Tag Archives: cats

Pickpocket Cat

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ImageHe was such a baby when we got him, all of three weeks old, had to be bottle fed, had to have his little bottom wiped so he’d do his stuff.  Now he can’t even fit across the top of the box of tissues and that’s one of his favorite hang outs when I’m getting dressed in the morning.  Why?  So he can steal something!

“Morgen, that’s my make up brush!  No!”

“Morgen, give me that lip gloss tube!  No!”

Running through the house…”Morgen, that’s my contact lens case!  No!”

Running through the house…”Morgen, that’s my earpiece for the phone!  No!”

Running through the house…”Morgen, that’s my (fill in the blank because if he can grab it, he’s ran off with it).  No!”

He doesn’t limit his thieving habits to me, however.  He takes great delight in sneaking into Hannah’s room or bathroom and making off with something of hers just to hear her screech and chase him down.  Little bugger!  And he goes right back to do it again!

Lately, my purse has been his playground if left unzipped.  I followed a trail of items down the hall and then realized what the contents were and the hunt and chase began….”No, Morgen, NO!”  Everyday I have to make sure I’ve zipped all the pockets on my purse entirely closed because he’s learned he can reach a paw in and feel and pull until he snags something if it’s cracked open just a little.  I have a pickpocket cat.

He’s not quite a year old and truly is a rowdy teenager at this stage.  Wrestling the dog is one of his favorite past-times and stealing anything the dog has just makes it more fun!  Mac knows he has to inhale his treats or Morgen will, quick as lightening, snatch it with his hot little paws and pop it between his teeth and then the chase is on.  It’s not that he wants to eat it always, it’s just to steal it.

He normally has a running streak every evening and when he does this he makes a deep, guttural growly meowy sound totally unlike his usual squeaky high-pitched mew that any male cat would be ashamed to own.  He takes off at one end of the house and by the time he hits high speed he’s almost airborne and rockets toward the cat flap-door into the garage where he circles around bounding from shelf to box to whatever and then shoots back through the door, sometimes running smack into whichever cat, dog or person has come to see what the noise is about.  The sound of him hitting that door at full velocity might be similar to a vehicle crashing into the house.  I still jump up and go look.

Morgen has no boundaries when it comes to the other cats and has no problem inserting himself into any situation.  There may be several cats around me but when he wants attention he walks right over them to get it.

The personality of this not so little anymore cat is most endearing and, ahem, at times maddening.  But it’s that moment when he’s draped over my shoulder, head laying flat against me, little paws around me, eyes blinking his love, that melts me.

Sam called it when he first saw him, just days after Hannah brought him home.  “You lucky little kitten.  Your life is all set now.”

And he was right.

The Bandersnatch, Feline Version

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Bandersnatch

We’re blaming it on Johnny Depp because if he hadn’t been the Mad Hatter we wouldn’t have seen Alice in Wonderland at the theater.  And if we hadn’t fallen madly in love with the ferocious Bandersnatch who, beneath his ferociousness, really had a good, kind heart, Hannah wouldn’t have chosen that name for the liveliest of the four kittens we were “socializing”.  But we had and then she did so Bandersnatch is his name, like it or not.

Bandersnatch is one of four who came in a laundry basket complete with mama cat and three siblings.  He was actually adopted by a young lady at about 12 weeks old who came back the following day for a refund – her roommate, who wasn’t allergic to all cats, was allergic to this one.  Hannah danced in circles at the time and was happy to have her “special kitty” back.  We groaned. 

Bandersnatch is indeed a special kitty but that’s not quite what she meant at the time.  Sometimes we have these kinds of cats that are a bit odd, different, nuts, whatever, and we call them special.  Bander’s mama is also a special kitty.  Mona lives in my office, hisses crazily at the others, and wants only to be in her own little space all alone.  No other cat can resist the temptation of getting near enough to send her into a hissy fit.  Bander’s sister, Chiclet, is also a special kitty.  She’s as skitterish as anything, staying just out of reach of most humans; I think I’m the only one who can actually hold her.  And then there’s Bander who wants to be the one and only cat in the whole house and that’s just not a SMART goal in this household.   He chases the others, runs over the others, lies on top of the others, walks over the others, and generally acts as if he actually is the only cat in the house.  He’s only several times acknowledged the existence of Gizmo and Ninja and that’s when he was younger.  For the most part, he reigns in the world that he lives in his little kitty-cat mind.  And he’s somewhat spastic about that. 

