Tag: cats

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Coffee

They say that hearing and smell are the last senses to go when you are dying. I can assure you that this is also true when you feel like you are dying due to a massive hangover.
You wake. Where or when am I? From traffic sounds and the smell of frying eggs, I determine that I’m still among the living. But do I wish to remain that way? Slip back into a cozy stupor.
Awake again. The cat, the Gray Menace Clancy, is delicately batting my nose, claws half extended. The claws are his warning that soon if you don’t get up and feed him, he’ll begin feline acupuncture. Let’s slip away into sleep.
AAAAWWWW! Stop! the cat’s efforts to wake me have now escalated. It’s now a single claw inserted into the nose with “delicate” traction applied.
“I’m awake, damn it!” You hear a thud as his twenty pounds of muscle hits the floor; you listen to him padding into the kitchen. ” Is he awake yet, Clancy?” It’s the familiar voice of your girlfriend. “Hey. Are you ready for coffee? Maybe some eggs and toast?”
I take a whiff of the coffee. Maybe I’ll recover after all?

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Hell Hath No Fury…

Don’t do that again.” Suzy’s boyfriend kicked at the Gray Menace. “whatcha gonna do? It’s just a cat?” “It’s not what I’m going to do; it’s all about what he’s going to.” My girlfriend laughed at a joke Suzy, the better half of Suzy and the Clown, told outside on the patio.
“So, what’s he going to do clean my clock?” At that moment, the Gray Menace launched his counterattack. Most cats attack foot or leg; my cat believed in terminal solutions and threw himself at the Clown’s face. The Clown lurched, avoiding a bit nose only by sacrificing a hand—the Gray Menace bit into the webbing between the thumb and first finger. Grabbing the opposing wrist, I used a wristlock to maneuver the Clown through the door. The Clown landed face down on the stones.
The women looked up. Suzy seeing beer and blood all over her boyfriend, gave him a look that shouted, “I just can’t take you anywhere!”

Fury, forgotten the Gray Menace, walked over to Suzy using Clown as a red carpet. Purring, he rubbed against her leg. Picking him up in an intense hug, she said, ” What a cutie, you’re just a love!”

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Present Arms!

I had recently moved back to Massachusetts from Philadelphia after finishing up most of my prep work for my doctoral fieldwork. I was living in an awful apartment in Malden while writing my proposal and working to pay the rent. It was not a fun period in my life. I knew I faced an uphill climb with my department for my dissertation topic. My grey devil cat Clancy looked at it differently. He was living in a target-rich environment for his favorite activity; hunting mice. Every morning he was exhausted after spending the night pouncing on what had to be the most suicidal population of rodents in the state.
His routine was to present them in a lineup first thing in the morning as I got up to make coffee and feed him. He would sit at the end of the line, chest out, immeasurably proud of the body count. You could almost hear the crisp tones of “Present Arms!”
After a while, the nightly bounty slowed. So Clancy spent more time playing with them and keeping one alive to offer to me. I think he wanted to provide me with the opportunity to improve my feeble hunting skills.
We took a trip to Maine about that time so that I could survey potential locations for my fieldwork. I was interested in finding a community close to where I had lived on the coast, but far enough away that I would not have to interact with my ex-wife, or worse with my former father in law – the Cap’n. Clancy, as usual, was pleased to go on a road trip, and seek new conquests.
We returned after two weeks and found that a new population of rodents had moved in from elsewhere in the building. Clancy rejoiced in renewed hunting. At about that time, my relationship with a nurse I had seen casually began to pick up.
One night I had her over for dinner. Fearing that we’d be late for the movie I was taking her to, I left about a half basin of dirty dishes to wash when I came home. The evening was a greater success than I suspected, and instead of escorting her to her home, we returned to my apartment.

Here is where it all goes wrong. Entering the dark apartment, we pause for a romantic kiss. I reach across the kitchen wall for the light switch and move in for a second kiss only to hear my date shriek. Turning, I see the dish basin sitting in the sink. In the basin are the bobbing corpses of about six mice. Very dead. At the end of the counter sits Clancy mouth full with yet another mouse to add to the basin. My date surges out of the apartment, demanding to go home instantly. Thus ended a lovely relationship in the bud.

