I've never had a cat. My parents hated cats and made us all cat-haters/dog-lovers. At 68, I don't want a cat. But my neighbor has a cat named Leo. He has so much fur around his neck and shoulders it looks like a mane, plus it's a beautiful orange, tan, beige combination. Hence the name. Last year, when my neighbor was going to be away for several days, she asked me to check on him, make sure he had water, and maybe hang out for a bit. It didn't seem like much, so I said ok. Of course, I got a bad cold and felt horrible, grumbling all the way to Leo because all I wanted was to make a cup of ginger tea and cuddle up with my weighted blanket and here I had to go care for some stupid cat. But I'd promised so I went. After I got checked on everything, I lay down on the couch with a groan and a sneeze. Leo jumped up, stared at me a minute, then began purring. Rumbling, more like. He stepped gently onto my chest, lay down with his nose a couple inches from my chin, and rumbled some more. A lot more. Warm and soothed, I had the best nap ever. When I woke up, there he still was. I no longer hate cats. Still don't want one, but don't hate them.
Sep 25, 2023·edited Sep 25, 2023Liked by M Tamara Cutler
Cats?? I cannot write about cats. Nothing about cats resonates with me. They seem aloof and I am not good with aloofness. I love my outgoing lab who even at 13 is always so delighted to see me in the mornings, like he can’t believe his good fortune, all wags, pushing his head between my knees. I love exhuberant affection from my animals and my people, affection in large type, like my husband’s broad smile, his big twinkling eyes, that used to make even my most shy or hardest to engage little patients grin back up at him when he would pop into my office to change a bulb or fix the heat, or attach a bookshelf to the wall, cheerful bright yellow ladder or toolbox in hand, or put toner (what IS toner, even) in the printer, solving my impossible problems, and I love his generous affectionate wrap-around hugs, that used to fully envelope and practically smother and mortify my shy, tiny (cat-like?) mother, the hugs that are my haven. Admittedly I’ve never known a cat up close and personal. They must be affectionate in their own ways. But I’ll take my love, like my dog and husband, in Extra Warm.
Tom was the sole male in Momma cat’s only living litter, born in 1960. The three females, two solid grays and a calico like her mother, went to neighbors, but Tom stayed with us. Momma cat doted on her only son, nursing and grooming him well beyond weaning and, for as long as she lived, hunting and calling to him, her mouth full of mouse. We three girls spoiled him, too, letting him in our bedroom window at night whenever he yowled—we were sure our parents never knew. Tom took everything in stride, that is, he took his comforts for granted. An orange and white tabby, Tom was originally named Butterscotch. Three syllables proved difficult for calling, “Here, Butterscotch, Butterscotch, Butterscotch,” so we shortened it to Butch. Somehow Butch didn’t quite fit. I don’t remember exactly when or why we changed his name to Tom. Maybe my two sisters and I had already seen the 1964 Disney movie “The Three Lives of Thomasina,” in which a little girl’s orange cat, left for dead by her veterinarian father, a widower played by Patrick McGoohan, survives thanks to the ministrations of beautiful Susan Hampshire. Thomasina returns to the little girl and all come together as a family to live happily ever after. Our Tom had a similar near-death experience. One summer evening, he didn’t come home. He was neutered so we knew he wasn’t out chasing the ladies. We called and called, “Here kitty, here kitty, kitty, kitty.” The next two days, we searched all his haunts but found no sign of him. The third day after his disappearance, our parents delivered their prepared speeches. “Cats and dogs sometimes get sick and go off by themselves to die,” Daddy the pediatrician said. Mother added, “And cats aren’t really domesticated animals like dogs; cats do their best but sometimes they just go back to the wild.” My sisters and I couldn’t imagine our momma’s boy leaving his mother or us. Something was wrong. “Can we look for him one more time after supper, please?” we asked. We hurried through dinner and raced out the breezeway door. Even with daylight savings, little time remained until dark. All five of us walked the yard outside the house, calling and listening, then down the hill to the stream, across the big lawn and up to the barn that had served Round Hill Farm. A long shot, we thought, and the end of the line. “It’s time to go home,” Mother and Daddy said. “No, please,” we begged, “just a little longer, just along the stonewall here, we think we hear something.” A faint, hoarse cry rose from inside the stonewall. Daddy lifted a big rock off the top of the wall, and there was Tom, dirty, dehydrated, stiff and alive. “He must have been chasing a critter, and a rock knocked loose and fell down on him. Poor fella.” Daddy lifted him up and checked for injuries. “He doesn’t seem to be hurt, just lame from being trapped in close quarters for a long time. Let’s take him home and get him some water and a little food.” Too tired even to purr that night, Tom let Momma cat clean him up, and we girls pampered him, as usual. So, “Tom” returned to our family and lived happily ever after for a long, long time.
