Tell ya what…I will never assume that something someone says to me is an exaggeration just because I can’t imagine it. I am reformed.
When we got Ella and Patrick from Club Linda, she told me that when these two were approached by another cat, they would “scream and run”. I even mentioned that in a previous entry. But I didn’t take her seriously. I thought she was…well…exaggerating.
She wasn’t.
This morning, I was peacefully sleeping when I was awakened by a literal, actual scream. With throat vibrato and all. This scream was followed by DaBoy yelling, “Oh, I’m sorry!” Not what you want to hear first thing in the morning.
So I hollered, “What the hell was that?”
DaBoy said, “I accidentally stepped on a cat! I couldn’t see in the dark, and there was a cat and I stepped on it. I’m sorry, cat!”
I got out of bed and asked, “Well, how hard did you step? Which cat was it? Is it okay?”
“I don’t know,” he said miserably. “I didn’t step hard, but it sounded like I did. I see Patrick.”
“Okay, go apologize,” I instructed. “Just in case he was the one you stepped on.”
“I don’t want to go near him,” my son informed me. “That scared the hell out of me.”
“You’re not the only one,” I said, coming out of my room. I could see both cats, both seemed fine. I watched them for a while, but they weren’t limping, skittish or acting as though screaming like that was in any way unusual or memorable.
Randy, who had been in the shower for this excitement, came out of the bathroom at this juncture and stopped, surprised to see DaBoy and I standing in the hallway. I told him what happened, and he growled, “It was probably Patrick.”
“What makes you say that?” I asked, following him downstairs.
My husband turned a wide-eyed look of shock at me. “You mean to tell me that you really don’t know?” he asked incredulously.
“Well…I guess I do. I mean, I don’t. I do - oh, for heaven’s sake! What are you talking about?”
“Patrick!” He shouted, glaring at the cat, who was rubbing himself against DaBoy’s ankles. DaBoy recoiled, remembering just in time not to move his feet.
“What are you yelling about?” I demanded.
“Patrick kept me up half the night,” Randy explained with a slightly lower volume.
“Oh.” DaBoy said.
“He sat outside our door howling,” Randy continued with a look of loathing.
“He does that every night,” I volunteered.
“Not like last night,” Randy stated challengingly.
“Okay…”
“He would have been soaking wet if I’d had the spray bottle,” said my warm-hearted, kindly loved one.
I didn’t tell him then that there is a spray bottle in the bedroom. I keep it right next to the door to discourage uninvited visitors - and midnight concerts. So tonight, Randy took the uber-spray bottle upstairs to bed with him. It’s the one I use to spray a cat on the dining room table when I’m in the office. It’s got great range.
We love cats. We love cats. We love cats.
After the first cat we ever had used me as his personal chew toy, we decided to always adopt two cats at a time. To give me a fighting chance to escape.
So now we have Patrick and Ella. There are pictures of them in my gallery, titled “PandE” or something like that.
Getting to know them has been - and will probably continue to be - a fascinating experience.
For example, Ella can vanish and reappear at will. A week or so ago, I was standing in the kitchen watching Randy shovel snow off the deck. Ella was behind me on the other side of the kitchen. I glanced out the back door, looked back at her, and she was gone. I turned the other direction and discovered her in the living room - at the other end of the house, where she would have had to walk past me and through two rooms. You can be the only living creature in the middle of a room, turn around, look down - and there’s Ella sitting at your feet looking up at you.
She also has a thing for ice cubes. We have an ice-maker/dispenser on the freezer door. Every time we go to get ice, we hear a low thunder, and then Ella will appear in the room, sometimes blinking rapidly because she was asleep when she heard the rattle of ice cubes into your glass. You have to drop an ice cube on the floor for her, or she’ll yell at you. Once you admit defeat and drop one (Susie did the same thing, but wouldn’t accept the ice unless it fell directly from the icemaker. If you dropped it from your hand, she would look at it disdainfully and walk away), she will lick at it, causing it to slide around the room so she can chase it. Heaven knows why. Patrick doesn’t get it, either. He’ll hear her playing with the ice cube and come in to see what she’s doing. He tries to chase it, too, but he doesn’t seem to like the licking part: too cold. So he’ll retire, shaking his head, and leave her to her amusement - until the ice melts too much to slide, and then I have a little puddle on the floor that soaks through socks. Whee!
