Cat Stories: Stalker Cat

Never say that cats don't know how we feel.

Sylvester was an energetic, fun-loving, half Siamese black and white cat. He looked so much like the well-loved cartoon character that his name can naturally. No one really remembered who named the cat, but his young mistress took all the credit.

This particular cat had a bit of an attitude. He had his favorite people, much like anyone, and he had an odd way of showing it. Sylvester took an instant liking to his mistress's Grandmother. The feeling was not mutual, as Grandma was more of a dog person. Still, she treated the young cat well and even brought him treats once in a while. The treats went a long way to making Sylvester love Grandma, and he started to pester her whenever she came over.

Grandma, not wanting to encourage the cat, decided to ignore him. This didn't please Sylvester at all. One day, when Grandma came for a visit, Sylvester decided he'd either get her attention or get even. He didn't much care which. After the obligatory round of hugs and kisses, Grandma took a seat in the kitchen, selecting the chair nearest the refrigerator.

Sylvester immediately hopped on top of the fridge and perched like a hawk. He hovered over her, fixing her with a stare that was nothing short of predatory. This continued for the better part of two hours.

Finally, Grandma couldn't take it anymore. "Stop it." She didn't yell, she didn't scold him, just make her statement firmly. Then she went back to the conversation she'd been having with her daughter and granddaughter.

It had no effect on the precocious cat. He continued to stare, unblinking, trying to unnerve her. Grandma started to shift in her chair as the weight of his gaze came to rest on her shoulders.

"Stop it." This time she looked directly at him.

If a cat could smile, Sylvester (or Vesser, as we called him) did. Instead of listening to her, he shuffled forward until he was almost falling off the fridge.

Eventually, Grandma just couldn't take it anymore. She got up and went to the other side of the table, the side nearest the microwave. The microwave sat on a counter, and above the microwave was a cabinet. There was no more than four inches of space between the microwave and the cabinet.

But four inches was nothing to Vesser. He immediately leaped down from the fridge and hopped onto the counter. He slithered into the space between the cabinet and the microwave, wedging himself in there. He inched forward until he was once again hovering over Grandma. The height might have been less, but he still managed to inspire discomfort on the part of his victim.

It wasn't long before Grandma turned to the hovering cat and cried, "What do you want?"

Vesser flew off the microwave and landed lightly on her lap. He placed his delicate paws on her chest and lifted his head toward her. After staring intently into her eyes for several long moments, Sylvester licked her nose once and cuddled his head under her chin. A few moments passed before Grandma put her arms around the purring feline.

"Is this what he wanted?" she asked incredulously.

The cat's young mistress spoke up. "Of course, Grandma. He just wants you to love him, and to make him the center of the world." The young girl smiled. "He is a cat, after all."

Grandma laughed and held Vesser tightly. "Maybe I am a cat person after all." The cat started to knead her with his white paws. "Imagine that, after all these years."

Mistress, Mom, and Grandma all laughed at each other as the rambunctious cat nibbled Grandma's chin.

Cat Stories: Long-Lost Taffy

It's been months since I posted anything other than articles relating to cat breeds, cat care, and cat anatomy. So I thought I'd mix things up a bit and post a story about a cat I once had when i was a kid. Well, sort of had. Her name was Taffy and she came from a farm not far away from us. She was an excellent mouser, scared off dogs, and was sweet and affectionate with us kids. She also produced a litter of kittens every summer to our delight.

But as she got older, Taffy started to disappear. At first, she'd only be gone for a week or so. Maybe two weeks. But time marched on and she'd be gone for weeks at a time. We'd worry, but she always came back, and always in one piece.

Finally, she wandered into the field one spring just before the snow melted and this time she didn't come back. We watched for her for weeks, but as the snow faded away and the flowers began to bloom, we finally gave up hope. My two sisters and I cried over her, assuming that she'd been killed during her wanderings. Perhaps she'd been hit on the road or eaten by a coyote. Or maybe a cougar as one had been spotted in the area. Whatever had happened to her, we were sure we'd never see her again. So sure that we held a little funeral, as little girls are wont to do, attended by our others cats, our dogs, and our horses. Most of our stuffed animals were there as well. It was a moving and depressing spring afternoon.

Time moved, as it always does, and while we grieved for our lost feline friend, the summer soon washed over us. We found ourselves running in the fields and tearing through the garden without a care in the world. July melted away and August was in full bloom with a heat wave upon us as we had a picnic out in the hay field. The sun beat down as we drank lemonade and caught grasshoppers. The afternoon wore on and we eventually packed our basket so we could head back to the house.

As we gathered up the picnic blankets, a sound floated over the field. At first we thought it was one of the barn cats wandering out into the field to hunt. But my older sister happened to glance over her shoulder and she suddenly turned, focusing on the distant grasses.

"Look," she whispered to no one in particular.

My younger sister and I did, straining to see what she saw. The sound came again and a flash of beige fur caught our attention. We caught our breath as if we were one person. The sound. The flash. I was the first one to speak, though I'm sure we all recognized her.

"Taffy!" I squealed the way only a little girl can.

We all started running toward the cat who was leaping through the field, heading toward us will all possible speed. We abandoned the basket and blankets as we fell to our knees and cuddled her to us, thankful that our little sweetheart was back in our arms. But she was different, and we'd seen her in this state often enough to understand.

"She's pregnant," I stated, running my hands over her swollen belly.

"Not just pregnant," my older sister replied. "She'd having her kittens. Right now."