I relate to cats: how much they like to sleep and stretch; how they sometimes crave company and other times, aggressively not. But one thing we do not share is the ability to prowl around at night, alone; how they can immerse themselves in nature even on the edges of a city, just by being small.
There are a few occasions when I have gotten close. Once, after the pub, I persuaded my boyfriend to walk home through the marshes, which was the most direct route to our flat.
I told him I knew the way, as I walk there a lot (only during the day on weekends, when it’s busy) but it was dark and I’m bad at directions anyway. We waded through damp grass up to our knees, blackness all around us. If someone had taken a photo, I imagine my pupils would have been like a cat’s at that specific time they flip out and race around wildly. It felt like we were two tiny creatures in a small garden.
My boyfriend said we shouldn’t have done it, that we were lucky we weren’t mugged or murdered. It made me even more envious of cats.
I wasn't a cat person either, until I was. It's only the barest shreds of self discipline and consciousness that keeps me from becoming a quintessential cat lady. With too many cat escapades, rescues and reunions to recount here, all I can say is I find their personalities fascinating, their colors and coats fetching and am astounded -baring any neglect or abuse- how amazingly self confident they are. There's this that sums up felines well: Dogs look to their humans and think, "you feed me, you shelter me, you love on me and pet me, You must be God. Cats look to their humans and think, "you feed me, you shelter me, you love on me and pet me, I must be God."
Sep 29, 2023·edited Oct 1, 2023Liked by M Tamara Cutler
Sitting in 8A, another transatlantic flight, this time Montreal to Málaga, heading home after a succession of first and last events, first, meeting my goddaughter, Billie, 40 days old, daughter of Granger, who lives next to our best friend, Shank, a cat owner, sleeping arrangements determined by a mutual allergy to cats, Granger being allergic, me, a late bloomer to cat allergies, developed in my teens, which continue today, unlike my uncle Bob, who died three months ago, on his wedding anniversary, his wife Geraldine also gone too early, before him, the drink, two urns in a hole, a last burial, final resting place for Bob and Gerry, both lowered down at the same time, this past Saturday, ashes to ashes, taking up residence in the Willsboro cemetery, permanently, a beautiful plot, marked with a headstone, a reminder for those left behind to, above all, have fun, enjoy it, also a warning, be honest, be healthy, two lovers gone too early, their memories will fade, to be replaced, a gift of life, the flow, starts and stops, never-ending, developing our strength to accept it all, ready to start fresh tomorrow, with eyes wide open.
Kee-Kee was a beloved companion during my childhood and early teens. In summer, cats would yowl in heat, and at some point we noticed two tabby kittens wandering the neighborhood in search of food. My dad and stepmom took in the female and so Kee-Kee joined our patchwork family, which included two collies, my little half-brother, and then my half-sister.
Every other weekend when I would visit, Kee-Kee would be on my bed, cuddling or playing with my feet, dashing up and down the stairs – first one flight in the old house, and then two flights in the new one. She was strictly an indoor cat, for fear she would get lost outdoors or hit by a car or meet some other urban demise.
Then came the fancy sofa. She wouldn’t stop clawing it, and so was banished to the unfinished basement. After that, I spent a good deal of time down there, reading sci-fi and fantasy, practicing the flute, and seeking refuge in her purring, non-judgmental company.
Her favorite spots were along the old, warm pipes, their yellow insulation peeking through gaps in the duct tape – did the fibers damage her lungs? At some point, her legs stopped working, and then she was dead. The only explanation I have for why my loved ones did such an inhumane thing is cognitive dissonance.
