Words of Wisdom

     When it comes to platitudes, we can gain lots of motivation and wisdom, but it's important to choose the right saying for the moment.  For instance, today Frank was on top of the refrigerator preparing to launch an attack on a moth hovering near the ceiling light several feet away.  Frank subscribes to the "keep your eye on the prize" motto.  I think "look before you leap" may fit this situation better...enough said.

She's Still Got It!

Newsflash:  Jersey, who is arthritic and about 84 years old in cat years, was just spotted chasing a squirrel up a tree.  (You go, girl!)  She almost caught him. Never underestimate the life force of the elderly--especially when faced with such overwhelming temptation!  I hope I can be so spunky in 40 years.

Finnegan's Tale

                Thus far Frank has gotten the lion’s share of attention, but today Finnegan gets his turn.  Tiny gray Finny, about half the size of his housemates, was born to a feral cat in our alley and rescued by a neighbor with cat allergies.  We met him when our first cat, Tigerlilly, was dying of cancer and we knew instantly that he would join our household—not as a replacement, but as a joy.  Before we could take him in, my daughter and I first had a trip to Ireland scheduled.  On the Emerald Isle we searched for the perfect Irish moniker and landed on “Finnegan, the King of the Leprechauns” (although during his naughty adolescent phase we called him The Bun Rat, having stayed a night near Bunratty Castle).  We picked him up just hours after our return and soon learned that instead of the typical plotting, arrogant feline aura we’d come to expect from cats, Finny projected innocence and naiveté.   We attributed his special disposition to his lack of brakes.  Full of kitten energy, he’d race through the house, unable to stop in time to avoid colliding with walls and furniture.  After each crash he’d shake himself off and dizzily wobble away.

Finnegan had to see what was at the top of the ladder

                Finn has wizened over the years into a street smart wanderer.  (He’d stay outside permanently if we’d let him.)  Every day he cruises the neighborhood, greeting his favorite girls and checking in with each of the neighbor cats.  Because of his small stature, he’s often the victim of cat bullies.  He never seems to take offense.  Rather than running for his life, he’ll try to befriend some Tom that had just flattened him and end up being flattened a second time.  Oh well, maybe tomorrow the Tom will want to play.

He is a creature free of malice—a true heart of gold—the Tiny Tim of the cat world.  That doesn’t mean that he’s spared frustration.  Sometimes when he begs to go out and the answer is “no,” he releases an exasperated sigh and, shaking like a small child on the verge of tears, he nips my ankle and darts away. 

Finny is a snuggler, always sleeping close--more specifically, always sleeping on my knees.  I can roll him over, slide him over, move him over in whatever way possible and within a second he’s right back on my knees.  The only time he chooses not to sleep there is if I am reading—then he sleeps on my book.

Sweet Finny, heart of gold, loyal companion, loving spirit far larger than his little body—he is my constant reminder to turn the other cheek and never hold a grudge.

* Note:  Yes, Finnegan is a boy and yes, he is wearing a pink collar. In one week he lost about a half dozen collars in manly bold colors and since we bought out the rest, the store only had pink left.  Of course the pink has stayed in place for two years now.  Hopefully it doesn't contribute to his being bullied.  This is in no way a statement on gender specific colors--I think he looks quite spiffy in pink!

Contortionist Sleeping

                There are still other personalities to introduce but in my severe sleep deprived state, I can only think of one topic—nighttime bed arrangements.  My husband and I share a queen-sized bed—he has one half; Biff, Frank, Finnegan, Jersey, Toby, and I share the other half.  My husband claims that they avoid his side because of his CPAP machine, but even when he gets up early or comes to bed late, his side stays empty and I share my side with Biff, Frank, Finnegan, Jersey, and Toby.

                Granted, they aren’t that big, but they do possess several inconvenient abilities.  The first is the ability to triple their weight while asleep. Yes, I know this defies the laws of physics, but reality is reality—when they are asleep they become dense, immovable blobs.  They also possess amazing spatial skills.  This allows cat arrangements that consume maximum square footage while dividing the leftover space into dozens of unconnected pieces.  The shapes I contort into to fit around them put pretzels to shame.  To avoid the more painful positions I often resort to keeping one foot on the floor and a shoulder on the bedside table.  This can

Waiting for Bedtime

actually be comfortable until my claustrophobia kicks in and I feel trapped in that position with the covers held down tightly by their leaden bodies.

                So why don’t I just lock them out of the room?  (You were thinking it, weren’t you?)  Because having them in the room is more peaceful.  Nothing unites the efforts of the clowder more firmly than a shut door between them and, well…anything.  The few times I have tried shutting them out they took turns using their heads as battering rams.  (Lucky for them we have hollow core doors!)  This is a loud, sleep interrupting process that results in dizzy and extremely torqued off animals.

                I suppose if I’m to give thanks in all circumstances, there must be an upside to life without sleep.  Well, I am thankful for sleeping, furry kitties (this means they aren’t awake, bored, or all-star wrestling on top of me).  I enjoy reaching out at night to pet them.  It is soothing and calming.  I am thankful for the love of little creatures, which is much less complicated than human relationships.  I can even find humor in the fact that Jersey gets up at 4 a.m. to stare at me.  It is her way of saying, “Don’t forget our canned food this morning.  You love us too much to make us eat the dry food.”

                 I need a nap.