Clancy, always seeking new ways to eliminate mice, had perhaps by accident stumbled upon this method of execution. Over the years, I had entered the bathroom to witness mice getting flushed, made paraplegic, and lined up for body counts, but this was one for the books. He seemed to do this most when he disapproved of my girlfriends. I warned them not to be surprised if he offered them a living mouse. It was a test; pay no attention, and he took it away. Eventually, I found a lovely woman who ignored this sort of thing, and he came to worship her.

Years later, I was sitting with my wife watching the movie Titanic. In the scene where a rescue crew is rowing through the masses of floating and frozen dead, I recalled Clancy and the basin full of dead mice. Somehow the scene was forever ruined for me.

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Slap shot

<p class="has-drop-cap" value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80">My first wife, Georgia, and I found him as a kitten while living in Ottawa, Ontario. He started life as a combative kitten and grew into an adult that liked a good brawl. Georgia called him our little vampire kitty because he would lick your blood off his claws. After the marriage "went south," he wound up with me. He loved graduate school in Philadelphia. It was his type of place.My first wife, Georgia, and I found him as a kitten while living in Ottawa, Ontario. He started life as a combative kitten and grew into an adult that liked a good brawl. Georgia called him our little vampire kitty because he would lick your blood off his claws. After the marriage “went south,” he wound up with me. He loved graduate school in Philadelphia. It was his type of place.

 Clancy had a favorite musician, Warren Zevon. Clancy especially liked numbers like Werewolves of London, Lawyers Guns and Money, and Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner. There was a beat-up Windsor chair in my Philly apartment, and if I put a Warren Zevon tape on, the cat would jump onto it and challenge me to a duel. He hated it when I gave in too quickly. He preferred a quality combat experience – one with blood spilled – mine. He would sulk around the apartment, mutter to himself, and then attack my leg suddenly, forcing me back onto a combat footing until he tired. 

I found one way to distract him, a game we called Cat Hockey. Playing this game requires a multitude of small hi-bounce balls. We had dozens. The play took place in the kitchen using the refrigerator as the goal. He, of course, was the goalie. It was my job to get a ball past him and under the fridge. Clancy took great pride in deflecting my shots, making moves where he’d leave the “net” and attack me, or finesse a shot into the living room. Clancy typically won this game…it was safest that way. He didn’t handle defeat in a sports cat manner. We had so many balls to put off the moment when I had to get on my knees with a stick and retrieve the balls. Clancy had to supervise and crowded my view of the dusty under the fridge goal zone.

Ultimately someone unfamiliar with his proud Canadian heritage would suggest that the game could be cat soccer. At which point, I’d recommend that they came around some night when the Maple Leafs played the Bruins. When the movie Slap Shot came out, it was for sure his type of movie. Clancy would have fit right in with the Hanson twins, Killer Carlson and Ogie Oglethorpe. He loved to “drop the gloves” just like the hockey players of that era.

