The King of the Cats

Yesterday morning, shortly after Loretta left for work, I was startled by a surprisingly loud "MROW-YOW!" from Dickens, who had leaped onto the window sill of the dining room window and was clearly agitated by something outside. I am not ordinarily startled by the sounds our cats make (and they make all sorts of sounds), but Dickens is usually fairly quiet, even when agitated. And it didn't help matters that I happened to be reading a horror story in which a cat is agitated by what turns out to be a horde of rats in the walls.

It was still dark, so I turned on the outside light. I was relieved to see not a horde of rats, but the orange cat we have come to call Julius sitting beneath the dining room window.

I wrote about Julius and his sibling, Greyjoy, last year. Greyjoy no longer comes around, and we fear the worst. Outdoor cats do not survive long in Southern California, where it is not unusual to see coyotes, mountain lions, and even the occasional bear. (Once we even had a Bengal tiger prowling near our neighborhood, but that's another story.) Julius, however, is still around, and spends much of his time in our back yard. He used to keep a safe distance from the house, but lately he has been coming right up on the patio to visit with our cats through the window. I imagine that he is telling Dickens and Zorra, who are strictly indoor cats, what is going on in the outside world.

Which reminds me of a story I came across many years ago.

"The King of the Cats" is an old English folk tale. Like all folk tales, there are many versions. Probably the best known is the one recorded by Joseph Jacobs in his 1894 collection, More English Fairy Tales (in the public domain and available as a free download from Project Gutenberg):

The King o' the Cats

One winter's evening the sexton's wife was sitting by the fireside with her big black cat, Old Tom, on the other side, both half asleep and waiting for the master to come home. They waited and they waited, but still he didn't come, till at last he came rushing in, calling out, "Who's Tommy Tildrum?" in such a wild way that both his wife and his cat stared at him to know what was the matter.

"Why, what's the matter?" said his wife, "and why do you want to know who Tommy Tildrum is?"

"Oh, I've had such an adventure. I was digging away at old Mr. Fordyce's grave when I suppose I must have dropped asleep, and only woke up by hearing a cat's Miaou."

"Miaou!" said Old Tom in answer.

"Yes, just like that! So I looked over the edge of the grave, and what do you think I saw?"

"Now, how can I tell?" said the sexton's wife.

"Why, nine black cats all like our friend Tom here, all with a white spot on their chestesses. And what do you think they were carrying? Why, a small coffin covered with a black velvet pall, and on the pall was a small coronet all of gold, and at every third step they took they cried all together, Miaou—"

"Miaou!" said Old Tom again.

"Yes, just like that!" said the Sexton; "and as they came nearer and nearer to me I could see them more distinctly, because their eyes shone out with a sort of green light. Well, they all came towards me, eight of them carrying the coffin, and the biggest cat of all walking in front for all the world like—but look at our Tom, how he's looking at me. You'd think he knew all I was saying."

"Go on, go on," said his wife; "never mind Old Tom."

"Well, as I was a-saying, they came towards me slowly and solemnly, and at every third step crying all together, Miaou!—"

"Miaou!" said Old Tom again.

"Yes, just like that, till they came and stood right opposite Mr. Fordyce's grave, where I was, when they all stood still and looked straight at me. I did feel queer, that I did! But look at Old Tom; he's looking at me just like they did."

"Go on, go on," said his wife; "never mind Old Tom."

"Where was I? Oh, they all stood still looking at me, when the one that wasn't carrying the coffin came forward and, staring straight at me, said to me—yes, I tell 'ee, said to me, with a squeaky voice, 'Tell Tom Tildrum that Tim Toldrum's dead,' and that's why I asked you if you knew who Tom Tildrum was, for how can I tell Tom Tildrum Tim Toldrum's dead if I don't know who Tom Tildrum is?"

"Look at Old Tom, look at Old Tom!" screamed his wife.

And well he might look, for Tom was swelling and Tom was staring, and at last Tom shrieked out, "What—old Tim dead! Then I'm the King o' the Cats!" and rushed up the chimney and was never more seen.

Illustration by John D. Batten

The Cats Are All Right

For the past few weeks, we've been having some remodeling done to our master bathroom. I was going to tell you about it, but I thought it might be more interesting if you heard about it from the cats' point of view. While the work was going on, Dickens and Zorra spent much of their time in the guest room. Along with the usual amenities, we left them each a journal in which to record their thoughts.

Day 1:

ZORRA: Why, oh why, has He put us in this terrible place? What have we done to deserve such treatment?

