Cat Joy

A true account and in loving memory of Cleo

Illustrations by Don Orehek
Photos by Suzanne

The house just wasn’t the same friendly and happy place.  It felt empty; missing the warmth there had been since shortly after we moved in over thirty-four years ago.  This was not because furniture or things were lacking.  There were plenty of those.  Rather it was because the house was without a cat, and a cat to us is such a little miracle.

We had lost both . . . no we were lost without our two elderly darlings.  Schwanzie, a gray bobtail and mother going on 17 years of age, died under the Christmas tree on December 17; then her son Tracks, a brown tabby, passed away unexpectedly  (probably from kidney failure; he had been diagnosed with hyperthyroidism).  Tracks was approaching his 16^th birthday, on May 26 to be exact.

What is the proper mourning period for a beloved family pet?  I mean, one doesn’t go out and replace him the minute he is gone like one had run out of milk.  Then there is the serious consideration whether another pet should be brought into the house at all. 

Memorial Stone

 So a month passed and with time our household settled into quietude, perhaps welcome to some, but empty – too quiet – without the special joy that unconditional feline love brings.  Though unable to put a name to it, I missed the myriad little smiles I broke into daily as our cat, one or the other, just entered the room, stretched or even yawned.  My husband Don says cats are entertaining because they are unintentionally funny.  They are innately serious while they make you smile or laugh outright, like the time Tracks jumped onto our new granite countertop not expecting it to be different than the old Formica one.  It was much more slippery, and he could not stop, so he just kept right on going – off the other side.  This was a most serious incident to him (he never jumped up there again) and a source of amusement, if not outright mirth, to us.  Yes, we laughed at him for you can never laugh with a cat.  They take themselves much too seriously.

Another antic of Tracks’ that brought repeated amusement was his physical reaction to his being  lifted  under  his  front  haunches  and  carried to the steps which led down to the basement where he would spend the night.  When I lowered him onto the top step, his tail went into a spin giving him the appearance of an upside down helicopter.  It spun fast, too.  He must have instinctively been seeking traction, no doubt.  What a hilarious thing to see, and what a temptation to let poor Tracks dangle – hover – there, a foot or so above the floor, for much longer than necessary, but he was too heavy, so I put him down already looking forward to this unique entertainment the next time.

Those were only a couple of the many joys with which our cats completed our lives.  So perhaps you now understand how quiet, even joyless, a cat-less house can be.  But, let me clarify.  Cats aren’t noisy in the first place aside from occasional overly loud purring or a knocked over figurine, it is the human laugh, the here kitty, the tapping of the thigh as an invitation to jump into a lap and the whir or pop of the cat food can being opened that are the sounds of a “cat house.”  I don’t mean to say that a house without a cat is totally devoid of joy.  Many things make one happy or smile.  Cat joy is something extra, something special, something which cannot be replaced.  Perhaps only those who have experienced it can understand.

So having explained all that – I hope – it is easy to guess that it was not long before another cat came to live with us. After a month of grieving and with any thought of staying stay cat-less gone, Don and I made a foray to the North Shore Animal League.  Though it was located a mere half mile from our house, the visit there represented a commitment and agreement between us that we would not be cat-less much longer.

We were still in the grasp of winter (early March) and not yet fully into kitten season, so we soon found out that there were no kittens to be had.  Many older cats, anywhere from a year or two to twelve beckoned and waited, deservedly so, for a home.  I wandered among the stacked up, chicken-coop cages hoping for that special connection, a look, a movement that said “we” were meant to be.  Most of the cats, as cats do, stared, expressionless, or napped.  Before I continue describing my inspection of this kitty zoo, I must digress to say a word about cats’ facial expressions.   I have said how often and importantly cats make me smile, but can the favor of a smile be reciprocated?  Not, of course, in the biological sense of the word, for cats (the Cheshire Cat is fiction) do not have the physical ability to grin – to put on a happy face.  But even to the most disinterested cat observer, there can be no mistaking a cat’s mood, or his reaction to most anything, and it’s often shown with the ears with the body position underlining the meaning.  Simply put: a cat does with his ears what we do with our mouths – except the hearing and eating parts. 

Back to the Animal League.  Each cat I saw deserved a home.  However, some, due to color, length of fur and past personal experience, had more appeal to me than others.  I could picture most every one curled up in my lap.  Then in a corner cage, a black cat with a muffler of white fur around its neck and chin looked at me asking to be introduced.  The attendant opened the cage.  Happily, this furry darling literally climbed up into my arms.  I was mesmerized as Don stood by stoically.  We had not actually planned our trip to the Animal League, but rather I had suggested the detour on our way to the supermarket.  I told the attendance we had errands and would be back.