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A Cat’s Take On The Bible

<p class="has-drop-cap" value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80">A few years past, I was sitting in front of the woodstove. My black cat, Smidgen, was sitting purring in my lap. Once in a while, it was her habit to correct my take on life by sharing feline wisdom tidbits, black double pawed cats specifically. The formula followed was usually a reminder that her Ancestors had been gods in Eygpt. She told me That her family was from the most excellent line of ships cats ever to have landed in Newburyport. After all, wasn’t she from Neptune St. in Joppa?After the preliminaries, Smidgen proceeded to knit with her claws on my legs, purr, and correct the bible lesson from Genesis that the kids had had at Sunday School.<br>“Genesis! Those stupid males had all the details wrong. Sure it was seven days, and yes, the Garden was lovely, but as they say, the devil is in the details…”<br>OK, Smidge, how did it happen?<br>“Well, just like the Bible says, God created the heavens, the world, and all the creatures on it in six days. At last, God decided to create people. At that point, God thought creation was through and sat down to take a well-earned rest. Just like the book says that was on the seventh day. There God sat on a lovely hill, below a lovely tree, looking out on the Garden of Eden, and was just thrilled at how good it was for a rush job. But, then God realized that something critical was missing. Adam and Eve were playing with Spot their dog, there were the beautiful trees, and drop-dead gorgeous mountains, but something was missing. So God sat there leaning against the beautiful tree, and meditated on what was missing. For several hours God thought, and then looked up and cried out “cats! I forgot"cats!” then God created cats, in her image of course, and looked out upon the world, and said that it was good. So on the seventh day, God did get to rest with a purring kitty on the lap, knowing that now the world was perfect.”A few years past, I was sitting in front of the woodstove. My black cat, Smidgen, was sitting purring in my lap. Once in a while, it was her habit to correct my take on life by sharing feline wisdom tidbits, black double pawed cats specifically. The formula followed was usually a reminder that her Ancestors had been gods in Eygpt. She told me That her family was from the most excellent line of ships cats ever to have landed in Newburyport. After all, wasn’t she from Neptune St. in Joppa?After the preliminaries, Smidgen proceeded to knit with her claws on my legs, purr, and correct the bible lesson from Genesis that the kids had had at Sunday School.
“Genesis! Those stupid males had all the details wrong. Sure it was seven days, and yes, the Garden was lovely, but as they say, the devil is in the details…”
OK, Smidge, how did it happen?
“Well, just like the Bible says, God created the heavens, the world, and all the creatures on it in six days. At last, God decided to create people. At that point, God thought creation was through and sat down to take a well-earned rest. Just like the book says that was on the seventh day. There God sat on a lovely hill, below a lovely tree, looking out on the Garden of Eden, and was just thrilled at how good it was for a rush job. But, then God realized that something critical was missing. Adam and Eve were playing with Spot their dog, there were the beautiful trees, and drop-dead gorgeous mountains, but something was missing. So God sat there leaning against the beautiful tree, and meditated on what was missing. For several hours God thought, and then looked up and cried out “cats! I forgot”cats!” then God created cats, in her image of course, and looked out upon the world, and said that it was good. So on the seventh day, God did get to rest with a purring kitty on the lap, knowing that now the world was perfect.”

OK, Smidge, but what about Adam and Eve and the expulsion from the Garden. What about the Serpent?
Smidge sneered at me, no mean feat considering cats don’t don’t have proper lips to sneer with.
“Once again, you stupid two legs got it wrong. Catnip…it was all about catnip. God, being a superior being, had planted the Garden full of super-powerful nip. He forbade us, little guys, from sampling it. Being smart, and wanting to get blasted on Garden Gold, the senior cat approached Adam and Eve about cutting and curing us a secret supply. There was enough of that stuff to blast every cat into heaven a thousand times, and no one suspected that God would miss a little bit. The deal would have worked out fine except Spot, the little viper, went and told the boss. The boss was super peeved and found the curing shed with a couple of hundred bales down by the riverside. It got blasted with a lightning bolt. I tell you if cats could get high on burning nip we’d, we’d have stayed high for a few months. But no such luck, and soon we were all hightailing it out of the Garden with Spot running behind us; God’s not so fond of snitches either, so Spot got the boot too.”

Around that time, I woke up to a purring cat on my lap. “Smidge? Have you been telling silly stories again?” At first, she looked at me with a blank stare. Then she got up in a huff, insult showing in every movement. Down she jumped, hissed at me, and walked away with her tail held high.

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Miss Right

<p class="has-drop-cap" value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80"><br>Later on, we could never decide if he was born on Canada Day, July 1, or the fourth of July. Eventually, we settled on the fourth because he was such a rambunctious kitten; he seemed to like fireworks. He had no name for a while but got dubbed Clancy Bumps (with an Umlaut over the U). It was Clancy because he was a feisty little fighter. The Bumps we derived from Dinksbum a German term for a thingamabob. He grew into the name, and for some, those he disliked intensely, his name became consonant with feline violence. If he merely held you in contempt, he ignored you. For the lucky few, he offered friendship and affection in limited quantities.
Later on, we could never decide if he was born on Canada Day, July 1, or the fourth of July. Eventually, we settled on the fourth because he was such a rambunctious kitten; he seemed to like fireworks. He had no name for a while but got dubbed Clancy Bumps (with an Umlaut over the U). It was Clancy because he was a feisty little fighter. The Bumps we derived from Dinksbum a German term for a thingamabob. He grew into the name, and for some, those he disliked intensely, his name became consonant with feline violence. If he merely held you in contempt, he ignored you. For the lucky few, he offered friendship and affection in limited quantities.

