After an assortment of animals, from fish to ducks and budgies to bunnies and a variety of cats and dogs, I have decided that Garfield was right all along. However, if you had asked me my opinion on cats and dogs as a child I would have said the complete opposite.
The dog was named Sparky and the cat was named Sammy. Sparky was a puppy, which is always great for a small child, a little less for a father too lazy to house train. Although Sparky was lots of fun and even had a penchant for blowing bubbles in my paddle pool he was a little too much for our small family. The cat was completely opposite experience.
Sammy was the Siamese cat from HELL! His growl was terrifying for a four year old. I still have the vivid memory of him tearing through his cardboard carrier on the way home from the vet’s office. He went completely berserk when he got out and did a few circuits around the inside of the car.
Our lives shifted as we moved to rented properties in England that only allowed certain animals, such as budgies (Americans call them parakeets). Rainy was first and she could pick the two of hearts out of a deck of cards. Bobby bobbed his head a lot and Crackers ate the wallpaper. Frostie was our last budgie in England and he had a penchant for talking. Frostie’s sayings included: “Happy New Year,” “I Love You,” “Come On, Give Us A Kiss,” “Frostie’s A Pretty (Pretty, Pretty, Pretty) Bird,” topped off with a wolf whistle.
Given our limits and a turn for basset hounds (attributed to our neighbors in one village) we decided to adopt a dog on our return Stateside. Our basset, Buttercup, was the usual stubborn type who hated any other dog for the exception of small fat beagles. Fortunately for her one showed up on a cold March night (Buddie) and never left. I found that although dogs are nice they weren’t too cuddly and for that I set my sights on obtaining a pet rabbit.
I have to say that my very first pet became quite a disappointment about my own capabilities. Buni was great, but his cage was outside and far enough away from the house that I soon lost interest. I still feel bad because eventually Buni became sad and fell sick. It was at that point we brought him in the house and I paid more attention to him. Buni was very good and self-disciplined on the house training front (he always returned to his cage for a bathroom break) as well as being very happy for a few months.
Buni passed and by my fifteenth birthday I was aiming for a cat. Unfortunately we could not afford to adopt one at the time. It was the summer and I helped my parents with their paper route when a fluffy kitten was dropped in the road by his mother. All attempts to return the kitten to his mother failed and I had a kitten of my very own.
Now just because there is an animal in the family does not necessarily mean that there will be a particular attachment to one member or another. But Biskitt was my cat. He slept at the head of my bed (he slept on the headboard with my alarm clock for his pillow which slowly pushed my lamp off with a load crash one night). When I carried him he put his paw on my nose. We played a tickle game that no one else could ever duplicate with Biskitt. During dinner (no white fish please, not even at the bottom of the list) I could not walk past him because he would look up at me and his food would dribble out of his mouth.
Biskitt was a beautiful Maine Coon (or near enough) and at his full weight he was sixteen pounds. He scouted the perimeter of the yard every day. Biskitt was our security system and chased large dogs away when they got entirely too close to his yard. Although I only saw the salamanders, mice and moles my parents said that Biskitt also brought me presents of squirrel tales and wild baby rabbits. For all of this Biskitt would return to me every day smelling wonderfully of earth (or dirt if you prefer) and pine needs while sporting beautifully groomed fur.
By this time the dogs had settled into a placid life of rounding up some of our rabbits on the occasion of a controlled escape and avoiding the rooster’s spurs (we had chickens, ducks and geese on our half acre lot). Our cat count had increased by five when a young pregnant cat was dumped on our doorstep in the middle of the night and by one when we discovered a small feral cat that was rolled by a truck that hit both him and the newspaper box we were repairing when we heard him crying from a ditch. Biskitt was five when mom noticed that a cat was coughing, but with seven of them it was difficult to tell which cat it was.
When we noticed that Biskitt was not quite right it was too late. He was diagnosed with a tumor blocking his throat and soon after we had to put him down. It was the worst day of my life. Although other cats tried to comfort me it was just not the same. One year later we had to leave our home and our beloved cats and dogs at the local Humane Society which became the new worst day.
While living in my mother’s old bedroom (sleeping on the floor with my parents in the bed next to me) for several months our true respite from the horrors of being one step from the street was my grandmother’s kitten Tillie. Tillie was small and in desperate need of cuddling so when grandma shut her out of her room and night we let Tillie come in and snuggle with us. We spoiled her and she loved to attack the sound of shuffling slippers coming from the hall which became the bane of grandma. But soon grandma could not stand us all living in her front bedroom and we had to leave. We found out later that Tillie had also become too much for grandma to handle and she had been kicked out too.
