A good friend of mine is a Cat compatriot and has a couple stories you may enjoy:
MOMO
The neighborhood was fairly quiet until MoMo arrived. It wasn’t that there wasn’t trouble before, but it was a reasonable kind of trouble, the kind we all expected and understood. MoMo changed all that. He was a huge black bastard with these yellow eyes that cut into you like barbed wire. And the cat was mean. The first real sign of it was the afternoon he tore the ears off Friendly. And poor Friendly was old. Sure he was a little crazy and a blonde, but there was no reason for what MoMo did. They had Friendly in ER for something like two days trying to get his ears back on. After that I tried to stay clear of MoMo, but I knew eventually something bad would happen. The feeling just sat there in my gut like a dead mouse.
That was the winter the Witch about starved me. She was mean in a different way than MoMo. I had to leave her—not that there was anything in the relationship worth saving. You have to accept those things sometimes and just move on, hard as it might be. Of course it was the coldest winter I could remember and finding a new place wasn’t so easy. I was jittery then, couldn’t let anyone touch me, which didn’t help. Part of my problem was my stay with the Witch, and then I guess the lack of food and the ice and snow had me in rough shape, much as I hate to admit it.
Eventually I found a place. Not perfect by any means, but the food was good and regular. Everything seems to have its drawbacks. The worst part was this guy named Lenny who lived there. Another blonde—big and handsome on top of it. He hated me right from the get-go. Chased me every chance he got. I’m small, I know that, but I’m also fast, so the chasing wasn’t the biggest issue. It was that Lenny would attack me when I was sleeping, and I needed my sleep. I was getting worse every day. I had to do something or I mighta lost everything, been out on the street again, freezing, with MoMo circling. Besides, there was the lovely Neffy. She lived there too. Always dressed in this formal tuxedo get-up, she drove me completely batty, though I knew she was way high born for a street guy like me. But that tongue. She used it on Lenny. She’d just lick and lick and lick. I wanted some of that, but with Lenny around I knew I was just dreaming. She was crazy about him for some reason. Blondes!
Here’s what I did.
I knew They were touchy about the house. I learned the hard way one morning when He came downstairs, walking kind of crooked and rubbing his temples. I tried to steer him away from it. Really, I did. But His bare foot stepped right in it, and He went sailing into a table covered in Her china. I thought it was the end of me. I shivered outside all day until They finally let me back in. It was a horrible day, but I learned something.
The next day, Lenny and me are alone. Lenny gets ready to pounce as per his usual, but this time—though I’m terrified—I stare him down and lift my tail as if to spray. Now things aren’t as they were before the operation, but something still comes out. Lenny’s so dumb I don’t think he’s noticed the difference. He sprays bushes, trees, anything outside with the abandon of a stud. So he watches me do the dance, watches me make my pathetic little wet spot. Of course Lenny has to show me how it’s done, and sprays a nice yellow stream right in the same place but way higher than I ever could. Proud of it too. I repeat this, choosing my spots carefully—antique wallpaper, the fancy sofa, His carefully stacked electric trains under the stairs.
The next day They threw Lenny into the basement and slammed the door.
Neffy knew something was up. Man my heart was pounding as I crept up to her. But she took one sniff and sauntered by me like I didn’t exist, tail high in the air. Hey, if it took time, it took time. I was willing.
It looked like Lenny was finished. Outside all day, sleeping in the basement at night, crying at the cellar door till his food was shoved in without so much as a scratch or a word. I figured he was done. But after a few days They let him back up. He has the lion head and the soulful eyes. Gets Them every time. Blondes! Neffy got the tongue all going again and I thought I’d just die.
The weather warmed a bit and we were put outside more. MoMo noticed and started coming around. I felt like he was drilling me with his barbed-wire eyes. It was worse than the vet. Much. I had to do something. “Lenny,” I said. “MoMo’s a poser. I bet you could take him.”
Lenny pounces, I run. It’s hard to get that cat into a conversation.
But I kept working on him. “Neffy would be so proud of you. She’d lick you more than ever. Think how They’d love you more too. See the way He chases MoMo? He hates him. You’re almost as big as MoMo, and you’re a bunch smarter. Try it, Lenny, try it, Lenny.” It was like talking to a dead mouse.
