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?

Presenting Miss Frida Kahlo (aka Little Debbie)

2002

After noticing the invisible-except-to-cats sign over our front door ("FREE FOOD! FREE FOOD!"), she sat there shivering quietly in the early December cold, waiting patiently for someone to open the door and notice her (and feed her). The vet later told us she was only about six months old and surmised that she had snuck out of someone's house. "After all," he said, "who would dump such a pretty kitten?" Son Daniel, our cat namer, promptly dubbed her Miss Frida Kahlo because the human Frida Kahlo had shared a birthday with the kitten's eventual rescuer (my husband), looked creative and slightly Mexican (but didn't have the human Frida's thick dark eyebrows), and because he likes to name cats after real people. We fed Miss Frida Kahlo, who stuck around and wandered our huge yard, dozing in one of the basement window wells on the south side of the house where the sun hits all afternoon. For extra warmth, she would press her small body against the glass with the hope that some of the heat from the house would penetrate the glass.

We all know that once you feed a stray cat, you own it (or actually, it owns you). Every day we saw Miss Frida sitting in the window well and fed her at least twice a day. The weather was getting colder, and her shivering increased. Finally, during one feeding, my husband bent down, scooped her up, and she snuggled into his arms, like "it's about time!" That same day she met our vet who proclaimed her in excellent health but a little skinny. We left her there to get any shots she needed and to be spayed. When we returned the next day to claim her, the vet told us to make her rest for a day or two (yeah, right) and then tried to sell us bags and cans of (expensive) cat food his clinic offered loving cat owners. We thanked him (but didn't purchase any--after all, what's more yummy than Fancy Feast?), paid the bill, and took Miss Frida to her forever home with us.

The humans in the house loved Miss Frida, but the three neutered male cats didn't, despite her exotic beauty. Thomas Jefferson was the top cat who had things well in hand, and KNEW that this newcomer had only evil in mind to become the new top cat. Thomas, flanked by Rasputin and Kuro, would stand shoulder to shoulder at the doorway that leads to the basement and refuse to allow her into the kitchen. Thus, the unfinished basement with its spiders and mice and moths became her realm. Daniel's and my husband's computers are down there, so Miss Frida did not lack for affection, and would happily sit on a lap or a warm printer and snooze the days away. As a treat, my husband would feed her some of the cream filling in Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme Pies. That's how she became his cat and got her new name.


2009

Only when Thomas died in March of that year did the remaining male cats, having become disorganized without a leader, began to allow her into the kitchen which meant she now had the run of the house and became top cat. Rasputin had gotten too old to argue, and Kuro is a very happy-go-lucky cat who loves Daniel most of all, but also anyone/any cat who's nice to him. Thus, in order to co-opt him for mealtimes, choice of sleeping places, and litter-box use (i.e., she has first dibs), Frida/Debbie makes a point to be nice to Kuro, but, in her insecurity, occasionally bossed Rasputin with a paw swipe and generally made his life miserable as she proclaimed herself queen. To pay her back, he'd spit up a hair ball or some undigested food on her favorite sleeping places.


2012

Frida/Debbie no longer is that small, starving kitten. She settled in until January 2011, when she was dethroned by two princesses (ah! another story for this blog). Here is how she looks today, so beware of snacking on too many Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme Pies.

Rasputin's Ashes

This morning we picked up Rasputin's ashes from the vet clinic. The ashes are in a small metal tin -- about four inches tall and two inches wide and with a pretty floral print stamped into the metal. It looks like a tin that might contain breath mints or little wrapped candies. The vet or crematorium had clipped a tuft of his hair, and that was in a small plastic bag attached to the little tin. The tin was nestled inside a white plastic "gift bag" that had a cat-paw print all over it and two woven handles.

The label on the bag indicates that the ashes inside belong to "Quilp." I asked my husband why he used that name, which is a nickname our son had given Rasputin when Rasputin outdid himself with mischief. (Quilp is a "bad guy" in Charles Dickens' The Old Curiosity Shop.) Apparently, my husband couldn't bring himself to say "Rasputin" (another "bad guy") to the vet clinic receptionist, and so fell back on the nickname, not realizing that Quilp was even more rascally than was Rasputin. But then the receptionist had probably never heard of the fictional Quilp (or maybe not even the historical Rasputin), so didn't realize the implications.

Now the little tin sits atop the tall book shelf in the living room and overlooks all our activities. Next to Rasputin's ashes is a small cardboard box (I've never been able to open it) that's from the pet crematorium. The box contains a tin or a small urn that holds Thomas Jefferson's ashes. (I'll write about him one of these days. He was my soulcat who died nearly three ago. I still choke up when I think about him.)

Welcome home, Rasputin!

You were greatly loved, Rasputin. R.I.P. April 15, 1992-December 12, 2011

Rasputin, our tuxedo cat, was put to sleep around 3:30 today CST. Over the weekend he had developed a nasty abscess in his mouth (a tooth?), stopped eating and drinking, and his eyes were runny. He was diabetic, arthritic, and oral surgery would have killed him for sure. We had no idea of how much pain he was in, but he used the litter box faithfully, even just before my husband put him uncomplaining into the cat carrier. He walked out of the cat carrier into the vet's arms, as if to say, "I'm ready." He will be cremated and buried in the back yard of our house that he lived in his entire life. He was 19.5 years old (human age = 92).

He was younger son Jeremy's cat. I remember well the hot, sunny summer day in July 1992 when I drove Jeremy over to his friend Adam's house to claim Rasputin (age 12 weeks). Hard to believe it's been that long. In the fall of 1993, Jeremy went off to college. Since cats hate to move, Rasputin stayed with us even when Jeremy graduated, then moved into my uncle's vacant house eight blocks away. Needing a cat in his life, Jeremy adopted a rescued cat from a shelter and named her Farrah Faucet because she like to drink running water at the sink.

The other cat in the photo above was Garfield who came to us in 1982 at maybe age six from a family whose kid was allergic to cats. We then adopted Rasputin as a kitten, and Garfield, maybe 16 at the time, died the following year. Poor Garfield! He had just wanted to sleep and veg out in his old age, but Rasputin pounced on him all the time, wanting to play.

If it hadn't been for the abscess and the runny eyes, we would have left Rasputin to probably die quietly at home. He was eating and drinking until maybe Friday, and NEVER peed/pooped anywhere except in the litter box. He started howling after Thomas Jefferson died. (That's another story.) I think Rasputin was trying to fill the void, since Thomas could be pretty vocal. 

Our house is strangely quiet tonight.