I am a Cat person

I am cat person.  Not that I don’t like dogs; they’re okay, except for the ones who feel the need to stick their nose in my crotch and the nasty one who bit my butt when I was a teenager out running.  Our neighborhood dogs –  Atticus, the famous hiking dog;  Bailey, the dog who reminds me of Disney’s Tigger; and Abigail, the one-eyed dog with a nice grandmother who lives in Florida (more on that some other day) are very sweet.  I adore my chiropractor’s beautiful Pearl and not to be forgotten our ex-neighbor, Tonka (RIP) who was a great dog despite the fact that he wore a Yankee’s neckband.  And, I must admit that Jack, Lianne’s dog, is starting to grow on me.  But I am a cat person.  My dad, the son of a veterinarian, was a cat person.

Here’s a photo of Grampa (Dr. Charles G. Hall) inside of his operating room at 228 Main Street in Malden, MA ”fixing” my apparently very sick toy dog in the 1960′s.  The rear of the photo says that I paid a penny to have the dog operated on…

If you lived in the Linden area of Malden, Massachusetts and your cat disappeared one day, you can rest assured that your cat wasn’t hit by a car or mauled by a rabid racoon, as you might have imagined; he simply joined our family.  If a cat walked through our yard, my dad would assume it was a stray and would feed it day after day.  The cat wouldn’t be allowed inside the house, at least not initially.  But after a few months, there would be leg rubbing when dad arrived home, a cute meow, purring and a scratch at the door.  There might be a frost or a thunderstorm. 

Once they were “in” and “named” they never left. At one point they outnumbered the humans – Mom, Dad, 4 kids, 11 cats.   Knowing what I know now, these weren’t feral cats, they must have all belonged to neighbors.  Only one original family “The Beasley’s” tried to claim their cat who we had named Tiger (almost 3 years after he “adopted” us). He went home with them. The next morning they let him outside; Tiger returned to us and never left. 

I named my first kitten Daisy.  One of Grandpa’s clients had kittens.  He surprised me with one.  I was elated!  She was cute and playful and fun.  A few years later she had four kittens, we got to keep Squeeky the runt. 

  Daisy & Squeeky circa 1970

Then there were the strays.  Tiger and Splat and Orphan.  Splat because my sister (who was 6 or 7) announced at dinner one evening that she hated cats because it meant we couldn’t have a dog, and she hoped that the cat ran across the street and “splat” as a car drove by.  I guess my parents thought she was funny, because the name stuck to the latest stray.

Fast forward a bunch of years.

I move into my own apartment at 22, two years later I adopt two kittens and name them Dewey and Sneakers.  They are adorable! Within hours of their arrival I can’t breathe.  My throat closes, my eyes become itchy then swell shut, the uncontrollable sneezing begins. I am allergic!  I visit the local allergist, “How can this be” I ask exasperatedly, “I lived with 11 cats ?!?!?”  He dispassionately responds that he does not know, but recommends shots 3 times a week for a year.  Is he nuts?  Two more cats are added to my dad’s collection.

Ten years ago my sister has twins, Makayla and Zack.  When they are 7 months I babysit while my sister heads off for “date night” with her husband.  The kids and I sit on the front stoop and suddenly Makayla begins to shake uncontrollably.  I think she is having a seizure.  Then she giggles and says what sounds like ”kitty” (her first word), I am ready to call 911.  I instead turn and see a cat.  Relieved I scoop him up and bring him to my niece’s waiting arms. Within minutes I can’t breathe.  My throat closes, my eyes become itchy then swell shut, the uncontrollable sneezing begins. My sister’s date is cut short.

Eight years ago my soon to be husband John and I begin house hunting.  As we approached a house, the realtor warns, “They have a cat, I have been instructed not to let it out”.  Short story? Door opens, cat bolts.  Future husband and realtor chase cat for an hour.  They corner it.  It scratches the heck out of  future husband.  We depart and I am confined in a small car with a man who just held a cat.   Within minutes I can’t breathe.  My throat closes, my eyes become itchy then swell shut, the uncontrollable sneezing begins.  Houses with cat residents are crossed off our viewing list.

Fast forward to 2009. 