Then I got the break I needed. They gave us something. It came in the form of a stick just like He sometimes puts in His mouth. But bigger around, mouse-colored, and no smoke. Except in Lenny’s head. Blonde boy went bats over this thing—chewing, purring, tail straight up in the air with this crazy kink. He nuzzled and licked it. I could tell it twisted his brain. Once when no one was around, I took a sniff and a little nip and felt the pull. I just said No. I needed my mind for other things. But Lenny? Suddenly Lenny thought he could take MoMo. Don’t know where he got the idea.
A day later They find a big pile of blonde fur. Rescue parties are dispatched and Lenny’s name is ringing throughout the neighborhood. Neffy is perched at the window and stares out. And then, a few hours later, Lenny limps in. He’s bleeding badly and looking even dumber than usual. Of course, They start cooing all over him. They’ve never been happier to see anyone. They put some shiny stuff on the gash and bind up his leg. Damn if Lenny doesn’t start hobbling around the yard, dragging his white leg, shaking it fiercely ever so often, looking like a hero. And Neffy? She’s in tow, tongue at the ready. I hid under the porch to think things over.
And then it happened.
I’m outside, sniffing along my route, scratching up a few trees, minding my own business. I hear something. Look up. Turn around slowly. Those eyes are cutting right into my heart, and the thing’s pounding like a trapped mouse. My legs start to buckle.
“MoMo!” I say, but it sounds like “Meow” I’m so scared.
Nothing. He just glares.
“Nice day out?”
Still nothing.
“Can I get you a mouse, or something?”
That does it. He lunges.
I run as fast as I can, but I can feel him right behind me. I don’t know what to do. He’s gaining. Then I see a culvert. I shoot into the narrow opening. MoMo follows. I hear his claws sliding on the metal. I squeeze along in the blackness, icy water biting my paws and stomach. I crawl out the other side. Run for my spot under the porch, and lie there panting. Now I know how a mouse feels. I wait. And wait. No MoMo. Finally I hear the supper whistle and scramble for the door. The house has never felt so good.
Night scuttles in like a dark mouse to a hole.
In the morning I hear calling. All day long the other Theys are searching for him. Even our Theys get involved. Lenny is being ignored no matter how much he shakes his bandaged leg. Neffy just seems nervous. Highborn blood is like that. I sidled up to her but she just hissed, so I trudged off. She’d know soon enough.
But you won’t believe what I did. I know it was dumb, but when I got to thinking about MoMo stuck in that cold wet place with no food, I just couldn’t stand it. Really. You try it some time. That evening I rubbed against Him out in the yard and tried desperately to explain. As usual He didn’t understand a word but eventually he followed me. I led Him to the culvert and He heard the cries. He ran back to the house and I thought MoMo was a goner. But then lots of loud trucks arrived and more and more Theys. It was night by the time MoMo was pulled out of the culvert. He was all wet, matted fur and troubled cries, but the neighbor Theys cooed over him anyway. It seemed hard to believe anyone could care that much about MoMo, but there you have it. I stood around waiting, but no one said a thing to me. Maybe They didn’t notice me in the dark? I slunk off to my spot under the porch and lay there like a dead mouse.
So here’s how it ended.
MoMo’s still in the neighborhood. But guess what? He’s terrified of me. Actually, if I got to be truthful, MoMo is terrified of everything. Who woulda thought it? And Lenny? He’s still just a big dumb blonde. He gives me a chase now and then, or he licks my ear occasionally when he’s really bored. I let him not to be difficult, though I imagine his tongue is nothing like hers. And Neffy. I bet you want to know about her. Well, she’s still after Lenny. She gives me a look now and then, but I can tell. Blondes!
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CATS, DRUNKS, AND MOVING NORTH
When I first met Lenny he was staring at me through a screen door. His huge yellow eyes seemed wise, bulging with soulful meaning as if he could read my thoughts and was willing to solve all my problems if I only gave him the chance. As it turned out, Lenny was as dumb as a pounded post. He lived next door, and after that first tender encounter through the screen, it was soon apparent what his meaning was. He’d decided to move in with me. His owners had bought a dog, and Lenny was terrified of everything, let alone something as validly worrisome as a large slobbering mutt.
