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?!?!