We move to Jackson, an idyllic town, population 800, in the White Mountains of New Hampshire; majestic pines, subtle hills, and a wooden-covered bridge – a place where you  never stop feeling as though you are taking part in a “Lifetime Movie”.  We are invited to the Scheupps’s, our new neighbors, for dinner.  Their house is lovely.  Great mountain views, wine, pool table…..two cats.  Two cats with radar. Cats who instantly identify the visitor who is allergic to cats.  They attempt to jump on my lap.   No worries says my neighbor.  I am allergic too.  Frankie and Sammy are Devons, you will be fine.  And sure enough I was.

Our First Baby

The Scheupp’s put us in touch with their breeder, Patrice Dorsi of Pepitas, in Winthrop, Massachusetts.  They warned us that she was very strict when selecting parents for her Devon kittens, but based on the Scheupp’s recommendation we were quickly accepted and placed on the spring waiting list.

On Saint Patrick’s Day, Patrice e-mailed to ask if we wanted a “point boy” from the latest litter.  I had no idea what she meant by “point boy” other than perhaps it was a male cat, but I excitedly responded, “Yes!!” Our kitten had been born on 1 March 2009 and Patrice named him ”Rascal”.   When my husband and I married in 2008; our wedding song (which he painstakingly selected – his only “wedding responsibility”) was “My Wish” by Rascal Flatts, it was fate – the name stuck. Little did we know that the name would fit our little guy’s personality perfectly.

We waited in anticipation for 10 very long weeks.  I had doubts.  As a child, John hated cats.  We love to travel, would this limit us?  What if I were allergic?  What if John “forgot” to put the toilet seat down and he drowned.  I was a wreck!

While waiting to become a “Mommy”, I did extensive “Devon Rex” research, kitten proofed the house, bought toys, a giant scratching post/playhouse and a pet carriage. 

What is special about a Devon you ask?  Boy were we in for a surprise!! 

This is from the Iams Cat Breed Guide:

This breed has a special personality all its own. If you’re looking for the mythical aloof, independent cat, don’t get a Devon Rex. Devons want to be with you every moment of every day, taking part in every activity, huge ears cocked in curiosity, large eyes glistening with love, agile paws reaching to tap you if you aren’t paying them full attention. When they’re in a playful or affectionate mood (which is most of their waking hours), they wag their tails with delight. For highly active, inquisitive cats, however, they tend to be even-tempered and adaptable.

In a household of these pixies, you’ll find that the Devons stick together but will readily cuddle with other cats if no other Devons are present. Devons tend to get along well with cats, cat-friendly dogs, and even parrots. They Extraordinarily social and people-oriented, Devons don’t do well if left alone; at least one other cat or other sociable animal companion is needed for those times you can’t be with them. But their favorite playmates are humans. Devons are not content to sit by your side or on your lap; they sit on your shoulders or drape themselves around your neck like curly-coated scarves. Some fanciers say Devons believe they are human. They love to play fetch or participate in just about any activity that can be performed with their preferred people.

Devons will keep you laughing. Highly intelligent and keen observers of human nature, Devons are known for getting into adorable mischief. Because of their curiosity and ability to fly through the air with the greatest of ease, no shelf or cupboard is safe from the inquiring mind and agile paws of the Devon Rex.

Devons communicate when they have something to say. Their meows are distinctive chirps and twitters.

Devons are also known for their insatiable appetites—after all, it takes a lot of energy to race around the house without touching the floor. Unless you want your Devon Rex clinging to your leg like a huge, wavy-haired tick, you’d better be on time with the cat food. They also have peculiar appetites and will snack on uncatlike foods such as pasta, corn, cantaloupe and even bananas. Eager to sample what you’re having, they’ll steal food off your plate, your fork, and sometimes even out of your mouth.

You can read all that, but you don’t really “get it” until they move in with you. 

Rascal became a member of our family on 16 May 2009.  Life changing?  an understatement!!!

The Cat Who “Paws”

Rascal and I were inseparable for the first 6 weeks. 

We quickly fell into a routine. We curled up together in my bed at night. He rose with the sun every morning, climbed up on my face and meowed a few times, while swatting my nose, to be sure that I was awake. Once he had my attention, he would return to the foot of the bed and with utmost concentration leap for the chain of the ceiling fan, which was just out of his reach.  He was quite persistent, jumping again and again, never giving up, yet never succeeding.   After several minutes, he would happily let me scoop him up and carry him to the kitchen for breakfast. 

I work at home for a large computer software company.  We had just moved into a new house and I didn’t quite have an office yet.  Day after day I sat on the couch, computer on my lap, cell phone in hand, Rascal at my side. He alternated between napping on my lap and attempting to walk across my keyboard. 

