THE CATS WHO LOVED ME

*Repost from November 3, 2014

From early childhood to present day I've always been a cat lover.  And over the course of my life, I’ve owned a variety of breeds. Since 1994 Himalayans have most graciously allowed me the privilege of living in the house with them and feeding them. I often told people they ate better than I did because the cat food they consumed is Science Diet @ more than $30 per bag. If you aren't familiar with the breed, Himalayans have Siamese markings called “points” and like Siamese cats, they're highly intelligent, have a melodious voice and beautiful blue eyes, but they unlike a Siamese cat their bodies and fur were of a Persian cat.  Although a lot of Himalayans have a face that look smooshed, my cats didn't carry that extreme characteristic.  A few characteristics I've always found to be fascinating with this breed is their love to pose and their need to act regal in all situations.   

This breed is not overly active, but they do like to play and be involved in whatever activity I'm doing. For example during my computer time, I always had company nestled around me in various spots. Draped on the tower when I owned a desktop computer, positioned on the stool next to my desk, strategically positioned on top of the printer and on the back of the sofa positioned behind where I sat, they all found a spot to best “help” me type.  Not only did they assist me at the computer, but they scrutinized all my activities and followed me from room to room. I had about a two minute window of time to return if I left before they'd seek me out where ever I was. If I went to the bathroom, they'd have to “bond” with me while I was in there. It was senseless for me to attempt having any privacy because they'd thump and cry at the door until I let them in. My bathroom time usually consists of grooming, petting and sweet talking them.  Too much togetherness just wasn't a concept any of them seemed to grasp. 

I first got involved with this breed in a breeder capacity. When my breeding days were over, I kept the mother and father along with two males from two different litters about a year apart from each other. My clan consisted of Dixie, a small tortie-point female, Beavis, a very large blue-point male and their two sons, Chewy, a large seal point male and Whitey (Dwight Cat), a beautiful flame point male who was a stereotypical "blonde" in every sense of the word.

Dixie was the resident schizophrenic who developed a strong dislike for her two sons who loved to aggravate her. When her space was invaded she lunged at the violator. The older she got the wider her personal space got.  It was comical to watch the males walk way out around her to avoid getting snapped at and/or bitten. Her "husband", Beavis was the only one she tolerated and allowed near her and although she appears to have a dislike for all other cats, she was always very affectionate towards humans and loved to talk to everyone and tell them about the horrible males she had to live with.  That sounds like a typical female to me! 

Beavis was a gentle giant with the softest little voice I’ve ever heard, yet his purr sounded like a loud motor boat. Beavis didn't need to be petted to purr. Sometimes merely looking at him or talking to him would trigger it. One of the funniest things Beavis would do is growl like a dog when someone would knock on the door or ring the doorbell.  He was definitely the Alpha male and at the very top of the pecking order in all feline matters.  He had a very gentle, loving demeanor, but about once a month he kicked ass to make sure everyone knew who was the boss!  What usually started out as him giving them a bath turned into a kitty wrestling match.  As soon as they'd tap out and show submission all would go back to normal until next time.  It was hilarious to watch 3 large tom cats give each other baths and no matter how old they got, Whitey remained the baby of the family and was treated as such by his entire family...humans included. 

Chewy (named after Chewbacca from Star Wars) reminded me of an Ewok not a Wookie when he was a kitten.  It didn't take him long to train me to his liking and he deemed himself “my cat”.  That position was his until the day he died from cancer.  He knew exactly how to get his point across and as long as I complied everything was all sunshine and rainbows. His loud voice freakishly resembled Chewbacca's voice. He did tricks like a dog and “flopped” on command.  Flopping consisted of falling over and landing with his head on my foot. The maneuver took skill and grace and was funny to watch.  Chewy never learned to purr until he was around 7 and when he finally did learn it was in an erratic, unnatural pattern.   It was something he never got the hang of doing, but that was okay because he after all was Chewy.