I've never had a cat. My parents hated cats and made us all cat-haters/dog-lovers. At 68, I don't want a cat. But my neighbor has a cat named Leo. He has so much fur around his neck and shoulders it looks like a mane, plus it's a beautiful orange, tan, beige combination. Hence the name. Last year, when my neighbor was going to be away for several days, she asked me to check on him, make sure he had water, and maybe hang out for a bit. It didn't seem like much, so I said ok. Of course, I got a bad cold and felt horrible, grumbling all the way to Leo because all I wanted was to make a cup of ginger tea and cuddle up with my weighted blanket and here I had to go care for some stupid cat. But I'd promised so I went. After I got checked on everything, I lay down on the couch with a groan and a sneeze. Leo jumped up, stared at me a minute, then began purring. Rumbling, more like. He stepped gently onto my chest, lay down with his nose a couple inches from my chin, and rumbled some more. A lot more. Warm and soothed, I had the best nap ever. When I woke up, there he still was. I no longer hate cats. Still don't want one, but don't hate them.
Cats?? I cannot write about cats. Nothing about cats resonates with me. They seem aloof and I am not good with aloofness. I love my outgoing lab who even at 13 is always so delighted to see me in the mornings, like he can’t believe his good fortune, all wags, pushing his head between my knees. I love exhuberant affection from my animals and my people, affection in large type, like my husband’s broad smile, his big twinkling eyes, that used to make even my most shy or hardest to engage little patients grin back up at him when he would pop into my office to change a bulb or fix the heat, or attach a bookshelf to the wall, cheerful bright yellow ladder or toolbox in hand, or put toner (what IS toner, even) in the printer, solving my impossible problems, and I love his generous affectionate wrap-around hugs, that used to fully envelope and practically smother and mortify my shy, tiny (cat-like?) mother, the hugs that are my haven. Admittedly I’ve never known a cat up close and personal. They must be affectionate in their own ways. But I’ll take my love, like my dog and husband, in Extra Warm.
Tom was the sole male in Momma cat’s only living litter, born in 1960. The three females, two solid grays and a calico like her mother, went to neighbors, but Tom stayed with us. Momma cat doted on her only son, nursing and grooming him well beyond weaning and, for as long as she lived, hunting and calling to him, her mouth full of mouse. We three girls spoiled him, too, letting him in our bedroom window at night whenever he yowled—we were sure our parents never knew. Tom took everything in stride, that is, he took his comforts for granted. An orange and white tabby, Tom was originally named Butterscotch. Three syllables proved difficult for calling, “Here, Butterscotch, Butterscotch, Butterscotch,” so we shortened it to Butch. Somehow Butch didn’t quite fit. I don’t remember exactly when or why we changed his name to Tom. Maybe my two sisters and I had already seen the 1964 Disney movie “The Three Lives of Thomasina,” in which a little girl’s orange cat, left for dead by her veterinarian father, a widower played by Patrick McGoohan, survives thanks to the ministrations of beautiful Susan Hampshire. Thomasina returns to the little girl and all come together as a family to live happily ever after. Our Tom had a similar near-death experience. One summer evening, he didn’t come home. He was neutered so we knew he wasn’t out chasing the ladies. We called and called, “Here kitty, here kitty, kitty, kitty.” The next two days, we searched all his haunts but found no sign of him. The third day after his disappearance, our parents delivered their prepared speeches. “Cats and dogs sometimes get sick and go off by themselves to die,” Daddy the pediatrician said. Mother added, “And cats aren’t really domesticated animals like dogs; cats do their best but sometimes they just go back to the wild.” My sisters and I couldn’t imagine our momma’s boy leaving his mother or us. Something was wrong. “Can we look for him one more time after supper, please?” we asked. We hurried through dinner and raced out the breezeway door. Even with daylight savings, little time remained until dark. All five of us walked the yard outside the house, calling and listening, then down the hill to the stream, across the big lawn and up to the barn that had served Round Hill Farm. A long shot, we thought, and the end of the line. “It’s time to go home,” Mother and Daddy said. “No, please,” we begged, “just a little longer, just along the stonewall here, we think we hear something.” A faint, hoarse cry rose from inside the stonewall. Daddy lifted a big rock off the top of the wall, and there was Tom, dirty, dehydrated, stiff and alive. “He must have been chasing a critter, and a rock knocked loose and fell down on him. Poor fella.” Daddy lifted him up and checked for injuries. “He doesn’t seem to be hurt, just lame from being trapped in close quarters for a long time. Let’s take him home and get him some water and a little food.” Too tired even to purr that night, Tom let Momma cat clean him up, and we girls pampered him, as usual. So, “Tom” returned to our family and lived happily ever after for a long, long time.