Looks innocent, right? Not so much. Hence the name, Rascal – quite fitting. Each evening at exactly 9PM (bedtime for us old folk), Rascal would become crazed.  Really crazed.  He would run around the living room, jumping from the couch to his “cat tree house” to the floor, again and again, running in circles at what seemed to be 90 MPH.  We could tell that the “witching hour” had arrived when his bright blue eyes turned red and his pupils dilated.  He was entertaining, yet exhausting.  Our lives were changed forevermore. 

Rascal and I had bonded.  I became his true mother; his birth mother all but forgotten.  We hadn’t been apart for more than an hour at a time.  When I ran to the post office or went for my afternoon snack (a brownie and Diet Coke at J-Town Deli), he would sit at the door and begin a constant, distressed meow.   John would pick him up in an effort to comfort, but the meowing wouldn’t cease until I returned.

The July 4th holiday was fast approaching.  John and I had booked a 5-day trip to Acadia National Park, in an ocean front suite, at the lovely Saltair Inn, long before we considered getting a cat.  I considered cancelling.  How could I be away from the little guy so soon?  

The Scheupp’s offered to keep him for a few days.  They assured me he would be fine.  We had been having “playdates” so Rascal was used to Frankie and Sammy.  Narla (their daughter’s 20 pound adopted stray), who had a bit of a mean streak, would also be spending the weekend.  My brother Mike, and his wife Lauren, agreed to drive up from Boston, stay in our home, and kitty sit their new baby nephew for the last few days of our long weekend.

I was still a bit nervous leaving my baby with “giant-sized” older cats, especially Narla.  

My fears were unfounded. We checked-in with the  Scheupps the first evening. They reported that Rascal had Frankie, Sammy and Narla trapped under the bed. Rascal had assumed a strategic position on top of the bed.  If any of the other cats attempted to make a run for it, he would “pounce” and force the cat back under the bed.  This continued for 3 hours. 

“The witching hour” lasted 24/7 during Rascal’s time with the Scheupp’s.  Every time Frankie or Sammy attempted to catnap, Rascal would pounce.  He was fearless.  He spent hours chasing them around the house making more of a racket than three galloping horses.  The Scheupp’s were NOT happy. No one in the household got much sleep that first night.  Rascal spent his second night alone,  locked in the spare bedroom.  To this day, Sammy has not recovered.  He associates my voice with Rascal and runs for the hills whenever I visit.

Mike and Lauren arrived – they fell in love.  Rascal got plenty of play time. They loved how he wanted to be part of everything they did, trotting around the house following them like a puppy.  They laughed when he tried to drink from their water glasses, he loved to shove his head into a glass of water with ice and chase the ice cubes with his teeth.

Our drive home from Acadia lasted a VERY long 6 hours.  I knew that my brother had to leave early Sunday morning.  Rascal would be alone for 4 hours.  Traumatizing for us both.  John didn’t “get it”.  “He’s just an animal.” “He has no feelings.” “He doesn’t care if he is alone”.  Really John?  A year later do you still believe that?

We finally arrived. Rascal sat at the door waiting for us.  He meowed happily with a hint of anxiety, then jumped into my arms and began to “paw”.   Some of my childhood cats ”pawed”, but nothing like this.  Rascal closed his eyes, swung his head back and forth looking like Ray Charles – nose buried deep in my arm, purring wildly, claws digging sharply into my soft skin.  Back and forth, back and forth, for what seemed like eternity.

This was the start of what would become a daily ritual.  He won’t paw clothing, a pillow or a blanket. Rascal will only paw bare skin, his preference is arm fat or a belly   Each morning when the alarm clock sounds, he lets out an excited “good morning Mommy” meow, bounds to the top of the bed and begins his ”pawing” ritual. After breakfast, he sits patiently outside of the shower door until I emerge naked, smelling of lavender.  He allows me to towel dry, and then sits by my feet meowing incessantly, until I pick him up and give him access to my bare arm. 

On rare occasions Rascal will “paw” John.  The first time it happened, tears came to his eyes, and John elatedly exclaimed, “Look honey!!  He loves me!!”

Hmmm….  was this the same man who claimed a cat couldn’t love?!?!

Our Second Arrival

I read that Devons liked company, so we asked for two.  All of Rascal’s siblings had been adopted, so we waited until the next litter’s arrival. 

