Cat Tales

We always had a cat when I was growing up. My first cat was named fluffy, why, God alone knows. There was nothing fluffy about him. He was an unneutered male, a wiry old tom with only half an ear and about as much fur as a Christmas candy dropped on a shag rug, kind of patchy orange clumps which more or less covered his skinny carcass. Skinny, because he spent most of his time on the prowl, no doubt sitting on some fence somewhere, with someone hurling an old shoe at him. He came home only rarely, covered in blood and starved to death. I would bundle him downstairs and clean his wounds, hug him, feed him, and he would repay me by slashing my face from ear to chin. I loved him so much. The day he left this earth I cried until I was out of tears. I was inconsolable. Mom went out and got a new cat. We called her boots. She deserved the name, she was grey with long silky fur, her four legs had matching symmetrical white stockings that did indeed look like boots. We had her fixed. She got fat, the vet said some female cats did when they were fixed. She was quite a change from Fluffy, she would rub up against you and occasionally she would jump up on you. Mostly on my Mom, when she would sit in her living room armchair.
She had a couple of unique behaviours that endeared her to us. She loved to sleep in the bathroom sink while it was still warm from someone washing their hands. She drank from the fish bowl and watched the fish as they darted around the bowl hiding behind the neon stalactites we had made with some god awful crystals we had added to the bowl. Boots also loved paper bags. Especially shopping bags. When Mom would get home from the grocery store she would empty the bags into the cupboards and freezer. Boots would find a bag laying open on its' side and walk straight into it whereupon it would stand upright. More than one person who was visiting would get the shock of their lives when they picked up what they thought was a bag of groceries only to have a cat explode from the bag like a brace of pheasants from cover of an autumn meadow.
Boots was the quintessential cat. When she wanted you she could be very affectionate. When she didn't want you she was as aloof as any of her species. She lorded over the house, the feline lord of all she surveyed. She had her favourite haunts; the arm of Mom's chair, the center of the patio door was also a favourite place, so much so that she changed the color of the linoleum from lying in the afternoon sun. But most of all her favourite place was to curl up around Mom's feet when she played cards on Saturday nights under the card table. She ruled the roost for several years until one day a usurper appeared.
He arrived in the night, as most usurpers do. He was cloaked in black, well black fur anyways. He was a stray male cat, lean and sleek. He was rather too thin actually, his meows tugged at my heartstrings. Mom was adamant, "Don't feed that cat; he'll just hang around. He must have a home if you don't feed him, he'll go home." I did my best; Mom was not a force to be trifled with. Days passed. I would come home from work at night and he would be there rubbing up against my legs. He plucked my heartstrings like a Dixie bluegrass quartet. I fought the urge to feed him as long as I could. I lasted an amazing twenty four hours before I broke down and stopped at the convenience store for some cat food. I rolled the window of my old beast down enough for him to jump in and sleep on the bank bench seat. I was careful not to let Mom see me. I would shoo him out in the daytime. Before she would see him, I hoped.
This went to for some weeks. Then one night I turned onto our street and caught Mom sneaking food to our poor starving usurper. Being a smart fellow and valuing my life I said nothing. I went straight to bed. I got up the next morning and made my way down to breakfast before heading off to school. I tried to look stern and implacable when Mom looked at me, studying my face it seemed. Looking for some trace of "I told you so." looking for the hint of a smug smile. It was hard not to but I gave my best poker face. I was probably as easy to read as Sergeant Shultz saying "I see NOTHINK!” As I got up to go she said. "We'll keep him, if you pay to get him fixed. Just that, no preamble, she knew the whole time just what I was thinking there was absolutely no way of fooling my Mom, the human lie detector. I was on the balls of my feet as I danced down the driveway. I bent low to scoop up the lithe usurper from the back seat of my car. His fur was warm from the fall sunshine and I revelled in the fact that he would not have to sleep outside anymore. There was however a small bell in the back of my head jingling. We had passed one hurdle and a big one at that, but there were still her nibs, the feline Pharaoh, Lord and Mistress of the house, Boots!