We didn't waste any more time. My older sister bundled her up in her sweater and we all but ran back to the house. My mother saw us coming and pulled open the door, ushering us into the house while firing questions at my older sister.

"Mom, not now," she replied quickly. "Taffy's having kittens."

"Again?" My mother rolled her eyes as she said this, for Taffy had indeed blessed us with a litter every summer for the past four years.

No one answered as Taffy squirmed in my sister's arms and finally sank her teeth into the exposed flesh of my sister's hand to gain her freedom. Without any hesitation at all, Taffy ran to the back of the house and down the stairs to the basement. We, excited little girls that we were, dashed down the stairs after her.

At the time, all three of us had cute little rooms in the basement. It was an old farmhouse and didn't have central air conditioning, so it was much cooler in the basement during the summer heat waves. Taffy, being familiar with the bedrooms that had been set up only a year before, headed straight to my bedroom. Why my room? Because I had this habit of never pushing the draws shut on my dresser.

Taffy took a flying leap into the first open drawer, the one that held my socks and underwear. She moved around for several minutes and finally settled herself on my cotton panties, fluffing them up and making herself a cozy little nest. Not five minutes later, the first of four kittens squirmed his way into the world.

We'd seen it before, this cat giving birth to anywhere from one to four kittens. But it was still  miracle, still made us shut our mouths and watch with wonder. These kittens were larger than normal and had little tuffs of fur on their ears, but they were still sweet little bundles of joy. We smiled as Taffy cleaned them up and revealed their sleek fur.

It would be the last litter of kittens Taffy had at our home. But that's another story ...

Cats and Spider Bites: The Black Widow Spider Bite

Anyone who knows me knows that my cat Magick gets himself into a lot of trouble. This past summer was no exception. He stuck his head into the BBQ and has no whiskers (and is missing a fair bit of hair). He fell off the roof and fractured a couple ribs (no, he hasn't figured out how to land on all fours). And he got himself bit by a black widow spider.

Black widows are black spiders with a red hourglass on the belly ranging from 1/2 inch to 1 inch long. They tend to like the warmer areas of North America, but they can be found as far north as Canada (unfortunately, at least for my poor Magick). They like to make their homes in dark crevice-like holes such as woodpiles, which is where Magick found one. They are not aggressive, but they will bite when threatened, or when an unsuspecting cat steps into a nest. As a result, a cat is more likely to be bitted on the leg than anywhere else. And the black widow spider has a poisonous bite.

So, what do you do if your cat has been bitten by a black widow spider? To start with, don't think you can treat it yourself. Keep the cat quiet and calm and head to your veterinarian immediately. Do not place a tourniquet above the bite. Doing this will not prevent the vemon from spreading and you may cut off necessary circulation to the affected area.

There is currently no blood test to detect the venom of the black widow spider, so your vet will make an assessment based on symptoms. Some of the signs to look for will include:

• Extreme pain in the area around the bite
• Nausea or vomitting
• Swelling in the affected area
• Muscule tremors
• Rigid muscles
• Paralysis
• Spasms
• Difficulty breathing

The bite of a black widow can kill, usually by paralysing the muscles that control your cat's ability to breathe. Luckily, your vet can administer medication that can relax the muscles and allow the cat to breathe, just as my own vet did for Magick. Your vet may also want to give your cat IV fluids and keep him or her for observation. While there is an antidote available for humans, it is very expensive, so expensive that most people cannot afford to have their vet obtain a dose suitable for a cat.

I was lucky. Magick survived his bite, though a full recovery took quite some time. Many cats do not fare so well, even with treatment. Their small size makes them more likely to die from a black widow bite than a large dog.

Your best bet is to prevent a bite in the first place. Examine your yard for any evidence of black widow spiders. If you find any, hire an exterminator to eliminate them. You can take care of the problem yourself, but be careful. Remember that black widow vemon is toxic to humans as well.

Cat Stories: My Mysterious Cat

I know that I usually post useful information on cat breeds, or kittens, or whatever else might help my readers. However, today, I decided to do something a little different. Today, I thought I’d share one of my recent experiences with my cat, a cat who is so full of contradictions, difficult to predict … and yet I love him.

I spent some time the other day observing my own feline companion, Magick, and he never ceases to amaze me. Black as night, with a long tail that’s kinked at the end, he moves with such stealth that I don’t even know he’s there until he wants me to. Then he sits there, staring up at me with his glittering yellow eyes, and he says a single word — “Meow.”

Like all cats, he expects me to know the meaning of this single sound immediately, for he turns and walks about, never glancing back. At this point, I am supposed to immediately comply with his demand. The problem is, I don’t know what that demand is.

 

Magick likes to be mysterious, and I’m sure he’s laughing on the inside as I try to decipher his meaning. I go through the motions, and if he could speak, the conversation would have gone something like this:

 

Me: “Food?”

 

Magick: “No, I ate already.”

 

Me: “Outside?”

 

Magick: “Are you kidding? It’s 40 below!?”

 

Me: “A scratch?”

 

Magick: “Don’t touch me.”

 

After several minutes I look him in the eye and declare, “I just don’t know what you want, buddy.”

 

Taking pity on poor, confused me, he walks to the fridge. I open it an he paws at the container of leftover spaghetti. How silly of me. Not cat food. Spaghetti. All cat loves spaghetti. Don’t they?

 

A piece of advice: When choosing a kitten, never go for the innocent-looking ones with kinked tails. They torment you later in life.

 

Magick definitely has me trained.