I met our second little guy when I picked up Rascal.  Patrice called him Pilot – a cute ball of grey and black fur, with a quiet little voice. He barely filled the palm of my hand.  He would join our growing family in early July.

John and I struggled with the name.  Pilot didn’t seem to fit.  I suggested “Flatts” so we would have Rascal & Flatts.  Didn’t quite work for John.  

One of my many obsessions is collecting Christmas ornaments.  My collection includes ornaments with meaning (like a seahorse as a reminder of my grandfather’s fish tank, and my horror at watching the seahorse parents gobble up their young, while my grandfather worked to invent methods of rescue). 

Naturally while in Bar Harbor, we had to visit the Christmas Shop where we found rows of floor to ceiling pet ornaments.  After much deliberation, I selected two – a white cat and a grey/black cat.  As I approached the cash register, the clerk mentioned that prices included the engraving of pets’ names on the ornaments.  

Panic. We had less than 30 seconds to decide on a name.  John quickly announced that he liked ”Jackson”.   Jackson is the name of the town where we have lived since 2008 and our most favorite place on earth (beside Disney World of course).  Jackson it was!

John was in Boston working the first week of July, so he ”rescued” baby Jackson from the orphanage (as John likes to remind Jackson every so often).  I impatiently waited at home, mistakenly thinking that Rascal would be overjoyed.

Frankie and Sammy visited often during those first weeks and Rascal loved them, especially Frankie.   Rascal was smaller that the Scheupp boys.  In one leap they would jump to the kitchen counter (primarily to escape from Rascal).  Poor little Rascal was still too small to make the jump.  He spent hours trying – jump, jump, jump – thumping on the floor each time.  He tried standing on the bottom step and jumping from there…he tried the second step.  On one occasion he was able to jump and wrap his paws around the corner of the granite.  He hung in mid-air for several seconds until slowly slipping back to earth.  He tried only once to leap onto bar stool,  thinking perhaps that would get him to the counter.  His attempt left him hanging in mid-air, belly on the stool’s foot rest, tiny legs hanging on either side, stuck and waiting to be rescued.

I couldn’t wait to give Rascal a full-time playmate!!!

John finally arrived with Jackson.  He resembled a little black bat.  His body hadn’t yet grown in proportion with his ears.  He was a cutie!  

I’d rate the boys first interaction as “really poor”.  In an instant, Rascal was aware he was to permanently share my affection with this little creature.  He lunged at Jackson fangs first, claws fully extended.  They had to be separated.   I started with a 5 foot high screen, duct taped to a doorway – one cat on each side.  Jackson climbed up and over.  I tried a doggie playpen.  Jackson climbed up and over.   I covered the playpen with three pieces of plywood.  This worked. The boys sat for hours at a time looking at each other, swatting at each other through the pen.  Rascal’s tail angrily beating back and forth.  Jackson gleefully thinking this was a fun game, already infatuated with his new big brother. 

A few times a day I would conduct closely supervised “fence-less” visits.  Each time more of the same.  Rascal would grab Jackson by the throat in a vicious attempt to kill him.   Jackson was athletic, faster and smaller.  He would leap out of Rascal’s arms and escape to a tiny space leaving Rascal unable to follow.  I began to use a spray bottle filled with water to deter Rascal.  This went on for three weeks.  It was exhausting, I cried at least once.  I was angry at Rascal’s jealousy and was thinking we may have to return Jackson…but I was already in love.

Although unhappy with the situation, Rascal eventually accepted his brother.  By early August they began napping together.  Jackson was ecstatic; you could see the adoration in his eyes.  Rascal was his new mother.   

All is not perfect, Rascal was (and is) very jealous.  If I am holding Jackson, Rascal pouts.  If I play with Jackson, Rascal will give him the evil eye and a certain “meow”;  Jackson will immediately sit down and refuse to continue our play.  If Jackson tries to join us at night, Rascal pushes him off the bed, banishing him to the floor under the bed until we are sleeping.

But, when no one is looking, Rascal “secretly” returns Jackson’s love.  They playfully chase each other around the house, they groom one another and on occasion nap together.  They collaborate to find and steal food.  They  are copycats –  Rascal teaches Jackson how to “paw” and in exchange Jackson offers new methods to reach the highest spots in the house.  If Jackson wanders out of sight; Rascal will circle the entire house meowing anxiously until ”baby Jacks” reappears.