Whitey was the baby of the family and the cat Chewy picked out to keep. When Whitey was just a small kitten Chewy kept separating him from the other kittens as the time grew near to sell them.  He tended to Whitey like a mother cat would and never stopped mothering him even when he became an adult cat. Instead of selling Whitey, I kept him because that's what Chewy wanted and Chewy always got everything he wanted.  Whitey was very vocal from an early age and has a wide range of cries and noises he made. His most memorable sound sounded like he was saying “momma”.  This was cute except at 2 am when he got on a rant and would tear through the house running upstairs and downstairs crying for “momma”. Whitey also loved to be “spanked” and talked while he received a spanking.  His favorite "spank me, baby" tool was the back scratcher I keep on my desk.  I would gently spank him and he would tell me all about it with such fervor.

Last night, Whitey passed away at the age of 18.  His mother, father and brother who had died several years ago had been cremated and their ashes had been stored in my closet until they were all buried together early this morning.  

Gratitude Statement: Yes, I'm extremely sad right now, but I feel blessed because these four filled my life with such love and joy for so many years.  They are and always shall be the cats who loved me. 

THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST

My memories of Christmas don’t involve lavish gifts or miracles. No, Christmas during my younger years wasn’t like that at all. Although I must admit I don’t remember ever wanting something and not getting it eventually. My children would (in unison) tell anyone that ideology and practice is called "delayed gratification" and delayed gratification builds character. My memories of Christmas as a child have more to do with the simple things and of the people who touched my life each Christmas season. As a young child our tree always seemed so huge, but thinking back on it now, the tree was probably no better or bigger than any "Charlie Brown" type tree. If memory serves me correct, my father used to go out into the woods and cut our tree each year. My mother would probably have a different memory of that occasion and tell me he was too drunk to do that. 

Regardless of whose memory is correct, each year we did have a tree from the woods of Maine and the tree was amazing! Maybe the elves brought it! Who knows? What I remember most about the tree is how my cats loved it. The ornaments seemed to give them endless joy throughout the Christmas season. The one ornament I remember clearest were ones made of tiny pinecones and painted white. Somehow they were fashioned into looking like birds. Needless to say, the cats found them along with everything else hanging from the tree fair game and put there for their amusement. After all isn’t a Christmas tree just a giant green cat toy? 

I was a quick understudy as a child. My brothers taught me if a string was pulled across the gifts very slowly, the cats would "accidentally" tear open the wrapping paper just enough for a peek inside. Of course, we were always warned not to do that, but mysteriously each year the gifts almost looked shredded by the time Christmas would come along. Those pesky cats were so naughty at times! Some winters would be barren right up until Christmas Eve and then miraculously come Christmas morning everything would be dusted with snow. The new fallen snow added to the spirit of the season and the anticipation of getting outside after being penned up in the house was almost unbearable. New snow meant sledding and snowball fights! 

While at Barnes and Noble recently I saw a Christmas card that was so "me". The only reason I didn’t get it was because I didn’t like the verse written inside. I usually go for some "beachy" Christmas scene to send to all my friends and relatives up North, but this year I opted for a cute kitty card. The card at Barnes and Noble that I saw made me think of my misspent youth. The picture was a black and white shot of a little boy bundled up in winter clothing standing next to a metal pole (most likely a flagpole) with his tongue stuck to the pole. I can’t remember how many times as a child I used to do the same thing. Why? Just because I could and probably because I was told not to do it. I learned quickly just how quickly I had to remove my tongue so it wouldn't stick to the flagpole at school...others weren't so lucky! Guess what? I still have my entire tongue! 

Each Christmas morning after unwrapping our gifts, my brothers and I would clean up the mess while my mother cooked a meal fit for royalty. One year my mother told my brothers that when I stopped believing in Santa, we would start opening our gifts on Christmas Eve so that the house wouldn’t be such a mess the next day. Let me end this entry by sharing that at the ripe old age of 5, I opened my gifts on Christmas Eve and have been doing so ever since. You see, my family is so good every year that Santa puts my family at the very top of his delivery list.

