F is for -- Friendship. Feline Friends Forever.

[more coming soon]

E is for -- Everything. Thomas Jefferson was my Everything.

Thomas Jefferson, my soulcat, along with his siblings Betsy Ross and Tom Cruise, were born to a feral mom on a stormy Fourth of July, 1994, in a cat shelter volunteer's back yard. The volunteer picked up the whole family and took them to the shelter. The mom later ended up on a farm in Wisconsin, and both Betsy and Tom were adopted as kittens. Time went by. No one adopted Thomas Jefferson, so he settled in at the shelter.

I am a volunteer at that same shelter and used to help out on weekends. One Sunday afternoon in late November of that same year, I was sitting and doing some serious cat socializing when out of nowhere this pushy, bossy, skinny tan cat jumped up onto my lap and pushed off a couple of drowsy felines whom I had been petting. He demanded a few pats, walked around in circles on my lap, kneaded a bit, then promptly curled up for a snooze.

About a half hour later, it was time for me to go home. I gently joggled my thighs so the cat would wake up. He did, stretched mightily, ignored me completely without even a “thank you for your lap” or “it was nice meeting you,” jumped down to the floor, and ran off to a bowl of dry food. Well, okay, I thought.

I returned to the shelter the next Sunday afternoon and mentioned to the shelter manager that I was in the market for a black cat that would look great curled up next to my tuxedo cat at home. We found a few black cats that were sleeping in various corners of the no-cage shelter, but none of them plucked at my heart strings.

“What about Thomas Jefferson,” Kathy asked. “He's been here for six months and has seen his family get adopted, but no one has chosen him yet.” Kathy proceeded to do her cat-shelter-volunteer spiel, telling me about Thomas’s history and endearing characteristics. “Thomas Jefferson,” she yelled repeatedly. “Thomas Jefferson, where are you?”                        

Sleeping cats awoke and lifted their heads to see who was making such a racket, but no Thomas Jefferson appeared. Kathy and I sat down to discuss my personal needs and wants regarding adopting a cat. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a skinny tan body jumped into my lap, did his circling thing, kneaded a bit, and promptly tucked himself into a furry circle for sleep. I told Kathy that this was repeat behavior from last Sunday. I’d already “met” this very brash cat.

“Ah, that’s Thomas Jefferson! And, Carol, I think you have been chosen.”

Thomas went home with me that same day, December 4, 1994, and was my constant companion for nearly fifteen years. If I was eating, he wanted to know what it was and usually gave the bowl or plate a few cursory licks after I finished (he’d prefer WHILE I was eating), just so he could think we had shared. His most favoritest treat in the whole world was Italian beef from Portillo’s, a Chicago franchise. No other beef would do. And if I was reading, he was right there on my lap checking out the title and sniffing the inside of the book. He would sit on the tabletop and intently watch me with wide eyes as I mended clothes or wrote thank-you notes or did crossword puzzles, like this was something he needed to know how to do “just in case.” Part of his job, he felt, was “helping” me in any way he could, so that when I did the crossword or had any paper lying on the table, he would sprawl all over it to be the best paperweight ever. He loved napping in our over-sized velour recliner.

Throughout his lifetime, he remained a pushy, bossy, skinny tan cat (probably part Abyssinian) who always has something to “say” about something--and who could jump from chair to cat condo to the top of the computer table in order to walk along the tops of the drapery rods and use his tail to whisk away any cobwebs in the corners.

* * * * * * * * * *

March 5, 2009

Thomas had a good morning this morning. He sat for a while in the window that looks out onto the back yard. An old magnolia tree sits right outside the window, and birds and squirrels are often seen cavorting on its branches. That window was one of Thomas's favorite perches.

The sun was warm this morning and flooded the window as it blanketed Thomas. He napped for a couple of hours and then, while I lay on my back on the living room carpet, hunkered down on my chest (as he often does), nose to nose, and gave me a couple of licks on my chin. His fur was like that of a teddy bear--not hair like a regular cat, but thick fur. I rubbed behind his ears and along his cheeks and told him how much I loved him and what a good cat he has been all these years. He closed his eyes in contentment (and agreement). I told him he was going to see the kitty doc-doc in the afternoon and we would find out what was wrong, why he had such trouble breathing, and why he was so tired all the time. He licked my chin again and jumped off my chest. I saw him go into the kitchen and then didn't see him again before I left for work at one o'clock.

Around 2:15 p.m., my husband called me from the vet's office. "Thomas has congestive heart failure. He's going to get weaker and weaker, will be sleeping a lot, and his breathing will become more and more labored. It doesn't look good."