What was that noise?

We're going to die!!!

DICKENS: I don't know why Zorra is acting like this is some kind of punishment. I like this room. I remember spending time here when I first came to the house. I wasn't much older than a kitten then, and there was an older cat in the house—what was her name? Not Zorra. Zorra's hiding under the bed. I don't know what she's so upset about. We have food, water, a litter box, a window with a nice view...

What was that noise? Oh, well. I'm sure it's nothing to worry about.

I think I'll take a nap.

Day 2:

ZORRA: We're going to die!!!

DICKENS: There she goes again. Under the bed. Although I'm beginning to wonder if she might not be right. Something is definitely going on. I hear strange noises and voices. Yesterday, when He finally came to let us out, I asked Him about it. Of course, He just made those nonsense sounds They always make: "Blah blah Dickens blah blah." I wish They could communicate more clearly. At least They know my name.

What was that? There is definitely something going on out there.

I think I'll see how she's doing under there. Not that I'm afraid or anything...

Day 3:

ZORRA: We're going to die!!!

DICKENS: She's under the bed again, and I will be there soon. It seems we are now to spend all of our days there, cowering in terror. Every day we vow that we won't let it happen again—that the next day, when He tries to capture us to put us in here, we will somehow evade Him.

And every day, we forget.

I'm starting to think we both may have memory issues.

What was that noise?

I will continue this tomorrow—if I remember. Right now, I think the safest place is under the bed.

Day 4:

ZORRA: We're going to die!!!

DICKENS: It's decided. Tomorrow morning, when He tries to put us in here, we get Him. He may be able to withstand an attack from one of us, but if we work together, we can't help but succeed. In the meantime—

We're going to die!!!

Day 5:

ZORRA: We're going to die!!!

DICKENS: What a lovely weekend! But why are we in this room? And why is Zorra hiding under the bed? It seems like there was something I was supposed to remember—

What was that?

Oh, yes. Now I remember—

We're going to die!!!

Day 6:

ZORRA: We're going to die!!!

DICKENS: We're going to die!!!

Day 7:

ZORRA: We're going to die!!!

DICKENS: We're going to die!!!

Day 8:

ZORRA: We're going to die!!!

DICKENS: Zorra almost escaped. She hid under the bed—not this bed, the other one, the one They sleep in. But He got the sucking monster from the hall closet and flushed her out. Now she's under this bed.

She certainly spends a lot of time under beds. Come to think of it, these days, so do I, because—

We're going to die!!!

One Week Later:

ZORRA: I remember this room. I used to nap in this chair sometimes. As I recall, there's a nice view from this window...

DICKENS: Didn't there used to be a litter box in here?

Déjà Poo

I have already told you about Dickens—our beautiful, good-natured, long-haired tabby. Neither of us had ever had a long-haired cat before Dickens, and we have come to find out that the trouble with long hair on cats—aside from the fact that you constantly have to brush it—is that things tend to stick to it. Things that, shall we say, belong in the litter box. Consequently, those things occasionally get dropped elsewhere.

For instance, on the hall rug.

We have a beautiful Navajo rug in our hallway—a souvenir from a trip to Sedona. It covers a multitude of cat puke stains and really "ties the room together." The trouble is that the rug is dark, and the hall is dark, and—well, you get the picture.

Yesterday morning, I got up and, as usual, walked into the kitchen to get my cup of coffee, outside to get the morning papers, into the living room to drop off Loretta's "Times" on the couch and my "Star" on my recliner, then headed back towards the bedroom.

It was at that point that I turned on the light.

Loretta heard me swear (see last week's post) and called out from the bedroom, asking what was wrong. I didn't answer her right away. I was too busy looking at the trail I had made. It was like one of those dotted-line trails Billy leaves in The Family Circus, when his mother tells him to do something and he wanders all over the neighborhood before he does it.

The worst part is, this has happened before. Same rug, same Billy poo trail. You'd think I would have learned my lesson.

I already know not to go barefoot. Anyone who lives with cats should know that. In the twenty-four years Loretta and I have had cats, we have stepped on everything from hair balls to toy mice to real mice. I should also know not to venture too far in a dark house without turning on a light.

Lesson learned.

Until the next time it happens.

Julius and Greyjoy

A couple of days ago, I was in the back yard picking up fruit under the citrus trees, when I had the misfortune to step in cat poop. I uttered an expletive that was vulgar, yet accurately descriptive of what I had stepped in.