Yesterday, I got out of the shower and opened the bathroom door to vent the steam. As I was smearing conditioner through my hair, Ella arrived to demand attention. Since my hands were covered with conditioner, I couldn’t pet her, so she sat down and proceeded to go through her entire repertiore of pitiful cries to get my attention. Each meow became successively more pathetic until she was looking up at me earnestly and meowing silently. Finally unable to tolerate my giggles anymore, she left indignantly. Of course, I was attending a meeting later and had put on black slacks. She got her revenge by rubbing up against my pantlegs until I ran and hid. She KNOWS she’s a white cat. I know she does.
The other day, DaBoy was standing at the kitchen counter, munching his after-school snack. He was leaning nonchalantly on one elbow, when Ella stood up on her hind legs, reached up with her forlegs, and grabbed his butt. I am so not making that up; she’s done it to me and Randy as well. Mostly when we’re eating or preparing food for ourselves and selfishly not giving her a taste.
Patrick is less of a character than Ella, but he also has his ways. He will appear on your lap, curl up comfortably and fall instantly asleep. He can do this even when you are in the middle of changing positions, which means you may or may not be comfortable yourself. If you move, he will accomodate you easily, but try to get up and he has an opinion on the matter. Randy will very often sleep on the couch when he’s working on something late at night and is waiting for a file to download or a scan to finish. Patrick will curl up behind Randy’s knees, and when Randy tries to get up, Patrick will grab Randy’s leg with both forepaws and hang on for dear life. He looks for all the world like a kid who is fighting to hang on to his teddy bear.
The other night Randy was snoozing on the couch with Patrick behind his knees, and Ella curled up against his stomach. Patrick decided that his paws were cold, so he slipped them in between Randy’s thighs for warmth.
Ella saw them. Ella went for them.
Patrick wasn’t having any of that nonsense; he’d found a warm place for his cold little feet and damned if he was going to allow Ella to stop him. So, when she batted at his paws, he batted back without pulling his legs out from between Randy’s, and the war was on. Needless to say, it was a very short battle because the chosen battlefield uttered a warcry of his own, and vacated the area.
Patrick likes to sing. It is just karmic that we traded one howling cat for another, but that’s exactly what we did. Worse, Patrick has much more volume than Elwood could have managed on his best day, and Patrick will sit just outside our bedroom door to serenade us. At least Elwood strolled the house during his performances. Ella likes to interrogate her prisoners (toy mice) as Elwood did (must be a Siamese thing), but even she can’t reach the level of virtuosity that Patrick achieves effortlessly.
Luckily, they are starting to relax, so my bookshelves are no longer the hiding place of choice. Which is good because I’m tired of putting them back.
Well, Elwood has left the building. He’s been completely miserable since Susie Q died; depressed, neurotic and lonely. Especially lonely. He has never been a cuddly cat; we live with him on his sufferance and any attention we give him is only accepted as a king to his sycophants. But this was getting crazier by the week. In addition to sharing his waste, and giving live concerts every night - all night - he was also sleeping 20 hours out of 24. We mentioned this to my sister-in-law, who has several cats, hoping she could take him. We knew he needed a little friend, but had no idea how he would react to bringing one here - and weren’t willing to bring another cat into a life of torture.
So, my sister-in-law mentioned this problem to her mother, who is a Cat Lady. She cares for all the strays in her city (it’s a small city), and isn’t averse to taking any new ones who need homes. She called on New Year’s Day to make us an offer. It seems she had two cats who were the target for all the 12 other cats she has, and instead of defending themselves, they would literally scream and run when approached by another cat. She said she would hear that shriek and run into the room with the spray bottle, expecting to break up a fight only to see one of these cats cornered by another cat who was just sitting there staring at them. They wouldn’t fight for food, laptime, attention or anything else and as a result, they’ve spent the last three years living in a state of constant near-terror.
After sharing this story with me, she said she would take Elwood if we’d take these two cats. I paused, thinking, then asked suspiciously, “Wait…these aren’t the same two cats you were complaining about trashing your Christmas tree, are they?”
“Well, yes. But it was only because the tree was a new hiding place. Now she’s on top of the fridge, and he is on top of the bookcase.”
“Uh-huh. And you want me to bring them here to my house that is filled with breakable things?”
“They don’t break things on purpose, and you don’t have other animals to chase them. They’re so sweet; it just breaks my heart to see them wanting lovings so bad, but too scared to get it.”
“Mm-hmm. But, see, if I sent you my one cat, instead of zero cats, I’d have two.”
“Yes, but they’re lap cats. You’d get to cuddle with them! They’re just adorable, and it’s so sad, how much love they have to give and nobody to give it to. You know, you shouldn’t have to fight for love.”
“But we really don’t want any -”
“They’re declawed, fixed and did I mention how sad and adorable they are?”
So, naturally, I sighed and agreed.