 In graduate school, he developed a fondness for evaluating my girlfriends. Any he disapproved of rarely lasted long.

Then, in a burst of awareness, I understood that the cat had better taste in women than I did. I know, what a terrible admission to make about myself. But it was true. I was happier with women on the official “approved by Clancy” list. 

I learned to watch his reaction to them as much as I watched their response to him. If he disapproved, we would get up on the refrigerator and stare while pretending that he was going to leap at you. He preferred intimidation to mere violence where possible. Thank goodness because when he turned violent, things turned ugly – ask the German Shepard dogs, he beat up.

The worst thing you could do is treat him as a cute kitty; this was lèse-majesté. You could warn people not to pick him up and cuddle him, but not all listened. It certainly culled the field of potential girlfriends, fast.

With all this as a prelude, I was amazed by what happened when I met Mandy after grad school. She offered a hand for smelling and the requisite nip. Then she sat down and ignored him while he gave her a look over. He disliked being ignored, so he came over to smell her and rub against her. With these positive signs, we began to date regularly. We gradually moved onto a serious relationship. Then one weekend, she stayed over at my place. I went shopping and left her alone with the devil cat. When I returned, I found her curled up on couch reading. Resting comfortably on her lap was Mr. Devil cat himself, glaring at me. The look he gave me was all -“…and what do you want? Go away now.”

He made it clear over the following months that while I was his buddy, she was his “mom.”

So that you know he didn’t become a total softie. He continued beating up german shepherds, intimidating other cats, and bleeding humans for tasty blood samples. Only concerning “mom” did he change his ways, and even she did not get off entirely. When “mom” failed him, he’d wait till early morning, get up on the bureau, and as soon as he had her attention stare at her, and swat her earings to the floor. He compounded his revenge by rapidly jumping down and chasing the earing where it would never be found. Over the years, she built up an extensive collection of unmatched earrings. I replaced what he lost.

 It became clear that I had to marry “mom.” She was Miss Right. Four children, two cats, and two dogs later, I think my lovely wife still has a box of unmatched earrings tucked away.

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At Last

Xenia, Warrior Princess, Imperial Majesty of all see surveys patrols the area around the pond every morning. Unlike many cats, she is unconcerned about wet and damp weather, and will happily conduct her morning patrol in anything less than a full downpour. The yard and surrounding woods are stocked with small and not so small rodents. But the pond patrol is for the wiliest of prey: Lithobates clamitans – the green frog.
Capable of eluding her sharp vision and smell, they leap away from her at the last moment. They bob in the water, confident that they are safe. Until the second they see twelve pounds of black and white feline leaping into the pond after them. I am carefully watching and force open her mouth because the frog hunt is strictly catch and release. Standing beside Xenia is her faithful hunting companion Sam ( AKA Killer – scrouge of the chip monks). Most of the time, Sam’s job is to walk the pond’s perimeter and flush the prey into the open.
Right now, though, Sam runs towards the stacked cordwood barking at something in the woodpile. For an instant, I am distracted. Sam’s doggie grin alert’s me that I have just missed something. Turning, I see Xenia nonchalantly sauntering towards the open door. Wait a minute Xenia never walks casually anywhere! What’s that poking out of her mouth. Is that a frog leg? Sam starts barking. Xenia starts the final dash for the door, as I run to catch up. Sam runs between my legs and bolts into the door after Xenia. Xenia drops the frog. It promptly hops further into the house as both cat and dog begin wildly chasing it – for hours and hours.
It was not the first time the plan to stock the house with live prey was attempted. It was just the ultimate victory of feline cunning and canine persistence winning out over human idiocy. Finally!