Yesterday he leaped off the windowsill as I was passing by and almost took me out.  I spun into the cedar chest and landed partly on the bed, partly on the cedar chest, feet dangling on the floor.  When leaping up to his food area, a high area that Mac the dog can’t reach, he’s crashed headlong into another cat making its exit.  Racing down the hall he’s crashed into the wall and flipped upwards before sliding down sideways.  He missed the cat door opening to the garage and hit the door instead, shaking his head afterward and pawing the cat door open before easing slowly through.  I watched him take a flying leap onto the counter only to go flying off the other end 0.4 seconds later.  He’s a klutz.  

Every morning I give my cat menagerie a kitty tidbit treat and I can’t count the number of times I’ve put his right in front of him and he looks at me as if waiting for me to put one down.  I have to then point it out to him and he acts like “Oh, yeah, I saw that.”   I rolled the ball with the bell in it and all the other cats came running to chase it.  Bander looked up from his perch on the end of the couch as if saying “what did I miss?” and I threw another one and his eyes widened, ears pulled back, as if I’ve thrown a snarling little yippy dog on the floor.  One of the cats carried a live locust in from the garage and in the midst of the others rushing to get in on the fun, Bander jumped high up on the china cabinet and warily viewed the proceedings; this was truly his only action that made sense to me, a human, and I would have joined him if I could have figured out how to get on top of the china cabinet.        

Bandersnatch has a complete disregard for people parts.  He finds it just as convenient to walk across my face as my belly or legs.  And if I smack him away or holler, something that stops this action from any others who dare to walk on my face, he plops down and sits where he is, not in the least fazed by the hand that is pushing him away.  Not a pretty picture. 

On the other hand, he craves human attention.  Everyone who comes over meets him because he goes right into their lap and makes himself at home.  He purrs when he sees someone and he likes to talk now and then, but not always – he does let someone else get a word in edgewise.   

Because of his gorgeous gray-blue color he looks much like a Russian Blue and his coat is silky and very fine.  He’s a good groomer so he always looks sharp. 

I’d love for him to have his own home, his own I’m the only cat who lives here kind of home.  With a name like Bandersnatch you know he has to be a little out there, but his heart is good and kind in the end.  The eerie part is his eyes are the same green as the eyes of the Bandersnatch in the movie and I can never get the picture of the eyeball on the little mouse’s sword out of my mind or that when it was given back, the Bandersnatch just popped it back into place.  Insert creepy shiver here. 

He isn’t watching me type this but when I went into the living room I found him staring at the front door with that “is it a mouse or an ax murderer” wide-eyed but otherwise blank look.  He’d probably be afraid of the mouse and I’m hoping he’d walk across the face, claws out, of the ax murderer.   Good thing we have the dog.

From the Mouths of Cats

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This is Morgen.  Don’t let his innocuous kittenish looks fool you for a second, though.  He’s a piranha.  All teeth.  All the time.  And tonight those adorably sharp little pearly whites bit right smack through my electrical cord for my blood pressure monitor! 

Unlike Mac who has eaten everything except a book – wait, he did, take that back – only a couple of our cats have ever used their teeth to make us a bit crazy.