After a five year stint of living in another grandma’s basement and an apartment sans pets we finally had a house of our own. We decided to treat ourselves to a pet. While looking at budgies (or parakeets) at the local PetSmart my father and I wandered over to the cages with cats for adoption. One brownish orange cat with lime green eyes caught my fancy. I was in love. A few days later I brought mom back to the store and we adopted the cat named Rumpy (Rumpy, Rumpy two by four can’t fit through the kitchen door – how mean are some people?). She was the female version of Garfield (a chubby Domestic Lynx – almost) and her name was changed to the more appropriate Taffy.
Taffy was an alpha female and she was again, my cat. She had a thing about whistling and we still cannot figure out if she loved or hated it. Taffy came to a whistle and always responded to the Andy Griffith song (even when hiding on vet and bath days). She was three when we adopted her and quite well trained by her former owner. Taffy more than not waited to be invited onto the couch and loved to beg for food (turkey was her favorite). She would greet me when I came home (squinting in the sunlight) and snuggle with me at bedtime.
In the first few years of living with us Taffy would make excursions to the nearby canal, hunting for mice. One night she brought a mouse home. Unfortunately it was still alive when she dropped it on the living room floor. Taffy knew she was in trouble when mom and I jumped on the furniture and started screaming. Taffy’s eyes grew huge (just like Garfield’s) as she scrambled for the mouse. We had the front door open and Taffy darted out into the night with her mouse (although I did not see the mouse in her mouth I never saw it in the house again). After that night Taffy never brought anything else in the house again.
Taffy had a few loves including cat-nip, lying on her back and playing kick, kick with a ball (or Christmas ornament) and of course beating up dogs. When it came to dogs (and for that matter some cats) Taffy had little patience. Dusty, a Collie that lived across the street, competed in staring contest with Taffy, but seemed more interested in playing than Taffy. Taffy for her part turned into a bull dog as she raced to greet the happy-go-lucky dog with claws out and planning to kill (why is there never a hose?). Dusty’s owner thought it was cute until we explained that Taffy was trying to kill his dog. Once a renter moved in next door and Taffy swatted the poor curious pup on the nose through the chain link fence.
In the meantime a friend of mother’s had one last kitten of an old litter (with a new one on the way). Mom had fallen in love with the Siamese/Domestic mix kittens which she referred to as cow kitties (white with black splotches like a cow). I named the new kitten Frodo because he had large feet with six toes on each foot except one with five toes (one missing digit just like the other Frodo). Taffy was introduced to the small male kitten in where she sniffed him and hissed. In return Frodo stood on his toes with every hair standing straight up on his little body and tiptoed sideways trying to look big, but failing miserably. Taffy was above playing with this new Frodo thing so we decided a couple years later to find him a friend (Note: Frodo is half Siamese and can scare the crap out of you if he is growling inside a bush at night, but if he is growling while you are holding him in your arms and he has his legs crossed he is entirely too cute for words).
Christmas 2005 Taffy was introduced to Sam (well if there was a Frodo there must be a Sam) who was rescued by a vet technician at our vet office (a tiny Tabby that turned into a Norwegian Forest Cat). The introduction was similar to Frodo’s, but with a different result. Sam was not in the least intimidated by Taffy. He blinked when she hissed as if to say, “. . . And?”. Sam followed Frodo around like a kid brother and attempted to snuggle with the elusive Taffy on my bed (some days I would find all three cats on my bed at once snoozing deeply).
Taffy lived with us for eight years battling asthma, strange illnesses, and a deteriorating health. The Christmas before her passing I bought several stair steps so Taffy could go on the couch and especially my bed. She was so happy I could see it in her eyes. By Valentine’s Day she was gone. Her monthly asthma shot stopped working and Taffy could not breath, eat, drink or move without gasping for air. It was a gut wrenching decision to take her to the bet that Friday afternoon and say goodbye to yet another familiar.
I am yet again without a best friend. Although Frodo has taken to snuggling on my lap when he is in the mood and Sam trades off between mom and I (following us around like a lost lamb). Cats are loyal. Cats are waiting for you when you get home with a rub on the leg or a pet me on the head command. Some of them even like to run around and be chased or just have an old fashioned tummy rub (with a little tickle and a bit of kick, kick). Plus you don’t need a fenced in yard!
Please take time out to read about Dewey Readmore Books in Dewey: A Small-Town Library Cat Who Touched The World. If you love cats or libraries or cats and libraries (like me) you will love this book!
