Over my 73 years on this side of the sod, I have known many cats. We lived on a farm till I was in high school and had several barn cats of which a few were special. This was especially true of Sam, a totally black cat who was one of our special indoor/outdoor ones. We often took “vacations” back to Dads roots in central Kansas (aka chigger world). These trips were taken almost every year as dad wanted to be a farmer back in the flat lands. The longest trip was for 10 days and Sam was inadvertently left in the house. When we came home, we couldn’t find one cat poop anywhere, till my dad went to put on his church shoes. Dad did not think it was funny, but the two other black cats I have had since that first one have always been named Sam in deference to that cherish childhood memory. It also turned out to be a last trip back to his roots for many years. Coincidence?
I am especially fond of yellow tabbies. I have had three and my daughter had another. I have come to believe that the gene for the yellow color is somehow linked to a mutant gene for cat insanity. Our first yellow tabby was Lady Cat. I was a grad student and somehow, we adopted a year-old female that a student had tried to keep hidden in her dorm room. Lady Cat was gentil with my toddler son but liked to do strange things like walk around the tub while my wife took a bath. She also loved to go in the bathroom when you did #2. Better shut the bathroom door quick cause if you did not, she would snake her body around your legs while seated on the shitter till you were done, then, stick her head under your ass while the TP was still in so she could watch the turds flush.
Two of the years when I was in graduate school, I worked summers at US Forest Service guard stations. That’s when the gentil, loving, and mostly indoor cat became a nocturnal killing machine. She would sleep all day then disappear out the door at dusk, showing up the next morning with mice bodies lined up Saint Valentines massacre style on the grass in front of the cabin. In September, when we went back to our house in Corvallis she would revert to her mostly indoor persona. I will never forget taking her down to the basement that first day back and filling her litter box. I was still pouring it in when she got in and did her business. Then she followed me around the house for next hour serenading me with loud and adoring meows of gratitude for her litter box which she had refused to use the whole summer before.
She also liked dogs. She once ran off the front porch of our house to rub up against a poodle being walked down the sidewalk by a perfect stranger. Poor poodle was petrified, standing stiff legged looking up at his master pleading to save him from this strange lap dancing cat.
We had Lady Cat the whole time I was in grad school. One evening I came home, and she wasn’t there to greet me at the door. Found her in the basement barely able to move with a swollen body. Vet thought she might have been kicked. She never recovered.
After Lady Cat we were cat less for several years till be bought our first and so far, only house in Waldport (the wife swapping capital of the central Oregon Coast). Somehow, we had managed to acquire a German Shepard and three neutered tom cats. Sam (the black one), Elvis a five toed mutant, and Joe Bob, a yellow tabby. There were indoor/outdoor cats as we had a cat door installed in our laundry room. Outside of a few quirks, liked Sam spending hours in a neighbor’s house visiting their cat and Elvis who kneaded your stomach while sucking on your shirt, these were normal cats. Joe Bob was a yellow tabby. For the first two years of his short, candle at both ends life, he thought he was a dog. He had a tiny stuffed whale, which he would drop in front of you, then growl, daring you to pick it up. He could sense people that were not cat fans. These cat hating guest would be innocently seated in our living room when Joe Bob would run at them, jump in their laps, touch noses and run off. On one memorable day he first brought a live snake in the house. Poor Judy had to call a neighbor in to save her life from the half dead 6 inch garter snake. I could have saved her, but the danger noodle was still moving. Then Joe Bob brought in a headless starling. I managed to get that away from him and thanked him for the gift. Joe Bob gave a little “brrroup”, ran out the front door and immediately brought back in a giant beetle. “If you liked the dead bird, you are going to love this live giant bug”.
Sam and Elvis disappeared within a month after the local landfill closed which was a mile or so up in hills. We figured that the local coyote population switched from mice and rats to cats and small porch pisser dogs. We hoped that Joe Bob had escaped this fate, but he disappeared 4 years later. About a week after he went missing, we took the mattress off our bed, and there he was, weak but still alive. We took him to the vet where he was treated for a massive infection from being in a fight with a local cat who was 3 times his size. He never fully recovered and died from kidney failure a few months later. While that was over 20 year ago, we still morn that yellow terror and retell Joe Bob stories to anybody as soon as cat lore comes up in a conversation.
We had a couple of cats after Joe Bob. All of them exclusively indoor ones. We rescued a female cat, but she only lasted a year as she did not travel well. She was okay as a house cat but put her in our RV and the puking and shitting started within 10 minutes of leaving home, then she would not eat the whole time we were away. Judy would hold the poor thing on her lap in a towel till the puking and shitting stopped. But there was no way we could deal with her not eating. On one two week outing she lost 1/3 of her body weight. We soon found a home for her with an older lady who did not travel. Reports were that they were best friends for the rest of their mutual lives. We then rescued a feral bob tailed cat from my mother in laws house. Had for him for 8 years till the granddaughter could not visit us anymore due to sever cat allergies. Took him to the local cat shelter with a 3-page letter explaining how he was a great cat with some odd quirks like demanding under the covers on cold nights by swatting me on the head with increasing vigor till I relented. He also had little to do with me, preferring Judy, unless Judy was gone for a day or two, then I would do. He also loved to tease the dog by swatting her on the hind end if the opportunity presented itself. He hated having his nails trimmed. Took both of us to hold him down and then could only get one paw done before he had enough. After he escaped our clutches, he would start to walk away then turn and swat me on the face for the insult. Surprisingly, he was adopted one day after we left him at the shelter, even though I had given them written warning. Got a nice letter from the people who adopted him, and I really felt good about our decision. Judy, however, was upset as they made him listen to NPR whenever they left the house. Cats are natural born killers and are not into intellectual news and comment. They prefer MMA and NASCAR; you know violence and things that go around and around in a circle. Suffer you tailess bastard.