I was stunned. The past 14-plus years sped through my mind. Would Thomas want to continue to exist mostly just as a wheezing lump curled up on a chair and not being his usual feisty and very active self? I made the snap decision that I am still feeling guilty about to this day. "Tell the vet to put him down. Thomas would hate to be an invalid."

"Are you sure?" my husband asked. "The vet might be willing to do more tests."

"I'm sure. I don't want him poked and prodded any longer."

Thomas crossed the Rainbow Bridge around 2:45 p.m. on March 5, 2009. His body was cremated, and his ashes sit in a little urn at the top of one of the bookcases that he loved to nap in and sit on top of. I've told my family to mix his ashes with mine someday when it's my turn to be cremated. If he's not waiting for me in Heaven, I don't want to go there. 

Thomas Jefferson was my 1994 Christmas gift to myself and will be in my thoughts every day for the rest of my life.

D is for -- Daniel, (Princess) Dido, (Little) Debbie -- and Death.

[difficult to write, coming soon]

C is for -- Cat Carriers.

They are handy things to have around. Years ago when my husband and I were still in the early days of our marriage and were very poor, we would transport our cat Garfield in a large cardboard box. The problem with that was sealing it so he wouldn't suddenly pop out while on the back seat of the car or in the vet's waiting room (hell to pay!). To keep Garfield safe when moving him around in the cold, cruel world, we had no choice but to purchase a small, inexpensive plastic cat carrier.

But that led to new problems.

Garfield was chubby. The inexpensive cat carrier was really too small for him. Garfield did not like to be confined. Garfield did not like to travel anywhere, especially to visit the vet. Thus, once he was in the carrier, Garfield made horrible howling noises (incessantly), clawed frantically to get out, and mashed his face against the wire door so that his eyes bulged (something like this photo of another unhappy cat).

Our small son Daniel, sitting next to the carrier in the back seat, would see this display of angst and would begin to cry in pity (now TWO incessant howls and not in unison). Both hoped we'd feel sorry for this confinement and open the carrier door, but that was not to be while driving 65 mph on a Chicago expressway.

We took Garfield to the vet only when he was sick or for his annual checkup. To add insult to injury, he invariably got a shot -- rabies, distemper, or maybe an antibiotic. We learned to spend time at home before each appointment, reassuring him (while my husband and I, with all our might, shoved him into the carrier) that this vet visit was for his own good and he would feel soooooo much better when we brought him home again. The reassurances didn't work. Think mashed face on the wire carrier door. Frantic clawing. Bulging eyes. Howls.

Our second son Jeremy arrived in 1975. Eventually Garfield crossed the Rainbow Bridge and went to Kitty Heaven. When Jeremy started preschool and Daniel was in third grade, I went to work part time at the public library across the street from their school. Working meant there was extra money finally, so I bought a larger cat carrier (just in case...). Apparently, that was a sign. The stars had lined up, and we adopted a kitten.

A housecat belonging to one of Jeremy's classmates had had a litter of oh-so-adorable kittens. Jeremy decided he wanted the feistiest one whom he promptly named Rasputin. (Don't ask me how he knew anything about the real Rasputin or his reputation.) Of course, we tucked Rasputin into the smaller carrier for the trip to the vet for his young-kitten shots. It didn't take too many more months before he grew big enough to fit nicely in the larger carrier for his trip to the vet for neutering.

Two years later I adopted Thomas Jefferson (or rather, he adopted me) at the local cat shelter, so I bought a third carrier, a large soft-sided one. Big mistake.

It seemed perfect -- large enough room for an adult cat to turn around inside, mesh sides for viewing the world (and we could easily see the cat), a zippered opening on one end and also on top for ease of inserting said cat into the carrier, sturdy construction, and a suitcase-type handle. What could possibly be wrong with a soft-sided carrier?

As soon as we got one cat safely tucked inside, the other cat found immense joy in pouncing and bouncing on top of the carrier, flattening the cat inside. Since the two cats were only two years apart (Rasputin was a young adult and Thomas was a teenager), they rejoiced in tormenting each other, cat carrier or not.

The larger plastic carrier turned out to be ideal and has been our carrier of choice ever since. The top comes off easily, the cat can be gently deposited inside, there's plenty of room to turn around, the top can be quickly and easily latched back on, and the cat can view the passing world through the holes in the top and sides.. And, best of all, the cats like it (sort of).

B is for -- Banana.

You think I mean THIS, don't you --

Well, I don't. I'm talking about a felt cat toy packed tightly with dried catnip, like this --

Yes, it looks amazingly like a real banana, a few brown spots and all. In fact, I've caught myself picking up our cats' catnip banana off the floor and wondered how a banana jumped out of the fruit bowl that's on the kitchen counter. Online stores also offers catnip pea pods, catnip carrots, and catnip mice.

