Silent Cats

It has been quiet lately. I have almost missed the phone calls from strange old ladies wanting to give a home to a pussycat. Often they had to share little anecdotes of their furry children. One such grandma had to tell me of her own kitty cat who would walk right up to her on the couch and stick her tail in her face. "She wanted to show off her 'rosebud' to me," the grandma said proudly. I had never heard of a cat's bottom been described as a rosebud before, butt, sorry I mean, but, to each their own I suppose.

At least there weren't any scary ladies this time. During the last housing downturn I ended up with several stray cats at my door, abandoned by owners who moved away I surmised. I gave them tidbits and fed my own kitty inside. My husband and I feared if we waited too long the outside cats would soon create kittens. I placed my free ad in the Pennysaver advertising homeless kitties and the phone began to ring.

There was the lady who owned a hardware store who wanted a mouser. A young couple took the tom cat. There were many who wanted a kitten and hung up when they found out they were grown cats. Then there was the old lady who stuffed them.

I didn't know she stuffed them. At first she seemed quite sane. Then she spoke of having twenty-some cats, all inside. A warning bell went off in my head, I asked why they didn't go outside. "I have the dogs out there. Twelve of them are running around out there.They are fine out there but the neighbors keep reporting me," she calmly answered.

So she lived somewhere in Fontana with an acre lot full of dogs, and probably a lot of what comes out of dogs, as well. Her house was full of cats, and probably smelled of what comes out of cats. But that wasn't the scary part.

I we talked more I realized she was a few kitty treats short of a full bag. I was intrigued though. How did she managed so many cats inside? "Oh they each have their own place. Some are on the couch, some have their own chair." I pressed further. How would anyone deal with the all litter boxes and food? The cost must be incredible. I knew of the area she must live. It was a semi-rural place with tiny cracker box houses on desolate land with plastic bags and trash blown against the chain link fences.

"I don't have to feed all of them. Only about eleven of them eat." She told me plainly.

"What about the rest?" I asked innocently

"They stay on the chairs and sofa where I placed them."

Not understanding how anyone could get a cat to stay where they put them was beyond me. I asked how that was possible.

"When they pass I have them stuffed. They are posed so naturally. They're curled up just like they are asleep." She explained proudly.

My jaw dropped. Okaaay. That just eliminated her from the adoption process. I stammered something about there being several other people ahead of her wanting the cat. I dutifully listened as she gave me her phone number and pretended to write it down. I hung up with my head filled with visions of a dark, cramped house filled with stiff sleeping cats on every piece of furniture and live cats weaving in and out among them.

About an hour later I realized I should have written down her number and asked for an address. Then I could have sent someone out there trained to help people like her. This was years before caller id. The old lady never called back. As far as I know she's still out there amongst the tumbleweeds and dust in her little house filled with silent cats.

Matchmaking with Kitties

"Are you the person with ad for the kitties?" the woman's voice would ask. For a month or more the phone had rang in response to ads I had placed. Many good-hearted women had called seeking the perfect companion.

I felt like I was running a dating service.

In a way I was playing matchmaker. It was more than finding random homes for my brother's surplus cats. It was finding the right home with the right person.

For Leonard I talked up his good looks as well as personality. His handsome white mustache curled across his face like a smile. His white flecks on the dark fur around his eyes gave him that English professor look as if should have been wearing a tweed jacket with elbow patches. He led an active life and enjoyed friends.

Leonard was matched with a 30 something nurse and an orange long-hair named Butter. It was a sad story. Nurse Rachel had taken in Butter and his brother Scotch, after their owner had passed away. Scotch never recovered from the loss. He had passed away, refusing to eat after his owner had died and the move to a new home. Leonard was to be Butter's new friend. When I met Nurse Rachel she exploded with happiness upon seeing Leonard. He seemed pleased with her as well.

Jessica's ad received the most attention. Everyone seemed to want the little lady with long gray hair. She was a beauty. Her soft gray hair framed her small face and big gold eyes. The large white patch stood out like a diamond pendant on her chest. She loved to sit by the open window and feel the breeze on her face and watch the sunlight on the leaves.

Jessica was a quiet lady who like personal attention. She had grown used to living with only other felines and my bachelor brother. I eliminated most of the prospective matches. Dogs and small children would not do well for her.

I had hoped to place her with a particular elderly lady who had recently lost her little friend to old age. Unfortunately an allergic son-in-law coming to stay and other factors caused the match to fall through. But remarkably I quickly received a call from a lady wishing to give her father a kitty for Father's Day. His cat had recently passed away. His daughter could see he was sad and lonely and wanted to give him a new friend.