The Story of Frank

                Frank, whom you’ve met, is our problem child. Sleek and black with a white chest patch, he’s very photogenic.  His bright yellow eyes beam like headlights and he has the alert, nimble musculature of a wild panther.  Much to his fellow felines’ dismay he stalks prey like a jungle cat, sneaking up on his housemates and chomping their hindquarters, then spitting out large mouthfuls of their fur onto the floor.  Frank is not well liked by the rest of the clowder. (Clowder is the term for a group of cats—I think “herd” of cats sounds better, but no one asked me.)

Frank

 

                The fact that we have Frank involves a series of events that beat the longest odds possible—so improbable that you can almost physically see God’s hand dabbling with the details to make it happen.  The first hurdle Frank overcame was survival. At less than a week old he lost his farm cat mother.  When the farmer found the litter the next day, Frank was the only one alive.  Eyes closed, a few ounces in weight, severely dehydrated, needing around-the-clock mothering—Frank is a survivor.

                My daughter’s classmate, the farmer’s daughter, called  that Sunday afternoon begging her to take Frank in.  What to do?  My daughter had school, my husband worked, I had just opened my piano studio…we couldn’t cover the long hours of care this little guy needed.  We had a friend, though, who was laid up with a back injury for the month.  This friend (what are the odds?)  not only had an animal science degree, but was also passionate about pet rescuing.  He graciously agreed to be Frank’s surrogate mother and provide the necessary bottle feedings, baths, and socializing.  My daughter helped too—it was the first of many joint rescues for her and her future fiancé.

                Frank was weaned off the bottle just in time to join our household as my daughter’s birthday present.  Despite his good health and loving care, we quickly learned that Frank’s mind is just not wired right.  He has a split personality and we have yet to discover the off switch for his instantaneous mood swings.  One moment he is snuggling around my neck purr, purr, purring when suddenly he’ll bite my nose (not lovingly), hiss, and bolt out of sight.  He also spends long periods of time in a dark, brooding funk and engages in foul antisocial behavior, like peeing in the water dish.  (I did mention that the other cats haven’t warmed up to him.)

                Oftentimes I wonder why we have Frank, why all the circumstances aligned so he could be part of our family.  After all, he terrorizes the other cats and keeps me up nights sleeping on my face.  I stay awake to protect my chin just in case he snaps and decides to chomp. 

I’m reminded that I, too, snap—I am not proud of it and yes, I know better.  As much as others would like to snap back or reprimand me, what I really need at that time is loving acceptance and forgiveness.  That’s what I try to give Frank and about half the time I’m rewarded with his sweet side—a curious, companionable side-kick that makes me hope for a moment that he’s

a reformed kitty.

Sympathetic Touch

Frank (courtesy of CRAVE Photography)

                Last year, the inevitable happened—my little girl, my only child, grew up and left for college four hours away.  I can’t speak for parents of multiple children, but I will say that mothers of only children give their entire hearts to that one child and when it’s time to give her wings, she flies away leaving a humungous hole. 

                That’s where the cats come in.  They don’t acknowledge you when you are talking or do anything you ask them to.  They are demanding, insistent, and randomly destructive.  Every now and then, though, they surprise you, like last week.  I read on Facebook that a local mother of three young children had just entered hospice care and was saying her goodbyes.  I started to sniffle and pray and Frank climbed onto the keyboard and touched noses with me (Frank, who would just as likely bite my nose) and I was reminded that when there are no words for moments of sorrow, reaching out with a touch of caring is the greatest comfort.

                Do I reach out or do I let shyness and discomfort keep me from giving that all-important loving human touch?  Do I let myself be the hands of Christ to the sorrowful?

                It was a small moment of grace for Frank to come at that time.  Just as quickly as it happened, the peace was replaced by the discovery of the dining room tablecloth and centerpiece draped over a knocked over chair.  Frank took advantage of the time I spent picking up to climb into a bowl of chai mix I was preparing on the kitchen counter.

                Take the good with the bad.

Why Cats?

Jersey on the neighbor's roof

                Let me start with a couple of disclaimers.  First and foremost, I am not a crazy cat lady.  In fact, until about 10 years ago, I adamantly considered myself a dog person.  My daughter, however, lists becoming a crazy cat lady as her main life goal.  What I am is an enabling mother, left behind when my daughter went to college to care for her five rescue projects—Biff, Finnegan, Frank, Toby, and Jersey. 

                Secondly, I do not believe cats are filled with wisdom, otherwise, why would my husband have to climb on the roof of the neighbor’s house to remove them after they jump there from treetops?  I do believe that occasional moments of insight come while I’m dealing with cat situations.  Maybe that’s because life’s biggest lessons hover at the fringe of chaos and exasperation.

                So why write about cats?  Since first grade, creative writing has been my quiet form of self-expression, but in the second half of my 40’s, I needed a fresh voice to re-energize my thoughts.  For a long while I was at a loss for an interesting topic.  Because my husband and I prefer to work behind the scenes where things are quiet and the drama is light, we are what most would consider boring. The last thing anyone would want to read about is our homebody existence.  Then out of the blue, like a golden beam from heaven, it finally occurred to me—CATS!  What am I surrounded by? CATS!  What do I spend my day serving, feeding, protecting, and herding?  CATS! What’s the source of my husband’s and my greatest amusement?  CATS!  All this time I’ve been asking God for a direction to focus my writing and I’ve been tripping over the answer a dozen times a day.   Let’s face it—there is a lot of entertainment value in cats.