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Fearsome

“Don’t encourage him! He’ll keep on doing it.” That was my fiance and soon to be first wife, Georgia. Clancy high jumped and pulled the chain on the old-style light once again. Out went the lights. On went the lights. Eventually, he grew bored and moved on to flushing the toilet while watching the water swirl down.
He moved on to toilet paper rolls, Hiding behind doors and attacking—all regular kitten type escapades.
By four months of age, he had graduated to hanging around with a neighbor’s Siamese, Hunter. The Siamese took the raw clay that was my kitten and shaped him into a small, fierce devil cat. By six months Hunter, Clancy, and a cat named Buzzsaw were bosses in the neighborhood. My sweet kitten was turning into a Canadian Mafioso on the streets of Ottawa.
In late November, I had to leave Canada to return to the states. Clancy was going to hitch with me back to a new home in Boston. The only thing I had to carry him in was a reinforced wicker picnic basket that I heavily lined with duffle (heavy wool felt). The first leg of my trip was by rail to Montreal. Clancy yowled until he was allowed to out of the case. From my lap, he finessed his way onto the lap of the cat-loving woman across the aisle.
The cat-loving woman browbeat her unhappy husband into giving us a ride out of Montreal and got us started towards the border. It went downhill from there. The weather deteriorated, and we walked more miles than we rode. We must have looked pretty disreputable- a skinny Folkie with a pack on his back, guitar in one hand, and a wicker picnic basket. People slowed down, swerved to look, and kept on driving. The circus lasted until past noon.
Around then came a speeding car. It swerved, looked at us, and then rapidly backed up. “Where you headed?” “Boston” “We’re headed to Norfolk, hop in, and we’ll take you as far as we can.” ” You guys, Navy?” “Yup, you?” ” Up to a year ago.” and off we roared.
Coincidence is a funny thing. We’d all served on the same ship and in the same squadron but at different times. A fast bond of being shipmates fell into place as we reviewed chief petty officers, infamous people we knew, and what we knew of the Squadron Racket (duty-free smokes smuggled in top-secret sea chests). Clancy felt right at home with the band of rascals. Then we got to the border.
Canadian customs officers asked a few routine questions, told Clancy how handsome he was, and waved us through. The United States side was a different sort of experience. We unloaded the car. They dug through the seabags, loosened the strings on my guitar, and attempted to probe it. All of this accompanied by snarling epithets and rudeness. My shipmates repacked their stuff while the agents decided that they did not want to dig through the week of dirty laundry in my pack.
Then the attention of goon number one shifted to the wicker basket. “Whata we have here?” ” A cat.” ” sure, looks like a picnic basket stuffed with wine to me.” He bent over and began to pry up a corner of the basket. He then attempted to stuff his hand in – “Please don’t do that. You’ll regret it.” He snarled at me to imply that I was the one who was going to have the regrets. Have I mentioned that Clancy had invented a new game on this trip? I stick my hand into the basket, and he bites it to show just how unhappy he was. No? Well, Mister customs agent got a major surprise.
Now my shipmates, being wise seaman, had already packed my guitar, pack, and the seabags into the car. As goon number one began howling and screaming for us to “Get the F<<k Outta here!!!!” goon number two was looking for the first aid kit. I picked up the basket and ran for the car. I had little time to check on Clancy but noted that he was fastidiously licking the blood off his claws.
We left skid marks getting out of there and didn’t stop until the guys let me out in Saratoga Springs. They indicated a motel with reasonable rates and told me to mention them to Wayne, the bartender at the roadhouse across the street.
After settling in at the motel, I crossed over to the roadhouse. I ordered a beer and a fast meal. While eating, I mentioned our mutual friends and told him about our wild time at customs. Clancy got top billing, of course. Wayne asked if Clancy was a good mouser. I assured him that the only thing he liked better than ripping up customs agents was a good mouse hunt.
A few minutes later, Clancy was set loose in their storeroom to clean out a small but persistent rodent invasion. After an hour in the storeroom, Clancy came into the bar, jumped up on the counter, and began socializing. That cat always liked a party. Someone set down a small roast beef sub in front of him, and while passing on the bread, he ate all the beef and the hots.
We closed the bar that night and too early in the morning headed towards Boston. That evening our first stop in Boston was at the Harvard Gardens, where eight-ounce empties of beer surrounded my regular crew from the Folkie Palace. Our regular waitress, Evie, made a fuss over the cat and brought more beer and something for Clancy to eat.
Clancy joined the complement of the Folkie Palace. He fit right in with his lack of respect for authority, appreciation for our casual lifestyle, lack of regular hours, and general bon vivant take on life.