After a settlement had been reached with the neighbors, Lenny arrived. His fur was a ragged blond carpet, his face reminded me of a heavy drinker—the red nose and glazed eyes, so I nicknamed him “The Irish drunk.” His legs were spindly, paws tiny, the tail crooked and thin as one of those weather indicating sticks. He wasn’t much of a bargain.
His truly unique feature was his voice, a roosterish cry that he insisted on flaunting every morning at dawn, pacing through the house, achieving decibels unusual for a cat. “Meer-reet-a-reear!” (A written phonetic impossibility.) This outcry became his only trick. I would gently squeeze the tip of his tail between my fingers; he would bellow, and I’d laugh. Then he’d strut off very pleased with himself.
Lenny loved butter papers. Whenever it was time for a fresh stick, I’d set the waxed wrapper on the kitchen floor, and he’d herd it all around the room, licking the buttery residue. Then he’d clean his face, his tongue lolling extravagantly up each side as far as his whiskers.
He was the funniest animal I’ve ever been around, which makes up for so much in life.
It took my other cat, a black female, not that long to accept him into the household, and they would curl up together in the cat basket on cold nights, the two forming a furry yin-yang symbol. For a couple years, besides the dawn roosterings, things with the cats were fairly peaceful. Then during a January subzero spell, I noticed a small gray cat on my porch.
My house must be marked, the way hobos used to chalk residences that could be counted on for an easy handout. I set out water and food, but the water kept freezing and the food remained untouched. The cat wouldn’t allow me to approach even though it looked near dead. On the second night I managed to corner and grab him—it was like picking up a bird’s nest—and I got him into the basement without being scratched too deeply. After hiding for days, the little gray guy began to eat; then after a week he even ventured up the cellar stairs. Well, Lenny had a fit.
Lenny was an exceptionally timid animal, running and cowering from any strange noise (thunder turned him into a shuddering bundle of flying fur, the leaf-sucker truck comatosed him), but he hissed violently at the new guest. However, that wasn’t the problem. The issue was that Lenny, though neutered, suddenly decided to start spraying. And he didn’t just choose the spots arbitrarily, instead he soaked the things I valued most: rare antique wallpaper, my only hand-knotted rug, my motorcycle, my vintage Lionel train transformer which was severely rusted by the time I discovered the damage. There must be something unusually corrosive in cat urine.
And the gray guy? He sprayed right back.
The house was downgraded into an olfactory nightmare, not to mention the required cleaning and repair time. But after a few weeks, Lenny had the solution. He decided to move north again. My neighbors on the other side, the Shaws, accepted him in the same way I had. Lenny was difficult to resist when he first stared at you, that magical expression in which you found exactly what you desired. Not a bad gift.
This last move, however, turned out to be his demise. The Shaw residence served unlimited dry food to their other cat, an ancient blond who ignored Lenny completely and understood moderation. Lenny didn’t, and within a few months he’d ballooned, adding five pounds to his scrawny frame. The Shaws immediately put him on a diet, but Lenny had uncanny ways of stealing snacks, and his increased weight was probably what led to the health problems.
Almost a year later, when his diabetes was exponential and there wasn’t any hope left for his suffering, I told the Shaws I’d take Lenny for that final ride. In the designated room, the florescent lights glaring, I held him and talked to him for a long while. I gently pinched his tail one last time, but after a moment I knew his last rooster cry was behind him. He stared up at me, and his famous eyes looked exhausted. When the vet came in, I nodded, and more quickly than I ever imagined, Lenny was lifeless in my arms.
Lenny! I raise my beer to him on occasion, and I’ve told my girlfriend some of the stories. It amazes me how attached we can become to pets. Though all cats have similarities, it’s the distinct personalities, those unique qualities that get inside us, and we miss them terribly when they’re gone. And old Lenny—I imagine him padding across the room towards me on those spindly legs, that red nose, voice ready—he was the funniest of the lot.
