Pussy Problem

I told ya' awhile ago about this new cat, right? Well she's sweet. As sweet as can be, for sure. She gets up on LBB and kneads at her face and neck. Could not be cuter.

The thing is, though, throughout the night she all over me because she knows I'm the one that's going to crack open a can for her in the morning. She climbs on my back, she lays across my legs, she flicks her tail in my face.

Isn't that so, so sweet?

Henry Rollins doesn't do all this. He just waits patiently. He's a good boy.

So how can I get a good night's sleep with this new cat? Should I get a fish tank to keep her occupied? Breed mice that she can chase? Should I cut her tail off? (Joking! Kidding! I would never do that . . . except at about 4:00 AM when tickling my face . . . oh, OK, no I wouldn't, not even then). How about some catnip in the basement?

I mean, I appreciate how sweet she is. She's a great cat, but how do I get her off of me and on up onto LBB each night?

I'm not getting any rest!

Our Newest Family Member

Meet Milly, our new cat:
Her story is that a couple of our friends were on a long walk that took them up Mill Mountain and they found this cat and also a dude that had been feeding her for awhile. He said he was about done with that responsibility so they went back later and got the cat.

For a good long time she was living on Mill Mountain, eating mice and what this kind fellow had been bringing her.

Our friend took the cat to the vet. She had already been fixed, declawed, and she had no fleas. She's about three years old, we're told. Either this cat was dumped by someone, or she escaped from a tourist's vehicle that was at the campground or the star.

For awhile a few years ago we had six cats (6! Yes, that's right. 6!), but we were down to one. We were prime victims for cat adoption guilt. So she's ours now.

After initially trying to name the cat after himself, my son quickly agreed with my suggestion that we name her "Milly" after the mountain she lived on for awhile.

She was only about six pounds when she arrived, but she's gained a couple. Still, she's the hungriest cat we've ever had.

She also broke our tradition of naming cats after something or someone musical. Here is our history of cats as a couple (LBB had a bunch before I came along).

Walnut: was my cat when I lived alone in DC. Black all over, except for a few stray white hairs. He's the only cat we have had as a couple that came from a pet shop. All the rest were strays or abandoned. Walnut was not named after music, but because he used to launch himself off the couch and into the wall head first; hence, Wall Nut -->> Walnut. He was always my favorite. After the boy was born, he kinda got kicked to the curb (not literally, of course). I feel a little guilty about that. (1991-2005)

Casbah: named after the Clash song "Rock the Casbah". He was a tough guy. Gray, wire haired, and about as rock solid as any cat I've ever known. He used to head butt me when I was in bed. (1984-1997)

Dylan: pretty obvious who he was named for. Dumb as a stick, but very sweet. He was cream colored and very overweight. Once he walked off a balcony. Poor fella. (1990-2004)

Wilbur: named after the Traveling Wilburys. He was LBB's cat up in Alexandria (along with Casbah and Dylan), but she gave him to her parents when her Mom got sick. He was a great companion to G'diddy. He was a long-haired orange cat. (1990-2002)

Bono: named after Bono from U2, of course. He was a stray living in a culvert when LBB rescued him. Long haired, gray, cross-eyed, and stupid. Sweet cat though if there were no other distractions. In the end he had some serious health problems and we probably let them go on for too long. (1991-2006)

The Edge: another U2 naming. He was Bono's half brother, from the same roving tomcat that left litters all over Kingstowne (Alexandria, VA 22315). Black as night, and as he aged, a big strong cat. He never liked people and lived mostly outdoors. It was a struggle to get him to the vet. Amazingly he's was our longest lived cat. (1991-2007)

Lucas: named after a silly song called "Lucas With The Lid Off" that LBB and I were into about the time he showed up. Right after we moved into our first house in Roanoke in 1995, Lucas showed up with a broken leg. We took him to the vet and fixed it. He never left. He was a brownish, striped mess. His teeth were a wreck. Not the prettiest cat, but very loving. LBB favored him greatly. (1995?-2005)

Henry Rollins: (1997-current). Named after, of course, Henry Rollins. LBB is a magnet for cats. Henry was living in a doctors office in Blacksburg. She was working for Southern Health and calling on the office one day, and somehow they saw her for a cat sucker that just lost a big gray cat (Casbah). Sure enough, Henry was like a little Casbah. She mentioned it to me one night at dinner and I pretty much knew we was going to be ours. He's a sweet cat but he does drag in a bunch of birds and moles, fat as he is. He's been quite patient with Milly since she arrived.

Milly: (2005?-current). Fully named Milly Grace by our friend who found her (since she lived in their garage for a couple weeks and their kids named her Grace). Not named after anything musical, but after Mill Mountain. Welcome to the family Milly!

Blue Oyster Cat

Wholly crap! Mr. Helpful recently reminded me about a band that was huge in my childhood: Blue Oyster Cult. They were from Long Island, and they played frequently in my hometown. The big story was that they used to perform at a local club as "Soft White Underbelly", without any hype, as they prepared for a tour. I'm not sure if that was true, because I was too young to verify it.

Well, let me tell you, as many good songs as they had - and you know them: Godzilla, Don't Fear the Reaper, Burning For You, and many more - they had a whole mess of shitty songs, too. In an era of album oriented rock, I can't believe they actually made it. Most of their albums had a hit, one or two other good rocking songs, and a whole lot of odd mess.

I had the Agents of Fortune album, but that was ruined along with all the rest of my records when one of our cats decided to pee all over them. I chucked them all in the dumpster when we moved to this house.

You wouldn't believe how many great albums that cat ruined. The whole Kiss collection (through Dynasty - that's as far as you need to go), the complete Led Zeppelin collection (except for III, which, oddly, is the only one I now have on CD), several Crosby Stills and Nash records, Fleetwood Mac, some Tangerine Dream, The Smiths, The Cure, The Cocteau Twins, a bunch of Yes and Genesis. Even the Grease and Saturday Night Fever soundtracks. The biggest loss was Aerosmith Rocks, which I think is the best rock album of all time. That and Get Your Wings are the only Aerosmith albums you need. They started to suck about 1977. I'm not sure why they've made it as far as they have.

That cat trashed hundreds of records, and he peed on the lower levels of my CD collection, too. I didn't toss them out. I did the best I could to clean them up, but those in the R's and S's are somewhat compromised. The discs are OK, but the cover art is all pale and crisp. Those hardest hit were the Rolling Stones, REM, and Sade.

Damn cat.

That's What They Do

Last night, I went upstairs and told my wife that her cat led me to spew a 1300 word post. Her response: "That's what they do." That pretty much paraphrases it in four words.

She's much better at getting to the point.

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.