Two hours later we returned.  I looked around for the young lady who had introduced me to Maxie, the cage name of the back and white I had held.  The attendant wasn’t there.  Another volunteer approached as we peered into Maxie’s cage where he was now curled up asleep.  “We were looking at him earlier,” I said. 

“He needs a lot of TLC,” the volunteer said.  “He needs shots twice a day and frequent visits to the vet.  His needs are covered for life though.”

I looked at Don as my heart sank.  We had been through the shots-twice-a-day routine with another cat.  We had done everything we should that time, but it was impossible to take it on again.  We visit our daughter and her family a couple of times a year on the other coast, and finding someone to take over the care of such a needy cat while we are gone is difficult, if not impossible.  We walked sadly away from Maxie’s cage.  I was just glad that he was asleep and wouldn’t see us leave for the second time.

A month went by – cat-less.  I won’t say I dwell ed on this disappointment for I knew the time would come when we would find the right feline companion.  I halfway expected to open the front door one day to find a cat there; bindle stick slung over one shoulder, ready to move in.

Finally spring crept back into our lives.  Kitten season!

Don, on most workdays, drove me to the train station and picked me up in the evening.  Occasionally, I would take the car, parking in one of three commuter lots.  On Good Friday, a workday for me though not for many, I took the car.  When I returned in the evening, the thought came into my head; or rather I finally acknowledged a thought that had been there all along.  I would stop by the North Shore Animal League to see if they had any kittens.  If I just took a quick look, I would only be delayed a few minutes and as unpredictable as the trains could be, Don would not even realize I hadn’t come straight home, not that I wouldn’t tell him if he asked or if I had anything worth reporting.  I would see.

I walked past the rows of barking and sleeping dogs to reach the cat room.  It flickered through my mind that none of the dogs specifically appeared to be giving me their attention.  Did they somehow know that I am a cat person?

I entered the cat room where a  couple of the older cats were wandering around, getting their exercise.  A cute lop-eared bunny hopped across the floor.  Surely he would be adopted quickly in this Easter season.

“Do you have any kittens?” I asked the current attendant, a young lady I hadn’t seen before.

“Only one, but she just came from the operating room.  She was spayed, and the anesthesia hasn’t worn off.”  She turned her attention to an orange tabby that was giving the rabbit a bit too much attention.

I stood there; motionless I’m sure, feeling lost.  It seemed that once again there were no kittens up for adoption.  The volunteer put the tabby in its cage and approached me.

“May I see the kitten?” I asked hesitantly, expecting her to say no.  Instead, she walked over to the corner of the room where a cage at waist height sat.  Inside a tiny black and white ball of fur lay curled up.

“She was spayed?”  I was startled that this should be done to such a small creature.

“Yes, we spay or neuter as young as eight weeks.  Studies have found that’s the earliest it can be done.  People who adopt are supposed to bring their animal back for neutering, but frequently they don’t.”

The volunteer opened the cage and scooped up the sleeping ball of fur.  She placed her in my hands.  Still subdued from the anesthetic, the kitten seemed to contour herself to me as I pulled her close.  We looked at each other for the first time, and I knew I had found the right cat to give a home.  Still, I hesitated.  I wanted Don’s agreement.  We three would be a family.  Reluctantly I handed the kitten back and explained that I was on my way home from work; I would go get my husband and be right back.

Within a half hour, Don and I were entering the cat room together.  I led him to the corner where the kitten lay, still curled up.  There was a new sign on the cage: Ask a volunteer attendant about me.  What did this sign mean?  I had noticed them before on other cages, but hadn’t asked the meaning.  A volunteer approached, yet another young lady.  Never the same one twice, it seemed!

“May I see this kitten?  I was here before.”

“She’s being adopted,” was the reply.

The meaning of the new sign on the cage had been explained.  For the second time, in this same room, my heart sank.  Ironically, the kitten’s cage was right below the cage that Maxie (no longer there) had been in.  Two black and whites: two disappointments.

“Your sign,” I said pointing, “isn’t very clear.  Why doesn’t it just say I have been adopted?”

“The adoption is in the approval process,” the volunteer explained rather vaguely.

I wandered around the room, somewhat aimlessly I’ll admit, looking at all the older cats.  Today was not going to be the day a new member was added to our family.  My heart was no longer in it. 

The lop-eared rabbit hopped across the floor.  Two cats backed off.  The volunteer scooped up the rabbit and returned it to its cage before a serious altercation could take place.

“Do you know when you’ll have any more kittens?” I asked not really expecting that such a thing could be predictable.