Jackson’s First Disappearance

Jackson had been part of the family for about a week when I finally had the nerve to leave him alone (separated from Rascal of course) while I went grocery shopping.  While I was gone, John would be home with the boys; not all that comforting since he couldn’t seem to remember to close the toilet seat or keep the door to his workshop closed. 

I would only be gone for a few hours; 1/2 hour drive each way to Hannaford and an hour to shop.  I must admit that I was anxious.

I shopped in record time.  When I arrived home, John’s car was gone.  Rascal ran to greet me.  I went to see Jackson. His “playpen” was empty.  My stomach sank, where was he?  Then I noticed that the cat carrier was also missing.  I panicked, there must have been an accident. I prayed for something minor.

I called John’s cell – no answer.  I tried chain calling him – 5 times (okay maybe 25), no answer.  I called North Country Animal Hospital – they had not heard from John nor did they have Jackson. I wondered if John had perhaps taken him to a different animal hospital.  I paced.  I called John’s cell again and again.

Rascal and I cuddled while we anxiously waited for some news.

An hour later, in strolls John with Jackson in his cat carrier.  I freak out.  Totally freak out.

John is honestly bewildered, “Why are you so upset? The cat is fine. I brought him to Lucy’s Hardware, pushed him around in the shopping cart, and then brought him to J-Town Deli to meet “everybody”, I didn’t want to leave him home alone, I thought he would be scared; I rescued him from the orphanage you know, he is special to me”.

You are kidding me, right?  A cat in the hardware store?   And I am the crazy cat person? I think not!!

Rascal Gets “Fixed”

Drop off was at 8AM.  Castration is day surgery, so I would retrive Rascal by 3PM.  The morning of the scheduled surgery, I bundled him into the cage, strapped the seat belt around him and proceeded to become very emotional (yes, I cried).  I took a deep breath and attempted to pull myself together.  I was a mess.  John happened to be leaving the house at that moment, observed my emotional state and offered to accompany us.

Ironically, I have assisted with literally hundreds of castrations. Every Saturday morning from the time I was in 5th grade, I would catch the 6:30 AM MBTA bus in Linden to my grandparents home on the other side of the city.  My grandfather, who was semi-retired, would begin at 7AM.  It was the same story every Saturday.  Every middle age woman who dropped off a pet would be bawling her eyes out. 

Once alone, Nana and I would laugh at these woman.  We would roll our eyes and wonder what they were so worried about!  It was such a simple operation.  At 10 or 12, I was confident that I could perform it myself without ever attending veterinary school (okay, so maybe not a hysterectomy – that appeared to be a bit more complicated).

My grandmother would moisten a giant cotton ball with ether and place it on top of a cylinder like contraption over the animal’s face, speaking softly to the little guy until he went under.  My “job” would be to hold the animals’ legs.  My grandfather would first drain the urine from the animal’s kidneys and then quickly perform the procedure. The animal would be “just fine” within a few hours…….

One Saturday, Grampa and I were in the operating room alone (Nana was upstairs instructing my siblings on the art of baking).  He was struggling to untangle a cat’s matted coat, with a giant metallic comb.  Suddenly, Grampa drew his hands to his heart, and withered back in pain.  He soon recovered; looked me in the eye and sternly said, “DO NOT tell your grandmother”.  I kept his secret.  He died that night.  I was in the 8th grade.

Not a memory that I wish to relive or discuss (except perhaps with my future therapist).  So, back to Rascal….

By the time we arrived at the animal hospital with Rascal, I had pulled myself together (somewhat).  I did remind them at least 5 times that he could not be given certain anesthetics.  I am certain they think I am neurotic.  

There are a number of anesthetics that are formally banned for use with the Devon Rex.

• Ketamine
• Imalgene
• Clorketam
• Zoletil
• Halothane

They reassured me that they would administer Propofol and Buprenex.

I worried all morning that I would never see my baby again; after what felt like an eternity, I finally got the call that it was over and he was ready to come home.

I was instructed “to keep him quiet” for a few days.   “I would try”, I said aloud,  thinking that it would be near impossible to keep this monkey-like creature “quiet”.

Earlier that afternoon (to make myself feel better) I had visited Four Your Paws Only and purchased a new toy for my poor baby - a feather on a spring that made bird noises when swatted.