Our cats had nothing to do with it; Dickens and Zorra are strictly house cats. However, two neighbor cats have been regular (very regular, judging by what I stepped in) visitors to our back yard for the past few months. They are clearly from the same litter, though one is orange and one is gray. They aren't strays, because they both have collars. They won't let us get close enough to see if they have name tags, so we have provisionally named them "Julius" and "Greyjoy."

Ordinarily, I would not be tolerant of strange cats using our back yard as a toilet. Our neighbor to the north certainly isn't. Once, I watched Julius jump over the wall into his yard and immediately heard our neighbor bellow, "GET OUT!!!"

All I could think was, I hope the neighbors don't think these cats belong to us.

Because let's face it, it's pretty rude to allow your cats to go around digging up the neighbors' flower beds and scaring the birds away from their bird feeders. It's also dangerous for the cats. (One woman I know lost two cats in less than a year by allowing them to prowl the neighborhood. After she told me about the disappearance of the second, I told her I didn't want to hear about any more of her cats until she stopped feeding them to the coyotes.)

However, there is a reason I forgive my neighbors for allowing Julius and Greyjoy to terrorize the neighborhood.

Eight years ago, my parents and my Aunt Sheila flew out for a visit. During their visit, we spent a lot of time on our back yard patio. Cleo, our sweet old calico, was always with us. She was sixteen years old at the time; she couldn't get over the wall surrounding our yard if she wanted to, and she didn't want to. She just wanted to be where we were.

One day, towards the end of my family's visit, we were all out on the patio enjoying the sun. My mother noticed that Cleo was staring at something under the bird feeder.

"What's she looking at?" my mother asked.

"Birds," I said.

"Are you sure it isn't a squirrel? I hate squirrels."

"I didn't know you hated squirrels, Mom."

"Nasty rodents. They carry disease, you know."

We did have a squirrel who was a regular visitor to our yard. He liked to sun himself on one of the rocks under the bird feeder. I took another look.

It wasn't a squirrel. It wasn't birds, either. What had caught Cleo's interest was rats.

Lots of rats.

I had seen them foraging under the bird feeder and assumed they were birds. My eyes are not as good as they used to be. Fortunately, my mother's, father's, and aunt's eyes were even worse than mine.

If my mother felt so strongly about squirrels, I wondered how she would feel if she knew that there were about a dozen rats frolicking within twenty feet of her.

"Just birds, Mom. Isn't it about time we went inside?"

After my parents and aunt left, I bought a trap and took care of our little infestation. Since then, we see the occasional rat or two every year, but never as many as we had that year.

Since Julius and Greyjoy showed up, we haven't seen any.

Which is why I don't mind them visiting our yard from time to time.

I just need to be careful where I step.

Anniversary Cat

When discussing marriage, nearly as important as the question of children is the question of pets. Suppose one of you is a "cat person" and the other a "dog person"—worse yet, suppose one of you is an animal lover and the other can't stand the thought of having any sort of creature in the house. Fortunately, Loretta and I were in complete agreement on the subject. Dogs and cats had been an important part of both our lives. We both knew we wanted at least one pet. The only question was, would it be a cat or a dog?

Both of us work, and we both like to travel. Most cats have no problem with being left alone for hours or even a day or two. But dogs, the moment you are out of their sight, become convinced that they will never, ever see you again. At least, this was how it seemed with Christie, the Scottish terrier we pet sat shortly after we were married. She was sweet-tempered, intelligent, and seemingly well behaved. However, one evening while we were out, she apparently became filled with angst at the idea that we would never return—or possibly she just became bored. At any rate, she completely destroyed her dog bed and, when she was finished with that, proceeded to tear up the kitchen linoleum.

We decided to get a cat.

He was our "anniversary cat"—about a year old when he came into our lives, about a year after we were married.  He'd been rescued from beneath a porch in Buffalo, where some cruel children had driven him into hiding by pelting him with rocks. We were afraid the experience might have toughened him or made him mean, but at our first meeting we found him to be perfectly docile, if somewhat reserved. He was a beautiful cat, with golden eyes and thick, white fur, just like "the neighbor's polar cat" in Dylan Thomas's A Child's Christmas in Wales or Cleveland Amory's Cat Who Came for Christmas. I suggested a literary name: "Mycroft," the brother of Sherlock Holmes. It seemed well-suited to such a dignified and regal animal.

