

having lived much of my life alone, and now

living with a man who demands a wide satellite orbit

that I've created artificial islands of loneliness

in order to survive. I find solace in the starkness.

Only when I sit down at the table to write this poem

does the cat come unbidden to my lap and tuck himself in

the crook of my arm for a long desolate purr.

4//1/10

April Poem A Day Challenge—Lonely

OAKLAND TURF WARS

I heard the keen of a hawk overhead,
all the birds ducked for cover,
and now the bluejay's jabberin' up a storm,
stealing the finches’ food and dive-bombing
the poor cat—just because he can.

ONE -STEP RECOVERY PLAN

ONE -STEP RECOVERY PLAN

The cat circles and weaves the ankles 

of women weeping over faithless spouses 

& loved ones who love the depths of the bottle,

or the sting of the needle more than life itself.

The cat cries, gently cuffs them for attention,

but they ignore her teachings—history repeats 

itself, and the moment crests on a wave,  

rides toward an uncertain future, 

perhaps in a different form, 

then slips back into the void.

9/2009 La Casa de Maria, Santa Barbara

rev. 7/13