When we arrived home, Rascal was acting crazy.  More crazy than his usual crazy.  He pounced on the new feather toy like he was a fierce cougar seeking today’s fresh kill.  I had a conference call at 4PM.  I locked him in my bedroom so that (1) he wouldn’t try to kill baby Jackson and (2) so he wouldn’t hurt himself; he was literally bouncing off walls.

An hour later, I returned to check on him.  He was nuts!  Every last grain of kitty litter had been ”flung” out of the pan and now covered the carpet. The wicker toy ball that I had left in the room was literally torn to tiny shreds.  His focus had turned again to “killing” the feather.  

I quickly contacted Alfred, our vet.  I knew that there was a chance that Rascal’s personality might change after losing his “manhood”, but this was ridiculous!  Alfred reassured me that it was probably just a reaction to the anesthesia.  Alfred was right.  After 6 hours of “hellish behavior” Rascal was back to his “normal craziness”… and he has ignored the feather toy ever since!

Canyon Ranch Zucchini Muffins

Every Sunday, I bake healthy muffins and freeze them. I microwave one each morning for a quick breakfast treat.  One such Sunday last August, I pulled the hot fragrant muffins from the oven, carefully extracted each from the muffin tin and placed it on the cooling rack.  I headed off to shower in preparation for church. 

On my return to the kitchen, I found that one of the cats had grabbed a muffin and carried it to the living room where it lay half eaten…  Who was the culprit?

We were soon to find out!!!

Rascal loves food, but Jackson is obsessed with food, any food, all food. He is particularly enamored with zucchini muffins.  Regardless of where he might be – playing, sleeping, bird watching – the buzz of the microwave brings him bounding toward the kitchen.  He sits on the edge of the countertop as close to the microwave as humanly possibly in the hopes that a muffin is being defrosted.

Once the muffin is extracted from the microwave, he is relentless.  He follows in pursuit. He sneaks up from behind while we relax on the couch, pounces teeth first towards the succulent muffin, grabs a bite and runs for the hills before either of us realizes what hit us.  Chasing him is useless.  He outruns with ease.  He crawls under the couch, careful to perch in a spot just out of reach and greedily gobbles his prize, squealing like a piglet.

The first time I discovered the cabinet open (the one that holds our trash barrel), I blamed my husband.  He took the blame the second time, and the third, perhaps even the fourth…he is notorious for leaving cabinet doors open. If he got a vote, we wouldn’t have doors.  He has expressed his feelings on a number of occasions that doors lack a purpose. Then, to my dismay, I found Jackson sitting inside the trash barrel, happily munching on cucumber peels.  We got a child proof lock.  Jackson tried to outsmart the lock to no avail.  After 3 days he gave up (or so we thought).

A few days later, John awoke and began his daily ritual of brewing the coffee.  He heard a muted ”clank” from inside the cabinet above the fridge.  Mice, he pondered?  He cautiously opened the door – out rolled Jackson, fat and happy.  It seems that sometime during the night he had jumped from counter to fridge, opened the cabinet and climbed inside.  The door swung shut behind him.  He didn’t seem to mind. He ripped a hole in the bag of dried cat food and feasted to his heart’s content.

Jackson had been diagnosed with gingivitis and pre-surgery instructions specified that Jackson have only water after 8PM the evening prior.  With a thick black felt tip pen I created a a sign. In read in large block letters ”NO FOOD FOR JACKSON“. I taped it to the door of the fridge, “duct taped” the cabinet door shut and headed for bed.  

The next morning, the duct tape had been ripped off the cabinet; cat food was  scattered on top of the fridge and all over the floor. We were unable to determine which cat was the culprit, but most likely it was our “food monger” baby Jacks. 

I made a call to the animal hospital to reschedule his procedure.  My guess is that the staff had a good laugh at the story of “a cat breaking into the cupboard”. They had to be thinking, “Hmmm….yet another client who “forgot” and fed their cat in the morning…..why can’t they just be honest!”

We “re-duct taped”the cabinet door, but this time secured it tightly with the rub of a butter knife.  A few minutes later, Jackson leapt to the top of the fridge, grabbed an edge of the tape and pulled with all his might. Within 30 seconds he succeeded. “Right in front of us!!”, exclaimed John, “Has he no shame?!?!” We couldn’t believe our eyes!

I bought a large rubber container and sealed the food inside.  I placed the container on my kitchen counter.  A few hours later, I heard a crash.  I ran to the kitchen to find the container upside down, food scattered all over the floor – two cats happily feasting.