Here's a picture of him a day or two after we brought him home to our Niagara Falls apartment:

As you can see, once he made himself at home he was anything but dignified and regal. He turned out to be quite sociable and—though not particularly affectionate himself—happy to sit on anyone's lap and accept affection from them. At times he could be mischievous. At times, as we discovered years later when we acquired a second cat, he could be downright ornery. And so the dignified and regal "Mycroft" became just plain "Mike" (or, occasionally, "The Little Bastard").

I shut him out of our bedroom his first night with us—or tried to. He scratched at the door until I was forced to let him in. He jumped up on the bed, went to Loretta to have his head rubbed (he loved having his head rubbed), then quietly settled down at our feet. From then on, this was his nightly routine.

Life on the mean streets of Buffalo had made him an excellent hunter, as we discovered when we moved into our first house. He quickly dispatched the few mice inside the house then moved on to the garage, where he caught them as quickly as they came in under the door. Usually he would leave the bodies—not a mark on them—neatly lined up in front of the kitchen door for us to find (or, if we weren't careful, step on). Once, however, he came in from a garage expedition with a small tail hanging from the corner of his mouth.

"MIKE!" I screamed. He dashed past me and dropped the mouse in the living room, where it quickly disappeared behind a bookshelf. He wanted to go back to the garage to find another one, but I grabbed him and thrust him behind the bookshelf, insisting that he take care of this one first. He soon emerged, the mouse's tail once more dangling from his mouth. He trotted into the kitchen and again deposited his little playmate on the floor. By now, the mouse was furious. It stood on its hind legs and waved its front paws in the air, as if challenging Mike to fisticuffs. I put a bucket over it, slid a piece of cardboard underneath, carried it out the front door, and dumped it in the yard.

Mike was six years old when we moved to California, and still a formidable hunter. Unfortunately, the mice were few and far between. He only encountered one, shortly after we moved into our townhouse, and it escaped. However, he soon found other small game in our tiny, walled-in garden. He preferred hummingbirds. He probably thought they were flying mice—they were roughly the same size. He also occasionally caught a lizard. Once, he came into the house proudly carrying something in his mouth—an alive something—just as he had carried the mouse in years before. This time, instead of a tail, a tiny webbed foot protruded from his mouth.

"WHAT the HELL is THAT?" I yelled. I gingerly pried it from his mouth—a small, pale-green tree frog. It immediately sprang out of my hand, hit the wall with a splat, and stuck there like a frog-shaped wad of snot. I quickly peeled it off the wall and threw it outside. I assume it escaped, because Mike never caught it—or any other frog—again.

Most of the time, we were able to rescue his prey or scare it away before he caught it. The one or two times I was unable to prevent him from killing a hummingbird, I was furious with him. He, of course, could not understand why. "I'm a cat," he seemed to say. "What do you expect?"

When we moved into our current house with its huge (by California standards) back yard, Mike was in heaven. By that time, he was fifteen and beginning to show his age. The day we moved in, he took off after a small flock of birds under the citrus trees. He didn't catch any of them; in fact, he never caught anything again. But he still enjoyed watching—and stalking—the wildlife in our yard. At his age, we didn't need to worry about him getting over the fence; we installed a cat door so that he could come and go as he pleased. I believe those were the happiest days of his life. It's the way I like to remember him—the fierce jungle cat slinking through the undergrowth, stalking its prey.

I often think of him this time of year. It was just after the holidays eight years ago that we took him to the veterinarian for the very last time. Later, we bought a small memorial stone for the garden. On it, there was only room for his name and lifespan, plus one or two additional words. After much deliberation, we settled on "Lovable Bastard."

It seemed appropriate.

Mycroft
1988-2005
Lovable Bastard

Admin Cat

Last week I wrote about Dickens. Now Zorra is up here on the desk, demanding that I give her equal time. The desk is her favorite spot, which is why we call her our "Admin Cat." We think she must have been an administrative assistant in a past life because, whenever either of us sits down at the computer, Zorra is right there to "assist."

Six years ago, when our sweet old calico died, it didn't take long for us to decide to adopt another cat. We missed Cleo's shy, quiet presence in the house, and so did Dickens. At the suggestion of the receptionist at our veterinarian's office, we visited the Agoura Hills Animal Shelter. They have a large, airy room (the "Habicat") with lots of toys and cat furniture, where prospective adopters can meet, play, and socialize with the cats.

We were looking for a female with a personality similar to Cleo's. We quickly narrowed it down to two: a little white Persian and Zorra. Because the Persian was sleeping, we couldn't really tell what her personality was like. Zorra seemed shy and quiet, so we picked her.