I relate to cats: how much they like to sleep and stretch; how they sometimes crave company and other times, aggressively not. But one thing we do not share is the ability to prowl around at night, alone; how they can immerse themselves in nature even on the edges of a city, just by being small.
There are a few occasions when I have gotten close. Once, after the pub, I persuaded my boyfriend to walk home through the marshes, which was the most direct route to our flat.
I told him I knew the way, as I walk there a lot (only during the day on weekends, when it’s busy) but it was dark and I’m bad at directions anyway. We waded through damp grass up to our knees, blackness all around us. If someone had taken a photo, I imagine my pupils would have been like a cat’s at that specific time they flip out and race around wildly. It felt like we were two tiny creatures in a small garden.
My boyfriend said we shouldn’t have done it, that we were lucky we weren’t mugged or murdered. It made me even more envious of cats.
I wasn't a cat person either, until I was. It's only the barest shreds of self discipline and consciousness that keeps me from becoming a quintessential cat lady. With too many cat escapades, rescues and reunions to recount here, all I can say is I find their personalities fascinating, their colors and coats fetching and am astounded -baring any neglect or abuse- how amazingly self confident they are. There's this that sums up felines well: Dogs look to their humans and think, "you feed me, you shelter me, you love on me and pet me, You must be God. Cats look to their humans and think, "you feed me, you shelter me, you love on me and pet me, I must be God."
Sitting in 8A, another transatlantic flight, this time Montreal to Málaga, heading home after a succession of first and last events, first, meeting my goddaughter, Billie, 40 days old, daughter of Granger, who lives next to our best friend, Shank, a cat owner, sleeping arrangements determined by a mutual allergy to cats, Granger being allergic, me, a late bloomer to cat allergies, developed in my teens, which continue today, unlike my uncle Bob, who died three months ago, on his wedding anniversary, his wife Geraldine also gone too early, before him, the drink, two urns in a hole, a last burial, final resting place for Bob and Gerry, both lowered down at the same time, this past Saturday, ashes to ashes, taking up residence in the Willsboro cemetery, permanently, a beautiful plot, marked with a headstone, a reminder for those left behind to, above all, have fun, enjoy it, also a warning, be honest, be healthy, two lovers gone too early, their memories will fade, to be replaced, a gift of life, the flow, starts and stops, never-ending, developing our strength to accept it all, ready to start fresh tomorrow, with eyes wide open.
Kee-Kee was a beloved companion during my childhood and early teens. In summer, cats would yowl in heat, and at some point we noticed two tabby kittens wandering the neighborhood in search of food. My dad and stepmom took in the female and so Kee-Kee joined our patchwork family, which included two collies, my little half-brother, and then my half-sister.
Every other weekend when I would visit, Kee-Kee would be on my bed, cuddling or playing with my feet, dashing up and down the stairs – first one flight in the old house, and then two flights in the new one. She was strictly an indoor cat, for fear she would get lost outdoors or hit by a car or meet some other urban demise.
Then came the fancy sofa. She wouldn’t stop clawing it, and so was banished to the unfinished basement. After that, I spent a good deal of time down there, reading sci-fi and fantasy, practicing the flute, and seeking refuge in her purring, non-judgmental company.
Her favorite spots were along the old, warm pipes, their yellow insulation peeking through gaps in the duct tape – did the fibers damage her lungs? At some point, her legs stopped working, and then she was dead. The only explanation I have for why my loved ones did such an inhumane thing is cognitive dissonance.