After cleaning the mess, I returned the food to the counter and added a heavy can to weigh it down. This seemed to work.

A few days later, John and I departed for 12 glorious days of hiking, food and wine in rainy Tuscany (yes, it rained for 12 straight days in May! – not just rain, but torrential downpours, thunder and lightning).  My neighbor was to feed the boys the first evening and the following morning; then the ”nanny” would move in and take over.  I warned Lynda about their food obsession and the weight having to be left on top of the food container.  I taped a “reminder” note to the container.  She “yes’ed me”.

Lynda fed them Tuesday evening before heading out for a fun “Cinco de Mayo” celebration where she overindulged (just a bit).  She returned to my house the next morning, very hung over, …you guessed it…to food all over the floor! Not a fun cleanup when you are a bit “under the weather”.

After Italy, I returned to the zucchini muffin making ritual (except nowadays the hot muffins go directly into the freezer).  I took a quick trip to the J-town Deli to grab a few ingredients – 2 sticks of butter, milk, brown sugar, vanilla….  I returned home and found in my bag only one stick of butter…  I swear I bought two!  I must have left one behind on the deli counter.  I sent John down to retrieve it.  I proceeded to make, bake and freeze the muffins…  Then I was off to relax in the living room…  What do I find?  A half eaten stick of butter in the middle of the floor!!  

On another occasion we had guests for dinner, the leftover bread was bagged and left on the counter.  The next morning, John rose first and found the bag on the floor.  The boys had chewed through the plastic and eaten half the loaf.  He shook his head, placed the remaining bread in a new plastic bag…and what next?  Put it back on the counter….  I woke up an hour later and found the bag on the floor.  They had chewed through the plastic and eaten half the loaf  When I relayed the story to my husband, his response? “Oh yeah, they did that to the first baggie too”….  Are all husbands dense? 

I have only shared  a few of the many times that they have outsmarted their parents - there was the chocolate in our Christmas stockings; a few times when we have had company and mistakenly left the dining room (and butter dish) unattended to enjoy an after dinner drink on the porch; an empty DQ Blizzard container, left on the table – stuck on Rascal’s head during his attempt to lap up the few leftover droplets of sugary melted ice cream….

Then there are the moths and flies who unknowingly allow themselves to be seen by one of these little cats.  With great hand/eye coordination, the bug is stunned with the first swat and then swallowed alive and whole before he (or I) is aware of what is happening.

We can’t leave any food out, dishes can not be placed in the sink or left on a table.  I can’t turn my back when cooking or when putting the groceries away.  To eat a muffin in peace you must lock yourself in the bathroom.

Last week I fed the Scheupp’s Devons. For two days there are two loaves of bread on the counter.  The bread sits.  Neither cat is interested.

A Tribute to Leroy

I keep an eye on Petfinder.com in the event that a Devon Rex appears in an area shelter.  Not that I need the chaos of three cats (and a husband), but I feel guilty that we got our cats from a breeder instead of from a shelter.  But being allergic to cats, I didn’t have much of a choice. 

One morning I came across a posting. In New York City. A 9 hour drive each way, but do-able.  

His name was Leroy. 

 

I immediately emailed the shelter:  

Hello,  

My husband & I are not really looking for another cat but ran across Leroy’s photo and fell in love. He is a cutie! 

I am allergic to cats but have two Devon Rex’s, Rascal & Jackson ages 5 1/2 months and 7 months and my allergies seem fine. I was very excited to find this breed.

Anyway, I am wondering what you think about adding a 3rd cat to the mix since you know Leroy’s personality. 

My Rascal (the older one) was very upset when we brought home Jackson but now they are best buds, sleeping together, grooming each other, wrestling, etc. Rascal does get very jealous and a bit stressed and pouts if he sees me holding or playing with Jackson. Overall he is a really loving cat but a bit needy. He wanders around the house meowing if he can’t see me or Jackson. We have had many “playdates” with the neighbor’s 2 older Devon Rex’s and Rascal loves visiting and gets along great with the other cats. 

Jackson (the baby) just loves life, he is excited to wake up, run, eat, play; he is just happy in general – he purrs 24/7. He doesn’t like to be cuddled as much as Rascal but would chase bottle caps forever. Jackson is a bit skiddish. He doesn’t like when other people visit and doesn’t seem to like the “playdates” with the neighbors. 

So with Rascal’s jealousy and Jackson being skiddish I am on the fence about a third. But Leroy seems so loving and mine are still just kittens, so maybe it will work. I hate seeing the little guy stuck in a shelter. 