The volunteer shook her head.  Then she startled me by saying, “If you want to wait a while, the adoption might not go through.  A man came in with his two children and saw the kitten.  We’re calling his wife right now for approval.”

I looked at Don.  He nodded.  Of course we would wait.  I paced around the cat room trying not to think about the kitten, still looking for another cat that I could love as much, and struggling not to get my hopes up.

About ten minutes later, the volunteer approached.  “The wife said no, so the kitten is available for adoption.”

I nodded slowly, surprising myself that I didn’t feel like whooping for joy.  It was as if I acknowledged my desire to adopt the kitten too enthusiastically, it would somehow go wrong.  “Okay?” I looked at Don.

“Whatever you say.”  He, too, was subdued, but probably because my reaction was not the enthusiastic excitement he would naturally expect.

“Yes, we’ll take her,” I finally managed to say.

An hour later, Don, kitten and I were in the car ready for the short trip home.  It was my third trip of the evening in that direction, having had to return home for our cat carrier.  We made a quick stop for Kitten Chow, then we really were home, and so was the kitten.  She was so little, as we entered our kitchen from the garage and the laundry room, I had visions of her lost in the house not knowing where her food was or more importantly perhaps, her litter box.

We closed the door to the laundry room, which also leads to the basement, a little less area to explore.  I rushed around preparing the litter box with supplies we had on hand from our previous pets, and I know Don and I eventually ate dinner though I honestly don’t remember preparing it or what it was.  I do remember sitting down in the living room with the kitten in my lap determined to find the perfect name for her.  I was stumped.  Myriad possibilities flickered through my mind, but none felt right.  I was quite surprised by this; it had never happened before.  Cat names had always come easily.  There had been Pinkie for his pink nose; Giki, three-year-old son Errol’s way of saying kitty; Tippy, for a white tip on the end of a black tail, and Tracks, a tabby who as a kitten had a distinctive stripe down his back that looked very much like a tire track.  Then there was Schwanzie; her name wasn’t my doing, and that is another story.

So I sat there with a nameless kitten, and that felt very wrong.  I had to find a name, and quickly!  I called our daughter Holly who lives on the other coast.  I broke the happy news that we now had a kitten.  Then without further detail, beseeched her for help in finding a name.

“What does she look like?” Holly asked logically.

I took a deep breath.  “She’s  black  and  white, and, well, she isn’t a long hair, but she’s a

little fluffy.”  Why I said fluffy, I am not sure.  This wasn’t strictly true, it was more an impression than a fact, like she somehow needed to grow into her fur, and where her black and white markings joined, the white strayed into the black like a bit of lace ruffle, and, too, her shaved belly from the spaying operation made the rest of her seem all the more fluffy.

 Over twenty-five hundred miles away, Holly said, “Hey, kids, Grandma needs help naming a kitten.”  She later told me that five-and-a-half-year-old Emma paused in her drawing, and three-year-old Owen turned his full attention to the problem, standing with arms akimbo.  Holly repeated my description to our grandchildren.

“Call her Cleo,” Owen said without hesitation.

“Cleo,” Holly repeated.

“That’s perfect!”  I knew immediately that, indeed, Cleo was the perfect name.  Black markings extend from the kitten’s ears down over her eyes leaving a white blaze on her nose.  The black is squared off, just like Cleopatra’s hairdo.  A tiny droplet of black under each eye near her nose is the only variance to these exotic “bangs.”  These drops are jewels on a royal face.  But that is not all.  Cleo has the suggestion of a “false beard” such as the Egyptian pharaohs (male or female) wore.  A patch of black under her chin can be thought of as such.

Of course I had to ask how a three-year-old had come up with the perfect name for a kitten he had never seen.  It’s simple really.  A popular children’s book, Clifford, the Big Red Dog, has as one of its characters a pink fluffy poodle named Cleo.  The work “fluffy” had been the key, as spur of the moment and semi-appropriate as it was.  What luck I had used that word!

Tiny Cleo seemed to shed the effects of the anesthesia as soon as she was named and began to explore her new home.  That is, when I wasn’t holding her in my arms or on my lap.  When it came time for bed, I decided she should know immediately that she was welcome to find a spot on our king-size mattress.  I placed her next to me, hoping that I wouldn’t roll over on her in the night.  I guess I didn’t because she was still with us in the morning.

Saturday morning began a glorious day, sunny and clear, spring at its best.  Time to take a few pictures for the family album. 