It seems to have started with Popcorn, a solid black medium haired cat who became ours when she reached her paws through the cage at the pet shop.  One Thanksgiving when I wasn’t feeling well I had brought home a sweet potato to eat later.  Being a Southern girl, a sweet potato on Thanksgiving is not just desired but required.  It was wrapped in foil and left on the stove so I could take a nap.   When I awoke feeling both better and hungry, I wanted that sweet potato more than anything and headed straight to the kitchen where I found an entirely empty piece of foil on the stove.  Hmm.  I looked on the counter, on the floor, in the stove, in the refrigerator, in the cabinets…moved to the living room and searched under the couch, behind the couch, under the tables, and just about anywhere I could think a sweet potato may have somehow gone if it rolled out of the foil and onto the floor.  Hmm.  Retracing the steps to the car, out the door, into the car, meticulously looking all through the car, back into the house.  Where on earth would a sweet potato have gone?  And then I saw her.  Popcorn had just a little bit of the red-maroon skin of the sweet potato stuck to the bottom of her chin.  I was equally incredulous and devastated and I wanted a sweet potato.  Back then the only thing open on Thanksgiving was Circle K or Seven-Eleven and neither carried sweet potatoes – my Southern pride was indeed wounded as I was not able to have a Thanksgiving sweet potato.   I still can’t figure out how she got it off the stove, ate the whole thing, and left the foil intact.  From that moment on, no sweet potato went unguarded in my house.

Tiger, a medium to long-haired tabby with a white chest and enough white splotches around his mouth to look like he’d had a drink of milk and it stuck, couldn’t resist sinking his teeth into a piece of paper.  It was the canines he  used and every paper in the house had Tiger’s seal of approval – two perfect holes in the corner of every page.  One bite and he moved on to the next one.  No need in our house for a paper punch.  Just wave the paper around and Tiger would get up from whatever he was doing, most likely napping, and eagerly put two cat tooth-sized punches into whatever you held out to him.  This was fine for most things but occasionally a word or number was right where he had bitten, a picture was the marked object, or it was something official that shouldn’t have cat bites on it.   When we open old boxes we occasionally find something with tell-tale marks and fondly remember Tiger’s seal of approval. 

Pumpkin was a homely, short-haired tabbyish calico with a cantaloupe fetish.  It didn’t matter where she was in the house, the moment we would cut into a cantaloupe she would appear and  launch herself onto the counter and begin the process of convincing us she wanted some.   If we took precut portions from the fridge, the moment we’d unseal the bowl she’d be there, pulling on our hands to direct the bite into her own mouth.   If she wasn’t quickly given a piece she would howl-meow insistently until we gave in, and we always gave in.  

Gizmo actually chewed, like a dog, the straps off my favorite pair of dress sandals.  I had no idea that a cat would chew on shoes until I went to put them on and the strap wasn’t attached but laying separately beside the shoe.  A closer look revealed the strap wasn’t broken but actually gnawed in several places until the strap has just fallen off.  I know it was Gizmo because a few weeks later when I kicked off another pair of strappy heels he dashed over and started working on the straps right in front of me!  I learned to quickly get my shoes in the closet and away from feline fangs.  Gizmo is also known for reducing straws still in the cups that you are using to useless sieves.

We’ve had cats steal and carry our things with their teeth such as hair bands and receipts and occasionally small clothing items.  Butter stole garments straight from the laundry basket and was particularly fond of anything with lace.   Pumpkin, the same one who loved cantaloupe, consistently stole baby caps and socks, making a “mrrrrm, mrrrrm” sound as she slunk away from us with her prize. 

Midnight’s fetish for roaches is covered in “Midnight” and Sassy’s mouse hunt is covered in “Pup’s Mouse Caper”. 

Morgen is another story.  From before he could balance well he opened his mouth to bite at whatever came at him.  We’d hold him up and he’d nip at our noses and because he was cute and cuddly and an itty-bitty kitty we oohed and aahed over his trick.  Not so cute as he got older, however, and those teeth got sharper so we had to stop it.  That’s how our comforter game was started so he would have something to chase and bite.  We’ve given him toys to pounce and bite but he still prefers whatever he bites into to be something that screeches and squeals, like his sister or one of the other cats, or human, like us.  He doesn’t bite hard but just enough for us to feel some teeth.     