Happily Jessica was welcomed into his home. It was an ideal match for Jessica. She went from quiet home with a older bachelor to another quiet home with a older bachelor. She went from many cats sharing small quarters to being a lavished only child. It was a good Father's Day for both of them.

The two cats remaining with my brother enjoy the extra attention and space they now have. I gave up my job of feline matchmaker and have returned to being a mom and writer and caretaker of our own pets.

Mocked by a Bird

I couldn't sleep that week. The mocking bird sang like an alarm all night. Twits and tweets, shrill trills, and odd hacking noises like a lawnmower coughing randomly sounded from the tree next to our window.

I had prayed for it to stop or at least fly away. I had gone in front of our house in my nightgown and bare feet. I yelled at it. I shot water at it with the garden hose. The tree was too high for my attacks to do much good. I even contemplated a plan on how to pull the hose up onto the bedroom balcony to get a better shot at the nuisance. But physics and hose length prevented me.
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It would have been fine if it had been repetitive and soothing like the crickets. But no, this bird randomly changed stations every few seconds, jarring me from sleep with its funky nonrhythmic blasts. In addition my husband snored here and there to fill in the blank spots while the bird took a break between sets.

My allergies had kicked up with springtime blossoms. I must admit I too was snoring for the lack of ability to breathe properly. I'd fall asleep and then wake make self with my own snoring or suffocating, depending how you look at it. It was a awful thing to have inherited from my parents, loud snoring.

On family vacations I could not sleep for the immense roars and snorts from the other bed. I'd begged for my own room but they would never indulged me on that desire. It was when I went away to college I found out I too had the gift for make loud noises in my sleep. Fortunately it was something that was seasonal. My husband was forgiving and learned to nudged me so I could breath properly and quietly.

Now as I lay awake listening to the mockingbird trill its repertoire I noticed the similarity. The sputtering sound it made was vaguely familiar. The repeated sputtering and croaks at top volume stabbed my ears every few minutes. My husbands gentle snoring continued next to me, oblivious to the racket outside the window. I thought back to those miserable sleepless vacation nights sharing the hotel room with my parents. I realized something dreadful.

The mockingbird was mocking me. I was being kept awake by my the sound of my own snoring.

That annoying bird had been listening to my horrible allergy season snoring and was playing it back for me. Oh joy.

I began taking allergy meds in the evening. Squirted and shook the lower tree branches liberally each evening, and made sure the windows were all securely closed despite my husbands desire for fresh air while he sleeps. With his source of material cut off and someone constanly shaking his tree; my buddy soon switched to the neighbor's tree and began singing proper remakes of bird tunes.

It was still annoying at 2 am, but not as humiliating.

A Skunk Named Flower

It was to be a normal Monday morning. I would write my blog and do mundane things. My dog and a baby skunk had other ideas.

It was still dark when I heard the barking, lots of barking. My Jack Russel terrier was barking. The neighbors five chihuahuas were barking. Other nameless dogs were barking. I groaned. Pixie had caught something, again. I dragged myself downstairs kicking myself for not locking that dog in the garage before going to bed. I switched on the porch light and thrust my feet into my husbands tennis shoes he'd left by the back door. Clomping through the wet grass in my nightgown and Tom's giant shoes I scanned the hedge for movement of a determined little brown dog. Pixie had gotten hold of possums who fortunately "played possum" before either of them caused too much harm to the other.

Something dark with a big tail ran across the yard with Pixie following right behind. It wasn't a possum. Pixie lunged. I lunged and then held back. A small skunk stood on its head pointing its rear end up in the air. I knew what that meant. Pixie didn't care. She barked and lunged and grabbed some fur. Reluctantly I went into the medley. The air was thick was skunk fumes, though not nearly as strong as we usually experienced from full grown skunks. I grabbed Pixies collar and picked her up and got away from the stinky fur ball as quickly as I could. Pixie stunk as well. I threw her in the garage and went upstairs and changed into non skunk clothes.

The sun was up and I was still in bed when I heard someone open the door to let Pixie out of the garage. I got dressed and wondered how bad the dog smelled a few hours post skunk. Then I heard the barking and the yelling. No. It can't still be there. Why would it still be in the yard?
Pixie was frantically barking at the small space between the wall and our metal garden shed. Good grief. Why didn't it leave last night?

Once again I put the dog in the garage. I attended my mother duties of lunch packing and sending off people to school and work. Our teenage son still had a low fever which had begun the day before. Fearful his cold was turning into the bronchitis I had had I put in a call to the doctor and made an appointment.

Next was the call to animal control. After a long wait on hold I explained the situation to the officer. The reply was can one person get this skunk out or would it be a two person job? And they did not know when the officer would come by and the officer would not do anything if I was not home. I hung up the phone. One baby skunk should not be this big of a problem.