Cleo is an indoor cat, a housecat as many say, as opposed to a barnyard cat, I guess.  Since we didn’t know where she had been for the first eight weeks of her life (the Animal League said she was left there, a foundling) we weren’t sure how this would work out.  To jump ahead for a minute: it has worked out just fine.  She doesn’t make an effort to escape when the door is opened, but we do keep temptation out of her way as much as possible.  (One accidental visit to the garage made her curious about that, but I doubt if she’s thinking about the yard beyond.)  There is a deck off our dining room-kitchen area with sliding door and screen.  Cleo will sit with her front paws on the door’s tracks and not move a muscle while I quickly slide the screen open as little as possible to slither outside.

On Cleo’s first morning at our house the sun poured through the sliding doors.   This light and her shadow became objects of play.  Two plant holders sit in front of the stationary half of the door.  One is a small square table with three glass shelves.  I realized early on that I must relocate two plants, one on the bottom shelf and another from the floor, thus the bottom shelf of the three-tiered glass-top table stood empty.  Cleo was chasing a balled up piece of paper.  It slid under the low glass shelf.  Even at her tiny size, she could not  fit  under  it,  so  she  attacked  the  paper  from the top of the shelf, mystified why she could not get hold of it.  To her credit she also tried to reach it from the floor, alternating tactics.  This was one of the first of many entertainments Cleo provided.  I played with her and took pictures for much of the weekend.  We did make a trip out for groceries including cat litter and kitty milk, a low lactose product containing malt, which Cleo received with great enthusiasm and continued to have as a daily treat – if not more often.

We also stopped at the North Shore Animal League.   No, not  looking for another kitten; they were having their annual fair.  We checked out the various vendors, gleaning what we could about the life and welfare of a kitten, not that we were unaware, but there is always something new to learn.  We accepted the vendors’ handouts: coupons, a pencil and a packet of catnip doused papers (about 3”x3”), which you crumple up for a kitty toy.  I examined a table with an array of pet toys, most for dogs except a jumble of cute fuzzy little brown doggies.  “The eyes are sewn, so nothing to choke on,” the lady behind the table explained.  They looked just right for a cat or kitten, and I was amused at the idea of a kitten batting around a doggie.  But the compelling reason to buy it was something that had happened that morning.  Cleo was in my lap as I sat at my computer.  On top of the monitor, peering over at me, I had four stuffed animals, all kittens.  Two were Beanie Babies; one was a product premium from Jonny Cat cat litter, and the fourth and fuzziest kitty was a cute souvenir from the Cat Café on San Juan Island, Washington.  I picked up this kitty to show Cleo expecting, I guess, her to just look or rub against it as if it were a littermate.  I did not expect what happened.  Cleo tensed every muscle in her little body and ferociously snapped at the fuzzy stuffed toy.  She was off my lap and across the room before you could say, “meow.”  My shock gave way to laughter as I chased after her to rescue the kitty.

Monday rolled around and Cleo was well on the way to organizing the household into her preferred routine.  I sat at the kitchen counter having toast and coffee before going off to work.  Cleo jumped at my leg—gently, no claws—and ran a few feet away.  Play with me, I knew she was saying, and I did, and I still do every morning even if it can only be for a minute or two.

Cleo’s favorite toy was, and still is, a stick with a cord attached, like a fishing pole, and with Mylar strips on the end.  This had been a favorite of Tracks’, too.  Cleo chased it and leaped impossibly high.  The only problem was that she did not seem to consider where she might land, and, un-catlike, she did not always land solidly on her feet.  One time a month or so after she had joined our family, she jumped quite high and landed on her haunches, more sideways than straight and smacked into the doorsill joining the living room rug and dining room oak floor.  I was horrified to see her limp, and then hop on three legs.  I rubbed the leg cautiously.  This did not seem to indicate a serious injury, so I suspected the fall had been like hitting one’s funny bone, painful, but temporary, and nothing really funny about it.  It was fairly late in the day, so Don and I agreed that we would take Cleo to the vet if her limp persisted into the next morning.  Thankfully, it did not.  I did, however, watch more carefully where Cleo might land after a high leap for the Mylar strips.  Even so, I am occasionally distracted while playing with her; she demands a lot of playtime, so I often do two things at once.  She is apt to attack the stick as I hold it idly at my side or behind my back, and sometimes she jumps where she should not, but I am glad to report that no other injuries have occurred.

Back to Cleo’s self-imposed routine.  While I am at work, she lolls around most of the day, so I am told.  When I get home she is right there to greet me.  Certainly she is alerted to my arrival by the grinding sound the automatic garage door makes when it is opened.  What a joy it is to have her run to meet me.  On occasion she appears to have awoken from a serious nap, as she will come to me yawning, then stretch her front legs.  What happens next is something I have never seen a cat do before, though there must be others as talented.  Cleo goes from stretching her front legs to stretching her back legs.  It’s incredible how she accomplishes this movement which is done in one continuous motion, like  a  wave at a ball game.  Her body just flows until her back legs are as fully extended behind her, as her front legs had been seconds before.  When this stretch is at its most extreme, there is no way for Cleo to return to standing, so she just rolls over onto her side.  She will lie there looking at me as if to say, hello, and welcome home.

