Cats!

I have a few posts in the works, one explaining where I've been hiding for the past five days, and some other fun things; but one of our cats just ruined my mood, so it will have to wait until tomorrow.

See, we had just gotten home from tee ball, tired, dusty, and thirsty. All I wanted was a glass of ice water, a bath for the boy, and to settle in to my much neglected blog.

Then, as we were trying to nudge the boy upstairs, there was a chilling and unmistakable "YEEEP" from somewhere quite nearby. It was clearly a bird, and it was in our house. Sounded like it was in the basement. That's where I usually find the mangled remains. We have a cat flap that leads into the unfinished half of our basement. In the winter, we will usually leave the door cracked between that side and the finished side so the cats can come and go.

Well, spring is here, but we forgot to start closing the door. Then, we realized it was bad news, because Henry, our hunter, was in the office off the living room, so the victim either flew or was dragged upstairs. Oddly, Henry calmly followed me to the basement. Normally, when he has something cornered, he is reluctant to back away. I think he picked on a pecker, as it were, and he decided to cut his losses. Sure enough, hidden in a potted plant was this fat-ass robin.

I've learned to look around when I go in the basement, especially at dawn and dusk. Sometimes, there's a little gift for us down there. Usually, it's a mole. I don't mind that. In fact, I appreciate the cats controlling those nasty varmints. Occasionally, there is a chipmunk, once a squirrel. But birds are the worst, because when they struggle, they explode. I'm not sure what holds them together in the wind, because when a cat gets a hold of one, it can be gruesome. It's bad enough when they leave the mess outside, but it turns my stomach to see it inside.

That's why I get a little freaked out when the bird is still alive and flying around my house. This one was pretty spooked, but he was still spry, because he was flying around. I had already removed the cat from the scene, so now I just had to chase this robin around the house. Of course, this whole thing got the TB all whipped up, so I had to keep chasing him upstairs and then I would lose track of the bird.

Finally, he perched in a hibiscus and I was able to get him in a box and outside. I set him in a bush, and he didn’t fly away. I think he’s in shock, because I know he can fly. The worst is when they are beyond repair but the little heart is still beating. Then you just have to whack them with a shovel and end it. Wretched business, the whole thing.

I must admit, I have a preference for cats over dogs. Dogs are OK, and I can see their appeal, but to me they just seem sloppy. Somehow, even though cats go and slaughter little creatures, they still seem cleaner to have around the house. But then they go and bring live birds into my house. There’s nothing clean about that. Darned pussies!

At one point, we were a six cat family. One (Walnut) was mine back when I lived alone in Washington, DC. Then LBB had Casbah, Dylan, Bono, and The Edge. When we moved in together in ‘94, that’s when Walnut’s demeanor turned sour. He liked being an only cat, and he never really recovered. He wandered away last year.

Along the way, we acquired Lucas, who showed up in our yard one day with a broken leg. We took him to the vet and fixed him, and of course he never left us after that. So that made six. Good grief.

Then, in 1998, one day LBB and I were at work. G’diddy was at our house waiting for a delivery or something. He called me up and said, “David, there’s something wrong with Casbah, he isn’t moving.”

“Oh?” I asked, “Does he look sick?”

G’diddy said, “No, David, you don’t understand. He’s dead.”

Well, then. I guess there was something wrong with Casbah. He was fourteen, and a tough old cat. He had a really hard head, and he used to climb up on our pillows at night and smash it into us. His departure was a surprise.

Not two weeks later, LBB comes home from work and tells me there’s this kitten that a doctor’s office is taking care of. Little gray one, looks like Casbah. For crying out loud. So, that’s how we got Henry Rollins (the hunter that brought in tonight’s victim).

Now, we are down to just two, Henry and The Edge.

Dylan was a really fat, cream colored cat. Sweet but really, really simple. LBB told me he once walked off a balcony. I don’t think he was ever quite right. I think he was thirteen when he started to get skinny and sick. He was always LBB’s favorite.

Then Bono, who was a fluffy, grey, lazy eyed cat, got some kind of a tumor. His decline was pretty quick and surprising, but he made it to fourteen.

Lucas was in a sorry state for a good long time, and we finally had to let him go. We probably let it go too long, in his case. He was a mixed color, skinny little thing. He was probably the neediest cat we ever had, in a sweet way, which made it hard for LBB to make the final call. I think he suffered from various maladies throughout his life. He was nine or ten at the end, but we never knew for sure.

Walnut, poor thing, he just wanted to be alone, so I’m afraid he lived fraught with anxiety ever since the others arrived. He was a black, nervous cat. He liked to chirp at birds, but he wasn’t a hunter. He wandered off and we never found him. He was fifteen.

And we still have The Edge, which is amazing. He has never fully domesticated from his feral beginnings, but he’s followed us through several moves, and now, I think he must be at least fifteen. He’s a big strapping black panther, or at least he was. He’s starting to show his age a little. He hangs around, and has become good buddies with Henry Rollins, but literally, the only human contact he has is when we corner him, sedate him, and take him to the vet once a year.

So, that’s more than anyone really wanted to know, I guess. The tale of seven cats. Six named after something musical (Casbah – after Rock the Casbah; Dylan – after Bob, of course; Bono and The Edge – from U2; Lucas – after a goofy song called “Lucas With The Lid Off”; Henry – after Henry Rollins) and Walnut, the nervous one.

I think two, well behaved, indoor cats is a good number. Although whenever Henry drags in something with wings still flapping, I think we should just get a fish tank.