It was several years after untill we got another cat. The granddaughter moved to Arizona, so the allergy thing was over. We got a golden retriever, Kaylee, who needed a companion. The pandemic was depressing for all of us, but for a dog breed that needs people, two old farts are not enough. We were a little apprehensive on getting a kitten as the last one was not a good companion for a dog, unless a dog had been into Sand M. Kaylee is a gentile soul. She is named after Kaylee, the gentile mechanic from the Firefly SciFi series.
Firefly only lasted one season, probably cause it was a space western. Six shooters, lever action rifles, and horses on alien planets rode by hat and boot wearing cowboys who occasionally spoke Manderin. May seem a little strange, but we loved it. And what prey tell is wrong with 19th century firearms in the 24th century? Ever notice how ineffective blasters are. First, they are not fully automatic and probably not very accurate as well. In Star Wars the rebels are defending a narrow spaceship hallway, pointing their weapons at a single door a few feet away. The door blows open and plastic armored storm troopers enter the hallway single file. The rebels open up with their weak ass ray guns only managing to take down one or two. WTF. A 12-gauge loaded with double ought would have held that hallway till the sequel came out. But then there would not have been a sequel, then another and another and another and Han Solo action figures, and Princess Leah in that skimpy bikini….. I withdraw my complained about the blasters. However, the light sabers are ridiculous. Light saber, 3 feet, AR-15, 300 yards, and no nearly naked female Jedi wielding one, end of story. Oh, sure they had weapons that can blow up an entire planet, but you needed a small moon manned by thousands and thousands to move it around. Today’s nukes can weigh as little as 100 pounds and be carried easily by Chris Pratt. Okay, so it won’t take out an entire planet but setting off a few hundred would make life pretty miserable for the survivors here on planet earth even though it would slow global warming a bit. So, what if Chris Pratt couldn’t carry hundreds of them, all he would have to do is give Chuck Norris a call.
But back to yellow tabby cats. We were given a yellow tabby kitten by a friend of a friend. Keeping to the Firefly naming convention, we named the kitty Malcom, after the handsome, impetuous, revolver carrying captain of the cowboy spaceship. Little did we know that this friend of a friend was a sick fuck who specialized in the torture of septuagenarians. Should have named the yellow tabby Reaver, after the zombie like merciless killers in the show. We did consider changing his name, but stuck with Malcom, which by the way is his last name, his first being damn it.
Okay, Malcom is not that evil, he just gets in the way, a lot. Can’t make the bed without him helping. Can’t fold the laundry without him sitting in the basket and fighting for every extracted piece of clothing. Can’t load the washer or dryer without having to pull him out before starting either. Can’t walk through the house without him running ahead and flopping on the floor to swat at your feet as you try to walk by. This is never a good idea before I have had my morning coffee. Judy must close the door to her sewing room as he loves to lay in the middle of the sewing table swatting at the moving needle or worse unthreading her serger which takes 20 minutes to rethread. He also has a terrible habit of putting several sewing pins in his mouth, then distributing them around the house like Viet Cong pungee sticks for me to step on. This also is never a good idea before I have had my morning coffee. And I can’t have my morning coffee till I make sure his food dish is full as he jumps up on the dryer as I am walking by to get my Italian sweet cream coffee creamer out of the fridge and swats me on the arm even if his food dish is full. Yes, we are weird cause our frig is in the laundry room but fuck you and mind your own business. Who gives you the right to dictate where the frig is in our house, Karen. Open a drawer and Malcom is in it. Go to the toilet, he runs in and bites your toes.
Malcom is an indoor cat, but he desperately does not want to be. He is a sneaky door dasher of a cat. Every time the door is opened, he is there plotting his escape, and he never uses the same strategy more than once. We look like idiots to the neighbors as we must walk backwards out of the back and front doors of our house while yelling “Malcom, damn it no”. Let your guard down for a milli-second and he is out the door, and the chase is on. He doesn’t go far, staying just out of reach. After a half hour of outside fun and games he lets you catch him by laying down and waiting to be picked up. I think he realizes that if he pushes us old folks too much, we may die of heart failure and game would be over for good.
Why do we put up with this now one year old, overweight terror? He only tortures one of us at a time, the other getting a laugh. He is the best dog toy we ever got for Kaylee. The dog would never forgive us if we disappeared him. Judy likes the way his purr sort of cracks when you rub his belly. I think it sounds more like a satanic cackle. So far the evil bastard has cost me $1000, as I had to buy a larger bed, cause he hogs the middle.
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The above is Malcom trying to help me with this blog when I left the computer desk to get a scotch. DAMIT Malcom!!