I’ve never, ever had a cat chew through a cord before and I guess he’s pretty lucky the current was low and I guess I’m pretty lucky I’m not driving to the emergency animal clinic with a cat with the side of his face electrically burned because I know from past experience that a trip there is about the same as a mortgage payment. 

I think my favorite thing from a kitty’s mouth, however, is what we call a kitten kiss – an oh-so-gentle nip on the nose followed by a sandpapery lick and accompanied by much purring and eye contact with slow blinking.  Popcorn was the only cat who did that and when Blaise joined us, she started it also.  In fact, after Morgen and I have our chase the hand under the comforter game, Blaise pops into bed and gives me a goodnight kiss before settling in on my pillow.  And throughout the night if she thinks of it, she reminds me how grateful she is to have a home here and that she really, truly loves me.  And when she does that too much and awakens him, Morgen plants his teeth in her tail. 

Can’t imagine a world without kitties…especially mine.

Lily

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Lily

She first came to me in dreams that sent me driving around looking for a white kitty beside a curb.  In my dream I saw the kitty just sitting there as cars rushed by and I could see pavement.  I remember being fearful that someone would run over the kitty.  As I would drive around town I kept my eyes peeled for a kitty and I asked my family to do so.  They were used to me doing this so they didn’t think my request was that odd.  Almost always I’ve dreamed about the kitties that have joined our family before it happened, and crazy cat lady that I am, instead of dreaming about the baby I’d give birth to during my pregnancies, I dreamt about having a kitten.  The dream about the white kitty persisted over weeks that led to months.  There were days I would drive around with Hannah and we’d look carefully beside the roadways.  I was certain I would find this kitty but as the months passed I gave up and stopped being as watchful. Then, coming back from picking up Hannah at a friend’s house about ten miles from ours, I noticed something in the road ahead that didn’t move as the cars flew by about 35 or 40 mph.  Sure we’d see a dead animal in the road, I stared at the spot as we, too, sped past. “Stop!  Go back!”  I yelled, “It’s the white kitty!” We turned around and went back as cars continued to race past.  I jumped from the car and approached the kitty who lay with its back toward me about a foot into the roadway that gave off from a slight dirt embankment that had only a rounded corner curb at the edge of the property.  As I approached I spoke to the cat who made no movement whatsoever.  Thinking it may be dead, I reached down with both hands and when I touched it, huge blue eyes looked up at me.  I tightened my grip, scooped up the cat and headed to the car with it.  “It’s deaf,” I said, sitting the unusually calm cat on my lap.  I clapped and the ears didn’t twitch.  I shook my keys and nothing.  “This kitty is definitely deaf.  Who in the world would let a deaf kitty outside near the street?”  She looked up at me and seemed to say, “No matter.  I’m yours.” We brought her home to join our menagerie and as the days passed we learned some things about her.  Not only was she deaf but she had never learned how to bathe herself.  She didn’t understand purring, either, but she did make a screechy meow sound when she was irritated.  We named her Lily. The other cats were fascinated by her and tried every intimidating growl and hiss they had in their bag of tricks to no avail.  She supremely and sublimely ignored them.  When the vacuum cleaner came on and they all ran, Lily stayed put.  When any heavy equipment such as the table saw was used, Lily slept through it.  And the blow dryer that sent all cats running for cover held no fear over her to their confusion; they’d peep from under the bed to see her laying, placid and serene on the counter.  Thus, Lily established herself as a force to be reckoned with and a separate entity from the kitty cliques that live with us.   No one takes her food, no one takes her napping spot, no one messes with her because if they do she screeches a sound that sends shivers up even their backs.  They’ve learned to leave her be. So Lily lives in her own silent world, in peace and harmony with her surroundings.  She bothers no one and no one bothers her.  She is the most serene of cats and the mattiest since she doesn’t bathe and hates to be brushed.  Her favorite thing is to drink running water and when thus occupied I’m able to snip a mat here and there but if she catches on to it, woe to my hands as her lightning paw streaks back and scratches me.  She detests the scissors. Into our household cats and kittens come and go, some make friends and others try to bully.  Lily, however, ignores it all and goes about her business with quiet, silent grace.  She is, indeed, my dream kitty.