Outside I peeked behind the shed. The odor was only noticeable when you got close. Perhaps she had used up all her squirt on the dog last night. My eyes adjusted to the dimness and I saw her quivering in a pile of leaves. She was jet black the size of an oven mitt plus a tail. The thick white stripe began between her ears ran down her back. Her fluffy but bedraggled tail looped over her back and rested on her head behind her tiny round ears. "Hey little skunk," I said. She looked up at me and shook some more. "It's okay. The dog can't get you. I'm sorry she went after like that. You're safe now."

The quivering stopped. She cocked her head and looked at me as if to say, "Are you nice?" Her shiny black eyes and tiny round nose look like ebony marbles against her fur. The shaking began again. I gently talked to her like you talk to a baby who had been crying. The shaking subsided. I got an idea and went inside the house. I returned with a pet carrier box. I placed the opened door next to the gap by the wall. Then I took the garden hose around to the other side of the shed. Next I went and got my son who had decided he was well enough to play games on the computer.

"Come on," I said, "I need you to help catch the skunk. You shoot the water at her and herd her into the box. I'll hold the box."

My patient son rolled his eyes and followed me outside. "Oookay," he replied in his sarcastic way, "Because that's not a strange thing to do at all." My son has learned it's hopeless to argue with his mother when came to animals. Some moms ran in fear of wild critters, his mom ran toward them.

"She's so cute!" I exclaimed. " She looks like Flower from the movie Bambie! " My son looked at me like I was nuts which was pretty normal.

Tommy turned on the hose and sprayed-herded Flower into the carrier. I snapped the door shut and looked at the damp skunk inside. She wasn't too sure of the box but wasn't complaining. Tommy took a look, coughed a little and returned inside.

I looked at the sky. It was going to get hot soon. I didn't want to leave Flower in a box too long. Who knew when animal would show up? We had to leave soon for the doctor's appointment. Another brilliant idea hit me.

After taking a few pictures for the scrapbook I took Flower for a walk. I carried the box up the hill a little ways. A neighbor's property sloped toward a retaining wall by the street. It was a large property with lots of fruit trees. Ivy covered the ground at the bottom of the slope and hung over the wall. I held up the box over my head and set it on top of the wall. The door was open. I tipped it up a little. After a moment little Flower slid out. I took away the box and placed it on the sidewalk beside me. Flower looked down at me. She cocked her head from side to side as if to say, "What are you doing? You're not leaving are you?"

"Go on. Go on Flower. Go find your friends. You'll be alright."

She cocked her head again, looking at me questioningly. Finally she turned around and sniffed the ivy a few times and disappeared beneath the leaves.

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Safety note: Never handle skunks barehanded. As cute as they are they can bite and can carry rabies. Not only that, they stink. Pixie was bathed with vinegar which took away a lot of the smell. Eventually the odor will wear off. My family still thinks I'm nuts.

Gorilla Cats and Dear Brothers

I learned an important lesson this past week. Do not try to give away someone else's pets for them. They don't like it. The pets, I mean.

I was attempting to assist my dear beloved brother to rid himself of two of the seven cats he has. I was amazed he didn't have more. But after a large vet bill he was ready to admit he had too many cats. Even still, he wanted to pay a hundred dollars apiece to send them to a cat rescue place somewhere in Beaumont. Translated. He wanted hundred bucks each and me drive them to Beaumont. That is beyond my sisterly kindliness. Plus I'm cheap. I thought, "Hey, why don't we give them away at the my church's rummage sale?" People will buy anything at yard sales, especially if it's free.

His cats did not think that was a good idea.

They arrived Friday afternoon in the carrier crates. My brother introduced me to Ted and Lester. Ted was all black and hunched in the back of his carrier glaring at me. Lester, a black and white short hair, had the deer in the headlights look of shock as if to say, "Where the heck have you taken me?"

My dear brother laid prostrate on the floor for a long time whispering and making noises to Ted and Lester. Outstretched he reached his hands into each carrier to pet to comfort his furry children. He spoke to his boys in their own kind of kitty language. I knew giving them up for was akin to me giving up my own children to strangers never to be seen again. I felt like the evil stepmother. If I didn't already have two of my own I would have taken them. But two is already too many for my husband and divorce would be imminent if I took in anymore cats. As much as I love cats and want to help my brother; I would much rather be married to my husband than take in his cats.

Eventually the dear brother left. I placed Ted and Lester into the master bath where they could have all the comforts of home but be out of the way and safe. The tub has a flat seat area at one end next to the window. I placed them there. They had a safe view of the room and the litter box was next to them inside of the tub. I checked on them every hour or so. In the evening I came bearing turkey lunch meat in attempt to coax them out of their carriers. So far they hadn't come out even though I had left the doors to their boxes open. I sat on the edge of the tub holding the sandwich meat. Lester's nose twitched and he poked his head out of the plastic box.

