POST # 148: A CAT’S TALE

A couple of months ago I acquired a new cat. Her name is Ellie and she is a beautiful spotted Calico, white with splotches of caramel and black. I’ve owned cats for over four decades but just assumed that the cat who died about four years ago, was my final feline.  When I was in my early twenties and still living at home, I asked my mother if I could have a cat. Intuiting my underlying motivation she said: “Get yourself one on two legs.” And I eventually did, a 6’3, 230 pound cat followed by three, two-legged kittens, eager to be cuddled and stroked, like cats. When we moved to a house in the country the children begged for a cat so I answered an ad in the local Shopper offering “free kittens.” I had never owned a pet before and nervously asked if I would have a problem raising it. The cat owner, noting my litter, laughed ”If you can raise three children, you can definitely handle a kitten.”

And so began a long line of cats, mostly offspring of Puma, my best friend Dina’s coal-black Persian who produced two to three litters a year.  Dina had a foolproof method of insuring that Puma’s kittens would be adoptable. She interviewed all Puma’s suitors when they came to call, enticing the good-looking studs while chasing away the uglies. We ended up with two of them, long-furred beauties named “Cat Stevens” (after the rock star who lived up the road) and “Paws” (huge white paws.)

 The last of our family cats was a domestic shorthair, Lily, beautiful but feral. She never allowed anyone to pick her up; you could only stroke her at arm’s length. In fact, we never could get her to the vet in the 21 years we owned her.  “The Vet? Not me!” and she would disappear for days until we gave up and put the cat carrier back in the attic. However, she was there for me when I needed her after my husband died, and, in gratitude, I do not begrudge her all those years of Friskies. After Sam’s death, I would frequently wake in the middle of the night, crying. She would hear me no matter where she was, rush to my bed, climb in next to me and put her head under my hand so I could stroke her until I calmed down and went back to sleep. Then she would leave, her job done.

After Lily died, a decided I didn’t want another cat. Too much work. And besides, given my age, what would happen to it if I died or got sick, My friend Meg offered to take the cat if the time came when I couldn’t care for it and another friend told me about a non-profit cat adoption service a “saintly” woman runs out of her house in Springdale. It’s like a matchmaking service, okCupid for cats. After you contact her, she e-mails you photos of the cats she has for adoption. You pick the one or ones you might be interested in and she will bring them to your house to see if you are “compatible.” I chose Ellie from a half dozen prospects; she came to visit and ended up staying, the best, most intelligent and loving cat I have ever had, a perfect studio companion, napping inside a gilt frame on the drafting table, watching me while I paint.

She and I recently had a battle royal over whether or not she could go outside. It seems my next door neighbor was accusing her of leaving paw prints on the top of his cherished Mercedes convertible. He said that if she scratched the cloth top he was going to make me pay $6,000 for a new one. Apparently, he had already called the police about her and next time he saw her on his property, he would tell them to cart her off to the Animal Shelter He also informed me that he owned a gun for protection against “burglars” (was he referring to my cat?)

Like it or not, Ellie is now an unhappy “indoor” cat, constantly racing me to the door begging to be let out. We’re just both going to have to live with that. If I only could train her to critique my art work, things would be perfect!

Paw up (painting good). Paw down (get the turpentine.)

Renee Kahn