The response was almost instantaneous: 

You sound just terrific. 

Did you notice that Leroy (his street name) is diabetic.
That is totally do-able. but it is a chore.
I love Lee, because he is this quiet adorable guy who doesn’t seem to know there are any other cats around.
He is adorable.
Be in touch. 

Joan Victor 

I called Joan.  We hit it off immediately and chatted for almost an hour about Leroy.  Someone left him on the street, he was in rough shape.  He had been under close supervision at the vet for quite some time, but was ready to find a “forever home”.   It was very clear that Joan was completely head over heels for this little guy.  He was special.  

She takes homeless animals in her home, an apartment in NYC, she is not allowed to have pets.  She invests time and money and truly loves them all – but Leroy was very special to her… 

John and I talked about Leroy for hours.  Was it fair to take this little guy away from the only people who ever loved him?  And what about medical care – at that point we didn’t really know the vets in our area and we were a 3 hour drive from Angel Medical in Boston….  It wasn’t an easy decision.  I was already in love with him even though we hadn’t met.  I wrote back to Joan… 

We thought a lot about Leroy over the weekend. 

I guess we imagined him living in a shelter inside of a cage for the rest of his life…. Since most people that we meet think Devon’s are not cute we were afraid that he would never be adopted and the poor thing would spend life in a cage. 

What we found out is that he is now in your home (not in a shelter), you really love him, your husband is a doctor and you have a vet in a big city…. 

I have only known our vet for 3 months, I like him but don’t have much experience with his practice. I feel like Leroy is better off with you. I would feel awful if we took him and something happened that wouldn’t have happened in your care because of your support system with the vet & your husband. We would love him as much as you would but we don’t think it is fair to take him away from what you are providing  

This was her response: 

Linda,  

I sat at the computer last night and could not email you.
Now I will, having read your last email. 

LEROY died Friday.
I and Dr. Marv are shattered;
we did not realize how much we cared about his well-being.
I wanted him to live long enough to feel loved and that he had a home – either with me or you.
Remember Leroy, please.
You will, because that picture of him is unforgettable.
I want Leroy to be cared about, have his little life important. 

Joan 

I couldn’t believe it.  I cried.  John cried.  I will always remember Leroy and Joan, they have a special place in my heart. 

I responded: 

I am so so so sorry to hear that and very sad. I am crying as I read your message and write this and I did not even know him. I can’t imagine what you are going through. It was clear to me from talking to you last week that you loved him very much, so I am VERY sure that he also felt your love. 

I will remember Leroy. He really was a cutie. Leroy was cared for and his life was important. I guess I didn’t realize how much we had become to think of him as ours even though in the end we decided he would have a better life with you. It was very hard for me to send you the email earlier today, I didn’t want you to think that he was not wanted, it was not an easy decision for us, we had already come to think of him as ours and were telling Jackson & Rascal that they were getting a brother – I even showed them pictures  

A week later I wrote: 

I can’t stop feeling sad about poor little Leroy – my kitties have definitely gotten some extra love this week. John and I would like to make a donation to your shelter in Leroy’s name. Please forward me an address and let me know to whom I should make out the check. Hoping it will help some other animals until they can find good homes. If you do not accept private donations I can do something for our local shelter in his name please just let me know.  

Joan responded: 

Your caring makes me  cry.
There are few people like you.
Our charity is  

2000 Spays and Neuters
863 Park Ave.
New York, NY 10075 

and we are way poor.
So thank you.
I am still SAD about Leroy.Very painful. 

Donald Ortiz rescued Leroy – Leroy was a fixture in the Harlem neighborhood.

People fed him because I guess they felt sorry for him, but he had an air of nobility about him that made people notice: a cat that looked like he did had dignity. Leroy was an urban legend! People would say to him, “Let’s go around the corner and get something to eat….” and he would follow them.  

A memory that makes me smile about Leroy: he never acknowledged any other cat in my home; he just didn’t see them. Maybe he did not know he was a cat. 

But – I have this large dog (who loves cats) – and everytime Leroy saw Bernie-the-dog, he stopped in his tracks, and went “Whoa” in utter amazement, even if he had seen the dog 10 minutes before. 

We do miss Leroy. 

I cannot wait to meet you.
Joan, your new friend 

Joan and I have never met, but someday we will…    

Remember Leroy.