Boris & Bluebell

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 “…for every animal of the forest is mine,  and the cattle on a thousand hills.  I know every bird in the mountains, and the creatures of the field are mine.”  Psalm 50:10-12 

             He invited himself onto our apartment patio late one summer evening as we braved the hundred-degree heat to grill steaks.

            His head was boxy, his body short and taunt, and he sported scars and oil slicks around his face, neck and back.  We called him Boris and he purred his approval as he rubbed our hands.  He made no move to leave, but rather courted us, freely sharing his affection before perching atop the picnic table, tabby tail curled politely around him, blinking golden-green eyes.

            We melted. 

Bites of steak were offered and he graciously accepted.  We offered water and, again, he accepted with purrs of thanks.  His social skills extended through dinner and beyond, as he stayed just long enough to show his appreciation, and left before the conversation stalled.  We adapted our schedule to meet his, eating on the patio in anticipation of his nightly visits.

Inside our tiny apartment lived our three pampered felines, never exposed to the dangers outdoors.  They jealously watched our visitor and inhaled his scent as we moved in and out the door.  Once he left and we settled back inside, they’d come sniffling, mouths open, ears flat, eyes squinting and breathe in as much information as their noses could hold. They’d rub where he had rubbed, reclaiming us with their own familiar scent. 

            Ours weren’t the only heads that turned the day he followed us in, neatly sidestepping the gawking, hissing creatures confounded by this brazen transgression.  We watched, wondering, waiting.  His movements seemed determined, planned, as if he knew what he was doing and meant to do it, willy-nilly.

The housecats fled to lick away their disgust in places of safety – the open closet, the bookcase headboard, and as far back on the bathroom vanity as possible.  Snarling as he approached, they hunkered in horror.

He ignored them.  He didn’t care for their approval or acceptance.  He was on a mission padding grandly from room to room, sniffing, seeking, golden-green eyes taking in everything before returning without a word to the glass door where he asked with a startlingly high-pitched mew to go back out. Amused, both by the improbable sound from this street-wise tom and by his inspection of our home, we wondered how we measured up and what would happen next.

She sailed with him, side by side, over the patio wall, landing with as much grace as her swollen belly allowed.  Blue-green eyes watched us warily, but he took his place beside her, rubbing against her then rubbing against us.  It’s okay, he seemed to say, blinking at her. 

Obviously, this was his lady.

We hastily responded, offering a can of cat food to the mother to be, not even surprised when he allowed her to eat her fill before finishing the treat.  She was loathe to have us touch her, yet submitted to a quick pet, lowering her body as close to the table as possible to avoid our hand.  Boris, however, was grateful.  A rub, a weave, a tiny mew of thanks, and they were off, over the fence, leaving us speechless and the inside cats in a frenzy of excitement. 

            We called her Bluebell.  There was something beautiful yet sorrowful about this homely white cat with gray tabby patches.

            From then, they came together each day over the patio fence, Bluebell struggling as her body grew larger.  There wasn’t a gate or we would’ve opened it, and when we offered the front door, she backed away.  The patio was the only acceptable entry, so we prepared a birthing box and left it there, not sure if she would use it, but hopeful she would.

            As we fed them one evening we were surprised when Boris pushed his paws against the glass door and began a scratch, scratch, scratch motion.  He had only been inside once and that had seemed enough.  He’d never asked to go in again. 

We opened the door and he trotted in, Bluebell wobbling beside him.  He led her to the food dish and water bowl then the litter box while we watched, open mouthed, shushing our indoor kitties that backed into corners and hissed their disdain at this new intruder. 

Bluebell sat plump in the middle of the living room with Boris beside her, his golden-green eyes finding ours and holding them steady.

We brought the birthing box inside.