After Cleo had been with us for about eight weeks, we were faced with our first lengthy separation.  Don and I were going to Kansas City for six days (five nights) for a professional meeting.  We had someone come in twice a day to look after Cleo, and luckily for Cleo, our cat-sitter’s daughter Karen came along.  Karen did a terrific job of keeping Cleo happy by playing with her to the extent that her mother had great difficulty tearing Karen away.  I learned of this after our return.  Meanwhile, I wondered, not infrequently, how Cleo would react to us when we returned.  Would she have forgotten us entirely, be angry enough to ignore us, or pine for her caretakers?  How she did react was a wonderful surprise!

We normally enter our house through the garage and laundry room into the kitchen.  However, we unplug our automatic garage door when we go away, against the unlikely chance that it might be opened by some errant frequency emitted from – an airplane (I have heard this is possible) or some more nefarious source.

So we made our way up the front walk dragging our luggage with us.  Our living room window looks out on a small brick porch to the right of which are two steps leading to the

front door.  As we reached the stairs, we saw Cleo on the windowsill, not relaxing and gazing about, but standing at full attention.  As Don inserted the key in the first of two locks, Cleo disappeared from the window. Don finished unlocking the door and pushed it open.  Cleo was right there, and, I swear, she did a happy jump straight up landing on all fours.  She looked at us, and then   tore   across   the   room.  She raced back to us, across the room, back to us, up the stairs, and down, into the dining room, back to us, up the stairs, and around and round.  I absolutely know that she was jumping for joy that we were home!

Before we went to Kansas City, I had put away the fishing pole with its Mylar strips as the strips had started to fall out one by one.  I thought I would save the last of it for our return, but I could not find it.  In the rush to get packed while playing with Cleo and making sure everything in the house was in order, I had stashed it in some mysterious spot.  (I didn’t find it for a long time.)  So, the next weekend I went to the pet store looking for a replacement.

The new fishing pole was even better than the lost one.  This kitty toy came with three changeable attachments, an aqua feather, a cluster of dully-colored leather strips, and the only one I really wanted—the cluster of Mylar strips.  I tried out the feather and surprisingly, Cleo sat stoically, paws tucked under her chest and watched me play.  I unhooked the feather and attached the red, blue, gold and green shiny Mylar strips.  Cleo came alive as if she had been shot out of a cannon.  The fishing pole handle was made of a springy material, perhaps hard rubber, so the Mylar strips bounced and shone in the light making a gentle rustling sound.

Cleo settled into a contented daily routine of eat, sleep and play with occasional stints at a window or the gliding glass door to passively observe the great outdoors.  Perhaps she thought she was watching her own television set, as there was never any serious attempt to get out.  The most excited she has ever gotten over outside goings-on was when a truck or another noisy vehicle went up our street.  If she was in our bedroom when this occurred, she would entertain us with some amazing gymnastics.  The headboard of our bed was under a set of awning windows on the upper level of the house facing the street.  The headboard has a one-and three-quarters-inch wide flat top, which is a foot below the bottom of the window frame.  White cotton curtains hang to the edge of the frame. 

The first time Cleo heard a nosy vehicle go by as she lay on our bed, she leapt up, jumped onto the narrow top of the headboard and attempted to look out the window, but the  curtains  interfered  with  her  view.   She struggled  to  place  her paws on the narrow

window ledge and get her head under the curtain.  She seemed to forget about her footing and tumbled back onto the soft pillows and bed quilt. No harm done and not discouraged, Cleo tried again—with more success this time.  After that she unfailingly could jump onto the headboard and get her head up under the curtain before a noisy vehicle has disappeared up the street.  I just wondered if Cleo would come to realize (perhaps with age and growth) that the view from the bedroom window, obtained with so much effort, is the same one—though higher up—as that from the living room window, where there is a comfortable wide ledge with easy access from the couch.

Cleo grew, as cats will, already looking at eight months as if she could not get any bigger.  Her soft white tummy was charmingly chubby, and she had developed the overall look of a mature cat without losing her kittenish desire to play.  So the days and weeks passed, and there was never one second of regret for my impetuous stop at the Animal League.

Cleo, we love you!  You gave us all the cat joy anyone could ever wish for!

 Watching "Wheel of Fortune"