I could see what my brother had meant when he had said the kitty had a jester's smile. The bottom half of his face black except for a white line that curved above his lip and out to his cheeks. I could see how it looked like a long white smile. But to me it looked more like an elegant clipped mustache that compliment his salt and pepper eyebrows. He wasn't a jester. To me he was Lester the professor.

After a while Lester's stomach got the better of him and he came out of the carrier box and nibbled turkey meat from my hand. Ted remained in his carrier, glaring at me.

Next to the tub is a large sliding window. It's one of those double pane jobs. We had new windows put in the year before. I had had it opened a couple of inches all evening as the carrier boxes seemed to have a cat urine stench embedded in the plastic. The window is a good four or five feet long and high. It takes a big of effort for me leaning over the tub to open it. On occasion when I have had to lock up my own kitties. I gave the acidic air a sniff and thought it would be fine to leave the window open a bit. it was a heavy window and there was a screen, after all.

Both kitties were huddled together. Lester had joined Ted in his box and was sitting on top of him. They had plastered themselves against the back of the box. I told them goodnight, turned off the light, closed the door, and went to bed.

About 3 am there was a crash. I thought groggily the cats had finally come out of the carrier and had knocked it over into the tub with the litter box. I looked at the clock. Three am? Crap. I don't want to get up. Then there was a second smaller crash. I sat up. That can't be be good. As I ambled across the bedroom floor as fast as my arthritic feet would allow me I heard two small thumps. Crap. That really can't be good.

I opened the bathroom door and flicked on the light. The boxes were upright. The window was all the way open. The screen lay outside on the balcony in a twisted heap. Both cats stood on the balcony looking at me with wide yellow eyes.

Crap

I tear out of the bathroom into the bedroom and stop at the sliding glass door. Smoothly I open it and quietly step out. Ted is madly searching for a way off the balcony. I give my best deep voiced impression of my brother. Ted pauses but is not fooled. Lester remembers the turkey from earlier. He is torn between following his friend and coming to the lady promising him a nice treat. I stepped forward. Ted has found the sidewall where where my kitties climb up and down. He's down in a flash. Lester stares at me and then looks around the empty balcony. He starts to make a break for it but I lunge in time to catch him by the scruff. I hold him and helplessly watch Ted streak across the street and through the a neighbors yard and up the hill.

I lock up the escapee and take a look at the damage. Somehow they managed to completely open the heavy five foot window. Then somehow they twisted and the frame of the screen and lifted it out of the groove it locks into before knocking it out of the window frame onto the balcony. I stare in disbelief. I close the window tightly. I sigh and go back to bed. I'm too old for this nonsense.

In the morning at the yard sale there are many interested people asking about the free kitties sign. They admire Lester's beautiful coat and adorable mustache. But no one wants a full grown cat. I sigh. Apparently he's too old for this as well.

Dear brother takes the news of Ted's jailbreak better than I thought he would. Perhaps Ted has found a home or perhaps he's still own his way. I don't want to consider any other possibilities. Lester and another of one of my brother's brood are up for adoption through PetSmart. I am out of the adoption business and am getting my screen repaired.

First time blogging from a teacher

I have not a clue what to write about. As a wannabe writer I am merely following instructions: "You should have a blog." Okay, I am blogging. Now what? I can't very well give advice on writing as I only a beginner, or can I? I could write about teaching as I have done that part-time for a couple of decades. My favorite part about teaching is the books. Books filled with information, books filled with stories, big beautiful pictures, tiny little illustrations, all of it is so magical. My favorite part of the day is after lunch when I read aloud to them. And often we go over the time limit. "One more chapter,please" I often give in to their pleas. That is the best part of the teaching day.

Unfortunately, there's also the spitballs and wandering attention spans and fire drills and someone throwing up or needing to pee. In middle school there is the added bonus of rudeness being thrown at you because they, as grown twelve year olds, know so much better than you. So now I am trying to share books from the other side of the classroom door and of course, out of spitball range.

The greatest compliment a mother paid me once was that I taught her daughter to love reading. This was an especially impressive remark as the woman hated me at the beginning of the school year. I cannot remember why. You have to let those things slide off you or you become overwhelmed. But by the end of the year after acting out fairy tales and tall tales and using an assortment of insect voices in James and the Giant Peach, I had won over at least one soul to the magic of reading. And to boot, the mom not only put it in writing, she gave my principal a copy.
Writing is a way to touch more souls beyond the one classroom. Doesn't that sound heroic? Actually, it's plain fun and life is too short not to have fun.