I took my new friend to the vet the next day. "How old is he?" they asked. I had no idea. "Does it matter?" I asked. "Yes, he has to be fully grown." I raised him up to the counter and told the receptionist "I am not sure, he is a stray, my Mom says I can keep him if I get him fixed." This seemed to please the lady and she petted his jet black fur, it gleamed. "He seems very healthy, he must be well fed." I thought of the two of us, Mom and Me both feeding him. He was probably the best fed cat on the block. She took him and told me to return late the next day. I did, and he seemed so pathetic. I put him in a box with an old army blanket it the bottom. The receptionist gave me the bill I signed it as she made the change. "Is something wrong?" she asked, reading the look on my face. "Ummm, er, it's just that this bill says castration." "Yes," She replied, I thought you wanted him fixed?" "I did, I mean I do... I just thought you gave them a vasectomy!" "No, that wouldn't do it." She replied and returned to her desk. "Sorry, buddy" I said as I carried him from the vet's. ""If I'd have known I would have released you in the wild."It took a day or so for him to recover but eventually he was like new again. I still had the feeling that he was looking at me sometimes with a look of betrayal on his face.
Of course there was an icy feeling in the air. Boots would hiss at the newcomer whenever he came into the room or when he approached the food bowl while she was there. In time they worked out a mod us Vivendi. Boots was O.K.as long as the usurper knew his place and kept his place. Her favourite haunts were sacrosanct. As long as he knew his place, as long as he obeyed the rules. She tolerated him. "He needs a name." My sister Meredith said. He was black from nose to tail except for a patch of white at the front of his neck where his Adams apple would be if he had one. "How about calling him Deacon or Pastor?" I offered. "That's lame." she said. "Keep it simple." So we called him Blackie. Not very imaginative but, like Boots, it fit.
He was a great cat, a man's man. He was fearless; he fought off the neighbourhood dogs. He brought me mice and moles which he proudly dropped at my feet. One day he brought me a live Blue Jay which he had bitten through the wing. I called the SPCA they sent a guy around who rehabilitated birds. Blackie was being dive bombed by hundreds of squawking Jays when I took the frightened bird form him. I reprimanded him, but he looked like he was beaming. He was a hunter, an alpha male. A panther of the yard; which he stalked: putting one silent paw in front of the other, creeping in the shadows, eyeing every opportunity to pounce on an unsuspecting grasshopper or toad. A carnivore: a force of nature. Until, that is he set foot in the house. Then the mighty hunter became a tame house cat. He knew his place and he kept it. In the yard he was supercat, inside he was Clark Cat mild manner feline. Things went along like this for some years. Things change and soon it came time for me to move out on my own.
I broached the subject of Blackie to my Mom. "How about I get settled in first then I'll send for him?" "Not a chance!" Mom retorted. "You aren't taking that cat anywhere." before I could catch myself I smiled. I glanced up quickly, scared to see what would be written on my Mom's face. She too was smiling, I sighed a sigh of relief.
I had been gone for a number of years when my Mom called one day. "We had to take Boots to the vet today." She said. ""Is she O.K.? I asked, but the tone in her voice told me that things were not O.K. Boots had made her final trip to the Vet. "It was for the best, she was suffering." Mom said to console me. There were tears in my eyes as I hung up. She had been 18 or 19 and had been a part of our lives for a long time. Pets don't take up much space in your house but they leave a huge hole in your life when they are gone.
The funny thing is what happened next. Blackie, who had always been content to sleep on Dad's chair, relegated there by his junior status in the household, began to sleep in all of Boots' favourite spots. He took over her well worn spot on the dining room floor, where the afternoon sun hit just right. He began to sleep on the hallway furnace vent where Boots had eyed him with a gaze that would freeze lava. But most of all he enjoyed curling up around Mom's feet, Saturday nights under the card table. All those years of waiting had paid off. The usurper now ruled the roost. Blackie no longer had to slink around, avoiding the glare of his former master. He had earned his time to rule the roost. He had gone from a stray, a pest, a trespasser to the lord and master of the manner. In time there was another call, another one way trip to the Vet. He too had been about 19 years old. At least he got to know what it was like to rule the roost. Who knows, maybe they are friends in heaven or maybe every cat has its' own favourite spots in heaven. I wonder if he has ever forgiven me.