*Repost from November 23, 2011

Tara

It was Christmas Eve 2008 when Tara came to live with us. Whitey (my last surviving Himalayan cat) had just about grieved himself to death after Chewy, his brother passed away in May. He needed a friend, but I wasn't ready for another cat. Chewy was my baby. I loved him dearly and it crushed me when he died. He had cancer and I had to have him put to sleep. I guess that's the polite terminology for euthanizing your pet, but there's nothing polite about death.

Like a fool I used to go out doing last minute Christmas stuff and I had my son, Matthew with me. When we were headed home, I turned into the Escambia County Animal Shelter and he looked at me and asked me the obvious. Whitey had given us very specific instructions to follow: NO FEMALE CATS and NO BLACK CATS. The reason for this was that his very own mother hated him. Yes, his mother wasn't very nice (she used to bite him and the bites would et infected) and my mother had a black cat named Bob who got ahold of Whitey once and tore his neck open...so NO BLACK CATS and NO FEMALES CATS.

In we went to the Animal Shelter and they had a great selection of kittens and cats, but none of them seemed too playful or had very much personality except one and it kept sticking its paw out through the cage EVERY time we walked by. Hey, pick me! You guys, pick me! It talked and talked and talked and carried on until we came over and read its card and talked to it. So we ended up bringing that cat home for Whitey...it took him about a week to get used to HER. Yes, it was a FEMALE! And yes it was BLACK! He taught her all his bad habits and told her she didn't have to be a lap cat, but about a month before my mother's cat died she started sleeping on my mother's bed as if she knew my mother would need that when Pat was gone. Basically, she's become my mother's cat over the last few years and I think that's a good thing for both of them.

Today Tara is having surgery. She has a mass on her lower left side. The vet says that in cats that it's usually cancer, but they won't know for sure until the pathology report comes back. I know she's just a cat, but if you can please keep Tara in your thoughts I'd really appreciate it. She's a good kitty and we'd like to have her back home and healthy. Fenway, Libby and B.A. are cogs (cat/dogs) and Tara is a member of their pack. They patiently await her return...

Addendum: Thursday November 7, 2019 7:24am: This was written as a draft and was supposed to be posted on Thursday and not on Wednesday. It was my screw up for posting it early. Tara is getting operated today. I'll be dropping her off at the vet in less than hour.

Addendum: Thursday November 7, 2019 3:36pm: Tara is home and doing well. She was sent home with pain meds to take if she needs them. The vet at Megan's Landing Veterinary Clinic said the mass was easily removed. It appeared to be in a sac and had not metastasized to any other surrounding area. We'll know more when the pathology report comes back. I'd like to thank everyone for their support. It means so much to me.

Last Update: Sunday December 11, 2022 8:55am: The mass was cancer, but to date it never returned. Tara is now 14 years old and still a member of the dog pack. 

FROM THE CATHOUSE

Dwight Cat
born 10/08/1996

No intermission is complete without a picture of one's pets. So after that titillating post about the Red Sox, let me introduce you to the eldest member of my zoo. In 1994, I bought 2 Himalayan kittens, a male, blue point who my sons named Beavis and a female tortie point my husband named Dixie. When they got old enough to breed, the female would have a flame point kitten every other litter. I kept a total of 2 kittens, although I have to admit I wanted to keep them all.  The only thing cuter than a furry little kitten is several furry little kittens. One of the kittens I kept was a seal point named my sons named Chewy and one was a flame point we collectively nicknamed Whitey. The seal point was actually the one who insisted on keeping Whitey.  As time grew closer to sell the kittens, Chewy who was almost a year older than Whitey kept separating Whitey from the rest of the litter.  He would carry him like a mother cat would carry a kitten and he would hide him behind or under furniture or put him in a closet if he found one with an open door.  After he did that enough times, I finally got the message.  Whitey was spared, but my husband wasn't. Chewy insisted that it was the right thing to do, so how did I spell relief? D-I-V-O-R-C-E because Chewy always knew best! lol