We were told by the animal shelter that her name was Zorra (clearly for her black "Zorro" mask, although she can certainly be a vixen at times). I don't think anyone ever told her what her name was. It was months before she responded to it. (Of course, much of the time she doesn't respond to anything, as if she's in her own little world. We call it "Zorra world.")

At the animal shelter, they practice full disclosure. They told us that Zorra had been adopted—and returned—twice. Her file stated that the reason the adopter returned her was because she kept them awake at night. The file also stated that she was lazy. The only thing the file didn't tell us was that she had fleas. The fleas were easy to get rid of, but her other quirks took some getting used to.

She is definitely not quiet. For such a little cat, she has a very big mouth, and she is at her most vocal at night. Her purring alone can wake you up. It's like a bus idling next to your ear. It's also quite true that she's lazy. Her favorite thing to do is sleep—preferably on top of Loretta or me. She makes things difficult on laundry day, by bedding down on the laundry before we can put it away or on the bed before we can make it.

And there's the admin thing. Right now, I am having to contort myself to type around her.

But she's a sweet cat—with just enough of the vixen in her to keep Dickens on his toes. I can't understand why anyone would return her—or any animal—to a shelter. Adoption should be "for keeps."

Oh, well. Their loss is our gain.

Dream Cat

Every Saturday morning, as soon as my feet hit the floor, Dickens gets up and races to his living room "cat table." It used to be a coffee table, but when Dickens came into our home, it became a cat table. It's the only spot where, when I am sitting in my recliner and Loretta is on the couch, Dickens can see both of us. More importantly from his point of view, because he loves attention, we can see him. It also puts him on the same level as people, and he loves people. I'm pretty sure he thinks he is one. It's a little difficult to explain to guests who are used to a coffee table being a place for beverages and snacks, and are surprised to have an enormous cat jump up and introduce himself, nose to nose.

Saturday mornings, when Loretta and Zorra are still in bed—that's when Dickens and I have our weekly meetings. After I get my coffee, I sit on the couch, he sits on the cat table, and we talk. (I'm perfectly serious. Dickens is very vocal. If you talk to him, he talks back. I have no idea what he's saying, but I suppose it makes sense to him.) I give him a few cat treats, brush him, and sometimes, if he will allow it, give him a manicure.

I call Dickens my "dream cat." When our first cat, Mycroft, died, we talked about adopting another cat. But I couldn't bring myself to do it. It would be like trying to replace Mike, and to me, Mike was irreplaceable. Then, about a year after Mike died, I had a dream. In it, I was cradling a small ginger tabby in my arms. The next morning, I told Loretta I thought I was ready to adopt another cat.

Shortly after that, we were at PetsMart shopping for supplies for Cleo (our little old lady calico). A rescue group was holding an adoption event, and I decided it wouldn't hurt to check out the kittens. There were about a dozen of them, but the one that immediately caught my attention was a little ginger tabby that stuck his paw out through the bars of the cage to get my attention. I asked one of the volunteers if I could hold him. When I cradled him in my arms, he looked up into my face, just like the cat in my dream. He still likes to be held that way. Every morning, before I go out to get the paper, I have to pick him up and give him a cuddle. It's not easy, now that he weighs 20 pounds.

Mycroft was our first cat, and for years he was an only cat. When we adopted Cleo, he resented her presence in the house. There were terrible fights between the two of them before they reached the point where they could barely tolerate each other. Cleo had now gotten used to being an only cat. Also, she was a bit old to be asked to put up with a frisky kitten. Understandably, we were concerned about bringing another cat into the house. But we needn't have worried. Dickens loves other cats as much as he loves people. He was eager to make friends with Cleo, but when she had enough of his antics and hissed at him, he knew to back off. When Cleo died and we adopted Zorra, Dickens and she quickly became best friends.

Zorra and Dickens

Dickens was not always the easiest cat to love. When he was a kitten, he suffered from a chronic respiratory illness. His nose was constantly running, and he would have terrible sneezing fits. He would spin in a circle, spraying snot all around him like a lawn sprinkler. He also had frequent, explosive bouts of diarrhea. (One unforgettable episode occurred under the Christmas tree a few days before his first Christmas.)

Fortunately, Dickens outgrew his kittenhood illnesses to become a healthy, happy cat. He still loves attention, people, and other cats. He is always glad to see me—every morning when I get up, every afternoon when I come home from work, and especially at our Saturday morning meetings. I love him like the dickens.