Clancy loved adventure. If it didn’t find him, he created it. As Napoleon said -“Glory is fleeting. But obscurity is forever.” Clancy loved Glory…and a good fight.

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Tiger, Tiger!

Clancy, my grey-furred devil cat, lay in the sun showing his belly to all. He was acting innocent, but the half-closed eyes were an invitation to a clawing.
Provocative. Inviting a rub or a pat, but only for those with reflexes fast enough to dart to safety before he drew blood. It was one of his favorite games.
We were having the first extensive cookout of summer, and Clancy, having escaped the room I had locked him in now reclined on the top of a bright red car. Appropriate. Most of the guests knew Clancy and would not be lured in. Soft grey belly fur or not. But here comes my friend Tom. He is Clancy’s favorite source of O Negative blood ( other than me). Tom has already had several beers.
Knowing that Tom is good for the challenge, the grey menace drops the pretense of sleep, stretches, and yawns. Slowly the left paw pats Tom’s hand, claws in. If you know the signs, you’ll see just the slightest tightening of the belly muscles. Then the rapid wind up. The snap and Clancy scores!
Clancy sits up slowly. Carefully licks the blood off his paw, and jumps to the next car. Tom is clutching his bleeding hand. ” See you later for a rematch, Clancy?”

Some people never learn.

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Shy, Never!

There was nothing shy about that grey tomcat of mine. If Clancy liked you, he’d let you know at once, and if he didn’t like you, he’d let you know at once. There’d be a slight variation in technique. For like he’d savor your blood like an excellent vintage, and lick you clean while rubbing against your legs. If he took a dislike to you, he’d ignore you until an opportunity presented itself to do some genuinely foul thing. He was neither bashful nor shy.
So how did you wind up on the side of the enemy? Let me count the ways: Ignore him, push him away with your foot or hand, disparagingly speak about him (he could tell), kick him, refuse to share your roast beef sandwich with him. I could go on. He rarely forgave, and he never forgot.

On returning to the Boston area after grad school, I took up with some sailing buddies as roommates. George and Andy. George was a hard-working type, while Andy never attended a party he didn’t like. After living with them for a while, I realized that George kept to himself to avoid Andy. They were roommates for economic convenience, not because they were friends. Things could get boisterous when Andy returned from a good carouse.
George got on Clancy’s right side early – he shared his roast beef. The cat loved roast beef subs, preferably with hot pepper on it. So George was on Clancy’s right side. Clancy had never liked drunks, and Andy was one. So Andy started with a handicap. Then one night, he made the mistake of using his shoe to shove Clancy aside. A bean bag chair followed the shoe. I heard about it after I came home from work. Clancy sulked and bided his time. With him, the longer he sulked, the worse the revenge would be.

Andy used black trash bags for almost everything, from trash to housing clothes to storing valuables. One day when George and I were taking the garbage out, we put a big part of Andy’s wardrobe on the street. When he bought replacements, he kept them in a black trash bag. Clancy took the opportunity to sneak up to Andy’s room, pee on the bag, and join George and me in front of the TV. Have I told you that the cat had a perfect poker face?
Clancy was robbed of the ultimate pleasure. Andy did not blow up or stomp downstairs, screaming. It turned out that Andy had almost no practical sense of smell. The next morning he came downstairs and said he had to do some laundry because his clothing smelled a bit mildewed. George and I looked at him; Clancy looked at him. As soon as Andy left, the cat made a beeline upstairs. I did not attempt to check on what was going on. George found it hilarious and bought a roast beef sub, with hots for Clancy. I sped up my preparations for moving into an apartment of my own.
Andy moved out first. He insisted that he could never rid his room of the mildew odor. Our next roommate liked turkey club sandwiches. The new roommate shared. Clancy, being neither bashful nor shy, decided that turkey was good stuff and that Steve was an alright guy.

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