A Cat Memoir

Puss

Once upon a time, I used to love cats.  I dreamed about owning a cat and in my eighth year she showed up in my grandparents' basement, a surprise Christmas gift for me.   Puss.  At various times she was also called "Booze" or "Puce."  Don't ask why.  She was the queen of cats - gracious, sweet and affectionate.  I loved her with all my heart!  Good old Puss was a gray tabby without any real distinctive markings, but she was the best cat in the world and so generous with her love.  Puss died while I was in college and was succeeded by Tabby, who was a blight upon my cat-loving soul.   Tabby would lurk in the basement and attack my ankles with fiendish delight.  Was it then that the ardor for cats began to cool?

I went off to college and shortly after graduation got married. Many catless years ensued, which my mom thoughtfully filled with teeny cats for display.  I was delighted with the many different varieties of cats she found and each time she sent one or more, happily found a place for them in my growing collection (see below).  

November

Fast forward to the year we had twins.  The twins arrived in May, we started homeschooling in September, and on my birthday in November, we added another living creature to the mix, November the cat.  I thought we'd call her "Novie," but that was rejected.  Kris had the great idea of calling her "Ember," but that was neglected.  November she stayed.  I had sort of a love-hate relationship with November (probably the only kind of relationship that was possible with her).  She was quite verbal, always answered when you called her name, loved her food, but my goodness, she could be unpredictably mean.  We learned that you could only pet her for so long - if you overstayed your welcome, she'd bite the hand that pet her.  If you reached to pet her in a certain way - chomp.  She was exceedingly anti-social with guests.  As soon as November heard the sound of a car door slamming shut outside, she'd run for cover upstairs.  If you tried to pick her up - scratch.  One day, I realized that the mystique was gone.  That day coincided with the fact that November had FLEAS.  I tried, oh I tried, to get rid of the little offenders.  I bought flea repellent and sprayed it all over.  I combed her with a flea comb everyday and dumped the fleas into a solution of Murphy's Oil Soap.  Nothing helped. Finally, I put an ad in the paper thinking somebody else would love to have our flea-ridden cat - I just couldn't handle it anymore.  We'd give her away. Almost right away, someone called.  I answered and the man said without preamble "You still got that cat?  When can I come and get her?"  Well, of all the nerve!!!!  Did he think that we were going to give her away to just ANYONE?   Hmmm...I guess I didn't want to get rid of her after all.  We discovered that the source of the fleas was in the unfinished basement where we'd been having her spend her nights.  No basement, no fleas.  November had experienced a reprieve.

We moved from Indiana to Minnesota and she almost didn't make it with us.  She freaked out when the movers came and found a hiding place between floor joists where we couldn't reach her.  Moving day arrived.  We put out tempting treats, we cajoled.  The car was packed and ready to go and we had a long drive in front of us.  The very real possibility of having to leave her behind loomed over our heads.  At the very last moment, she relented and allowed herself to be captured.  Another reprieve.  

Years later we were facing another move and we were going to be homeless for one week.  What would we do with November?  She hadn't become any more endearing over the years and it seemed that the time had come to give her up to someone else.  I put an ad in the paper.  Someone called right away and she seemed nice enough over the phone.  We made arrangements and it was settled...until the day when she was going to pick November up.   I cried all morning and faced the obvious truth - I couldn't let her go!  I tried to call the young woman who wanted November, but couldn't get a hold of her.   When she arrived with her little kennel, I cried some more and apologized about a dozen times "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry...". Another reprieve.  

Luna

The day came when the vet told us that she had some sort of cancer in her cheek.  By this time, she was about 15 years old and her quality of life had been absolutely ruined by the acquisition of a dog in our household.  While once she was queen over the entire expanse, her territory had been reduced to a mere pittance as she tried to find refuge from our rambunctious puppy.  There were no more reprieves.  We said our goodbyes and let her go at last.  Ironically, we had to say our goodbyes to the dog about a year later and for the first time in a long time, we were petless.  If it had been up to me, we would still be in that happy state (how soulless I have become!), but we yielded to the longings of others in the house and acquired Luna, a petite gray cat. Luna is a perfectly agreeable cat, but she and I have never really bonded.  Now that her favorite person has moved out, she pays more attention to me, but in a somewhat demanding way.  Sigh. What bothers me is the lack of sweetness in my heart for this harmless little creature.  I used to love cats...what happened?   I think the truth of it is that my first cat spoiled me - I am still looking for Puss, who was a true companion and soul comforter.  

Cats are connoisseurs of comfort. 

James Herriot

Bobblehead

Remember when bobbleheads became a thing?  I'm trying to imagine the first person pitching that as a product.  I would definitely have been the one at the table shaking my head saying, "It'll never sell."  That's why I'm not invited to those types of meetings.  Someone else gave the go-ahead and pretty soon, bobbleheads abounded while everyone tried to ride the tide of this weird trend for as long as it would last. Even Martin Luther had a bobblehead!  [a funny aside - every time I try to type the word "bobblehead," it comes out as "booblehead," which I then have to erase and fix.  Tee hee.]  Thanks to our having a good connection with the Minnesota Twins, we ended up with quite a few Twins' bobbleheads. Somehow Pete became the Keeper of the Bobbleheads and then in a bloodless coup, he also became the de facto owner of them.  This is, I think, an oldest child thing - there's probably even something biblical about it, or at least he'd like to think so.  My favorite of his collection is the Hermann the German bobblehead.  Three cheers for New Ulm!


And now, the stunning revelation:  in a strange turn of events, I've become a bobblehead myself.  Yes, it's true.  This is a consequence of not always hearing what people are saying to me, especially in loud places like restaurants.  The bobble is a handy maneuver which allows you to give the impression that you heard what was said and are definitely tracking the conversation.  Here's how it works:

Other person:  The other day I mumble mumble and it is so mumble mumble in the morning...(and so on)
Me:  Bobble, bobble.

If the person is smiling and generally looking pleased with the world, I'll accompany the bobble with a smile.  If they look worried, the bobble will take on a concerned-looking aspect.  The only time the bobble doesn't work, and those of you who are clever will have already figured this part out, is when the other person asks an actual question requiring words as a response.  It may surprise you to learn that many questions don't require words as a response, for example:

Other person:  Mumble, mumble, mumblety mumble...do you know what I mean?
Me: bobble, bobble.
Other person (perfectly satisfied): mumble more mumble...

If someone looks rather aghast or confused after I've issued a non-committal bobble, this is my cue that I've completely missed something important and, well, bobbled it.

On that note, I'll just be bobble, bobble, bobbling along.

He who has ears to hear, let him hear.

Matthew 11:15