Two years ago, Santa (aka a dear friend in New Jersey) had blessed our cats with this catnip banana. We hadn't even finished removing the packaging on Christmas morning, and they were on it like dogs with a meaty bone, tussling and clawing for first sniff. Kuro won and promptly spread his chunky body on it so no one else could claim it. He finally tired of this (after inhaling catnip for a while) and moved to his favorite spot on the recliner for a well-deserved nap. That left the catnip banana as fair game.

Princess Dido moved in and batted it around a bit, then pounced on it a few times, causing the catnip aroma to fill her nose. In a drunken stagger, she headed for her favorite napping spot.

The along came Deborah (now renamed Matilda a.k.a. Mattie). Two years old and still full of kittenish curiosity, she immediately pounced on the banana, lay on her back, juggled it over her supine body, rolled on top of  it, and batted it around on the carpet. As far as Mattie was concerned, only she and that banana existed.

Finally, exhausted, she too staggered off to some corner for a nap.

Now it was Little Debbie's turn. She had gotten too fat to do much playing (too many treats from my husband, her person), so she did what Kuro had done -- simply snuggled down on it in that typical cat position of sitting on her brisket, as Lilian Jackson Braun describes it in her Cat Who books.

The rest of the morning was taken up with the sound of cats snoring.

A is for -- A mouse. In my house!

All four cats were vying with each other to get at something that was making skittering noises in the corner next to our dining room teak china cabinet. Kuro won and emerged with a struggling little grey body hanging out of both sides of his mouth. He proudly marched into the living room, bushy black tail erect, as if to say "Looky what I found!"

My son Daniel (Kuro's person) was horrified. Daniel rushed into the kitchen to get his Mason jar, the one he uses to scoop up wandering spiders and other critters that belong outdoors. "Drop it, Kuro," he commanded.

A look of chagrin crossed Kuro's face, but he dropped the mouse onto the living room carpet, and Daniel promptly scooped it up into the jar before it could scamper away. (Actually, the mouse wasn't moving too well, but Daniel wanted to snag it before Kuro changed his mind and began eating it.) Daniel then took the mouse outside and released it to die wild and free, or more likely as some other creature's snack.

We don't know where that mouse came from. It was probably brought upstairs from our unfinished basement by one of the cats but then somehow managed to escape and was looking for a good place to hide. I wish I had thought to grab my son's digital camera and take pictures to post on this blog entry. Maybe next time -- if there is one.

Moral of this story: If you are a little grey mouse, don't come into a house in which live four rescued cats that grew up outdoors eating your relatives.

The Stare

If cats live at your house, you've maybe experienced it yourself. You're sitting at the kitchen table enjoying something wonderful -- pats of creamery butter melting on ears of fresh corn or mounds of sweet whipped cream adorning a generous slice of pumpkin pie or even just sugared milk swirling around in your breakfast oatmeal. You savor the flavors and aromas, and drift off into a euphoric dream.

Then you feel it. It's sort of uncomfortable. Intrusive. Like someone is watching you. You turn your head from side to side. Nothing. You turn completely around as much as you can to look behind you. Nothing. Suddenly a cat-sized furry shape leaps up from the floor on your right side, sits in the middle of the table, and stares at your food. The Stare!

Most cats wait patiently until you are finished, or a sweep of your hand will push a moist nose out of your food until you are done eating. But there is always The Stare. The Stare isn't to the left or to the right. Or up. It's only down at your plate of food. Unmoving head. Eyes watching every scoop of the spoon or fork, every cut of the meat. Implacable. Unapologetic. Like a sphinx. Waiting. Finally you are finished eating, and the little head plunges downward onto the plate or into the bowl, no permission sought, to lick up the meat bits and juices or white sauce or cheese and butter drippings or sugary milk from the oatmeal.

Rasputin was a sucker for beef from Arby's or a Chicago chain called Portillo's. Thomas Jefferson would swoon over the alfredo sauce in Lean Cuisine's Chicken Fettuccini or congealing egg yolk from fried eggs over easy. Dido, like Rasputin, seems to prefer tender beef, but also pieces of cooked chicken or turkey, melted butter, ricotta cheese, and, along with Kuro, sweetened milk after son Daniel finishes a bowl of Cheerios or Frosted Flakes. Shy Deborah (later renamed Mattie) has yet to figure out that plate cleaning is going on.

You do notice, don't you, that no cat does The Stare in hopes we open a can of Fancy Feast, 9 Lives, or Friskies?