Her house is a paradise for cats. They have an enclosure they can go into out in the back yard, they get their meals delivered directly to them when they first arrive, the litterbox even gets carried around, they get treats, toys and as much playtime as they could want. She doesn’t even take them to the vet for everyday ailments or shots; she does it herself. At last report, Elwood was lording it over his 12 lesser cats and three not-worthy-of-notice dogs. He graciously allows her to pet him occasionally, and is totally taking advantage of the meal delivery and litterbox transportation services. He lays in his chosen spot of the moment and waits for her to bring him food and potty. In return, he’s stopped trying to bite her but has reserved the right to hiss at her whenever he wants. He sounds very happy.
Now we have two strange cats. They’re littermates, brother and sister, both five years old. She looks like a miniature white tiger with blue eyes. He looks like your average, run of the mill gray and black striped alley cat, but supersized. Their names are Ella and Patrick. We’re assuming Ella Fitzgerald and Patrick Swayze, but could be wrong.
As soon as they got here, they promptly hid. When we went to bed, Patrick was cowering on the floor outside our bedroom door, and Ella was in the back bedroom, having found a hiding place that included a heater vent. The next morning, I woke up to hear Randy wandering aimlessly through the house. After a few minutes, I called out to ask what he was doing. He said, “I can’t find the cats.”
“How long have you been looking?” I asked, getting out of bed and pulling on my clothes.
“About half an hour,” he told me. I blinked.
“Half an hour?” I echoed. “This house isn’t all that big; are you sure you’ve looked everywhere?” I opened the bedroom door to see my husband glaring at me. “Okay,” I said hastily. “Let me get a flashlight and I’ll help you look.” So, even before I got coffee, we were searching high and low for two not-small cats. We looked behind the Love Sac, where nothing larger than a mouse could hide; we looked under furniture, behind doors, on bookcases, checked the top of the fridge, peered under desks and even yanked the blankets off an innocently sleeping DaBoy to see if he was harboring a fugitive. That part was fun.
We kept up a running commentary:
Me: Where are you going with that flashlight?
Randy: I’m checking over here.
Me: Okay, but I’m trying to see under the bar and you took the light. Why couldn’t I have my own flashlight? I hate sharing with you.
Randy: What are you doing?
Me: Checking the coffee pot, what’s it look like?
Randy: You’re going to find a cat in the coffee pot?
Me: Hey, we know where they aren’t. Doesn’t that coffee smell good? [sniff]
Randy: Go check the closet under the stairs, please.
Me: I’ve already checked that closet. There is nothing in there except coats, unless you think they’re hiding behind this screen here - oops, sorry, Ella. I found Ella!
Randy: Yay, one down. What about these bookshelves?
Me: The ones that have all the books on them, with nothing out of place, no room for a skinny rat behind them, and no books on the floor?
Randy: Is that a tail?
Me: What?
Randy: Look, behind those books. Do you see a tail? And eyes?
Me: Hokay, that’s Patrick. Good for us. Three cheers. Can I have some damned COFFEE now??
After a day or so, the cats have chosen favorites: Randy is Patrick’s, and DaBoy is Ella’s. Ella picked DaBoy first; we discovered this when I called DaBoy down for dinner and he couldn’t move because she was in his lap. She also hogs the bed, I’m told. Last night, DaBoy hollered to me for assistance. It seems that he laid down before reaching to turn off his light or pulling the blanket up and the instant he was prone, Ella appeared out of nowhere and stretched out full length on his legs from shins to thighs. She does have claws in her hind feet, so I understand his reluctance to move much.
Today I was sitting here at my desk, when into the silence, Randy’s desk chair suddenly sneezed. After restarting my heart, I saw Patrick curled up there. He steals the chair, knowing that Randy has to pick him up to sit down and then will just plop him into Randy’s lap. He ensures this by looking up at Randy with pitiful eyes. I need to learn how to do that.
Me, I’m the backup lap. I’ll be sitting here minding my own business, when suddenly, with no warning whatsoever, I have a cat in my lap. It’s rather startling. Elwood would stand there at my feet and yell at me to make room for him, and even then, he wouldn’t come up without a personal invitation. Patrick and Ella don’t wait. They see an unoccupied lap and go for it. Mostly Patrick so far, but DaBoy starts school again tomorrow, so I might be spending a lot more time with Ella, too.
Last night, I was playing a game, and Patrick jumped up on my desk, clicking my mouse for me. Unfortunately, it was in the wrong spot and I lost.
We have a lot of getting used to to do with these guys. We had Elwood and Susie from when they were 8 weeks old, so we had plenty of time to train them. Not so with these two. I foresee a lot of running through the house with a spray bottle in my future.