Blinking his approval, rubbing through our legs, Boris went to the door, but Bluebell remained, turning her head toward him as if saying good-bye.  We let him out, stood by the door to see if she’d follow.  She stood and looked hard toward the door before waddling to the birthing box, oblivious to the protests of our own cats.   Boris leapt the patio fence, leaving his beloved safely in our care.

Four tiny kittens were born the next day.  Bluebell serenely lay back and suckled them, bathing each in turn, leaving them only to eat, drink or use the litter.  We admonished our own cats to leave them alone, but there was no need.  Bluebell was a protective mother, snarling her threats when one wandered too near.  With us, however, she was tolerant, allowing us to cuddle and stroke, pet and hold the squirming fur balls in her box.  She accepted our affection, our food, and our shelter, but her heart wasn’t in it. 

Her blue-green orbs lit only in the evenings when Boris sailed clear of the fence and landed smartly on the patio table.  She’d abandon her babies and race to the door, insisting with a shrill meow to be let out.  At first we were afraid she’d leave and never return, but her distress and agitation at seeing Boris and being unable to get to him was real, as was his.  We opened the door and were treated to the sight of lovers reunited.

They touched noses, rubbed against each other, bathed one another, shared the dish of food set out.  After fifteen minutes or so, he cleanly leapt the fence and she sat beside the door looking in.  We quickly opened it and she returned to her kittens.

Bluebell was a firm mother, not over warm, yet never nasty to her growing, rowdy children with teeth that bit nipples and claws that dug into the soft flesh of her belly.  She played with them, showed them how to lap the baby food oatmeal mixed with water and milk that we set out for them to try.  Little curtain climbers, the babies were strong, healthy, remarkably beautiful, and unlike their mother, entirely tame, seeking us out for a romp or falling asleep nestled on our shoulders or laps.  When she wanted them back in the box, she’d mmmrrrruuuppph and they’d run to her, or she’d leap upon them and grab them by their napes, dragging protesting kittens back to the box. 

Boris and Bluebell continued their nightly trysts and when the kittens were three weeks old, she began to go with him when he left, returning within the hour and asking to come back in.  It wasn’t our affection that held her, and we sensed that though we had fallen in love with her, she was merely doing what was best for her kittens.  We had been chosen to act as temporary shelter and provision in this play of life orchestrated by an urbane tom smattered with car grease and war wounds.  In a way, it was surreal.

Eyes open, eating kitten chow and spending more and more time away from their mom, the kittens prospered, blending with our cats, even enticing them into play at times.  Bluebell observed without joining in, ever maintaining her aloofness.  She spent more time with Boris now, he coming earlier, both staying away longer. We’d rub his chin and neck and he purr his gratitude for all we did, sometimes squeaking a word of thanks.  Bluebell once or twice offered a brief rub.  Her heart belonged to Boris and we knew it. Certain she’d never desert her babies, we remained comfortable letting her go, watchful for her return.

Then it happened.   

We scoured the apartment complex, put out food that remained untouched, and asked everyone if they’d seen “our” two strays.  Some recalled seeing them heading towards an empty field but couldn’t remember for certain.  We checked the animal shelters, the pound, the pet notices, and even the dead animal pick up to no avail.  As the weeks passed without a sight or hint of them, and the food was clearly uneaten, we realized the truth.

Boris and Bluebell had left by choice, and they left the kittens to us. 

We found homes for all except the one, Pumpkin, who remained a precious reminder of her parents with a loving, giving, graceful, gentle spirit housed in a plain, homely, package. 

Twenty-three years have passed yet the memory and mystery of Boris and Bluebell lingers along with a question. Did these cats truly plan their own form of open adoption? 

We do believe by their deliberate actions they chose us for their offspring.  They sought something better, safer than they could offer.  They weren’t looking for personal gain, but rather they offered us the sweetest portion of their love.  And it may sound silly, but we believe they trusted us to honor their gift and understand the sacrifice they made wasn’t selfish or neglectful, but thoughtful and loving. 

I like to think they listened to the voice of their Creator and allowed us a bittersweet glimpse of God’s care for all creatures, great, small, scaled, feathered, or furry.  And I like to think He chose us for them as much as He chose them for us because two years later, our lives were touched by the adoption of our oldest son. 

Two a.m. Cat Attack

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The thundering thud of sixteen kitten paws, our latest rescue litter, chasing gleefully on hardwood floors is louder than you’d expect, and when in the throes of a semi-deep sleep, rather shocking.   Who knew cute, furry kittens could be so loud?    They easily challenge the sleep deranged mind to think, “Wild horses? In my house?!”

Being awakened by felines in the middle of night, or as in this case, the wee hours of the morning, is nothing new.

Shortly after we were married, Mike and I adopted two kittens.  We had set out to find one, a perfectly white piece of purring fluff, but our first encounter at a pet shop was a tiny, black, hyperactive dustball that swiped our fingers and mewed shamelessly until we plopped down the ten dollars and walked out with her nestled in my arms, now quiet and content as if to say, “HA!”  We named her Popcorn because once home, she bounded up and down the sofa, up and down the bed, up and down the curtains, and up and down our legs.

Surmising our adorable little romp would allow the drapes to live and our legs to heal if given the opportunity to pounce someone her own size, we began anew to find a solid white kitten and happened upon the sweetest looking pink and white face we’d ever seen.  Awwwww.  We named her Butter and brought her home to meet her new sister. 

Whatever Butter may have been before, her new mission was to fervently follow Popcorn’s lead as top cat.  We would hear them winding up down the hallway in the middle of the night, two race cars, burning rubber in their attempt to be first up onto the bed and create claw-baring havoc as they did brodies on the bedspread with us underneath.  It became second nature to subconsciously hear them coming and pull the covers over our heads as they leapt with feline abandon and accuracy into the center of our stomachs. 

Now, my husband is a dreamer, and I mean that in the most literal sense.  He wakes up every morning and tells me the wildest dreams imaginable, like being captain of a submarine transporting cattle to another island, or having to put the addresses of an entire city’s newspaper route in alpha-numeric order before sunrise, or saving the world from a mutant tea bag that absorbed people into it’s little paper sack to be steeped into oblivion.  Strange things no one would expect from a mild-mannered, mellow introvert, yet I did wonder at times if I’d married a spy or a televison producer when the stories reached epic proportions.

Thus it was that one night I was awakened not to the clatter of kitty paws but the feel of struggling fur emitting terrified yowls while being smacked against my head!  As I opened my eyes to see what was attacking me, I encountered a look of utter confusion and horror on my white kitten’s precious face.

“Michael!!!  Wake up, you idiot! You’re beating me with Butter!”

After a few slaps at his own head with my bare  hand, he let go of Butter who darted off to the safety of anywhere away from the mad, mad man who had the audacity to scruff and use her against the head of the hand that fed her.  Mike immediately fell back into what I assumed was a dreamless state of sleep since I incurred no more cat attacks that night.

“Just what did you dream last night?”  I asked over coffee the next morning.

“Oh.  I had found a treasure map and it led to a cave somewhere in the Himalayas and as soon as I figured out where to start digging a group of monkeys came in with banana splits.  We sat at the bar that lined the wall of the cave and ate while we listened to the jukebox and then suddenly the music stopped.  The monkeys deserted me and I heard this rumbling noise so I picked up a big rock that was on the cave floor and as I did, a giant spider, like the one in Star Wars, tried to get me.  I smashed at it again and again with the rock and I don’t remember any more because something woke me up.”  He rubbed Popcorn’s chin and nodded to Butter who maintained a room’s-length distance from him while she simultaneously bathed her spotless coat and threw disgusting looks at him.  “What’s the matter with Butter?”

I pushed my bangs aside to reveal the slight claw marks across my brow.  “You’re the matter with Butter.  She was your rock and I was your Spider.”

His face underwent several colorations from pale to red to gray to pale.  He put a hand to my forehead and closely surveyed the measly damage before turning a look of remorse upon our angel kitten who promptly turned her back and commenced washing.  “Poor Butter!”