Month: July 2014

Excuse me, having two dominant brothers, I am used to waiting, but when is it my turn to speak, that is?   I have a lot to say and a well formulated opinion on everyone and everything, so give me the floor now, please?  Thank you, much appreciated.

So, as I said my name is Gen, not Jen for Jennifer BUT Gen for Genevieve.  I fear I present as a pretty snooty Miss Puss & Boots. I am not surprised when Momma and Wonder Boy muse that I am The Diva (not the devil) because my colors are so rich and striking in the contrast of the blackest black, the boldest orange, a wide array of varying shades of ginger to tan, with tuxedo white down my belly and paws that look like I stepped in a bowl of rich cream.

As a tiny female calico, I was easy to christen. Momma said I had the grace and beauty that befitted a ‘Genevieve’ – some  long-lost Countess of Paris, but you can call me Gen for short.

Even as a kitten, everyone wanted to take me home because I was and still am irresistible. I am so glad to report Momma and Wonder Boy said ‘No’ to all offers because they did not feel the applicants would give me the home I deserved, where I could be loved, have lots of freedom, be spoiled a little bit, and most importantly, learn to live in harmony with both the Two and Four Footed – because – well, ‘they’ walk among us.

Although I will join in the rough and tumble with my two black and white siblings, then fall asleep in a ball with them, at the bottom of  Wonder Boy’s bed, I believe at the end of the day, everyone is inferior to me. There is a lot of talk that Andy is the Brainiac  but though this may seem a bit harsh on my part,  I have scientific evidence to prove my superiority . For example, no one but me jumps on the kitchen table or a dresser or wherever my heart desires whenever I  spy something with my little eye.  To get the party started,  I fish a treasure,  such as a bling bracelet from a wicker basket or a watch left unattended or even a sparkly diamond ring one time and sweep it on the floor. (One time  I accidentally shot Momma’s engagement ring in the gap between the floor and the floor board).  Momma was on her knees with a flash light and a whisk for days, like the widow in the Gospels looking for the silver coin, not giving up, not giving in, or maybe like a good Shepherd, looking for her lost sheep.

My point is, Momma’s bad. Valuables should not be thrown down so carelessly on tables or dressers.  My lesson to the Two Footed’s is simple. If it is there, I will find it and push it off the edge and Puppy Jakita, ears that can hear a bug in a rug, takes possession.  The treasures may go on the Dog Bone Pillow under the kitchen table, or under the coffee table in the living room or any other little rug, in any other room in the house. Wherever Jakita puts them, she thinks, they are off-limits to any other living being, be it human or pet form.

Of course, since I initiated the fun, I know the rules do not apply to me, so I may rearrange or move them to my satisfaction.  Then Jakita starts growling, and it is game on with me chasing the treasure, Jakita in hot pursuit, jumping on my back and pinning me down until I reluctantly walk away.  In the end, I give in to  Jakita’s wishes because ‘girls just want to have fun‘ and I heard Momma say Jakita is not well so I do not want to add to her stress.

Still, I look at Momma, as if to question, ‘Does our doggie understand we are playing an old-fashioned hockey game? A little boarding is okay by why does she have to get so Tie Domi on me?‘  I think Momma understood because she said, ‘I don’t know Gen, puppies are very proud, they have to win or they feel inferior so just ignore her bad manners.

I tried to teach her better’ – yeah, Momma tried, Momma tried….still, after all, as a picture tells a thousand words, here is the proof,  Jakita is my Best Friend Forever.

Hi. I am  Sir Beau-Re-Guard,  but I don’t have a swell head, because in this life time, I am a.k.a. The Muscle.  No doubt I am handsome with gleaming black and white fur that casts red light in the sun with a long tail, milky paws and the whitest of whiskers that is startling against my black countenance. I am a well proportioned Kitty with claws that can shred Kevlar,  sharp incisor teeth that will leave a lasting impression, and a muscled body that can trap the enemy until he begs for mercy – even the  Forest Freaks are spooked by me.

Now if this sounds like I sound conceited for just another stray alley cat, well you are wrong. The proof is in the pudding.  And so, if my brother, Andy, (a.k.a The Brainiac) and my sister, Calico Gen (a.k.a. The Diva) and I go walking The Brainiac leads us, The Diva follows, reaping the benefit of being Guarded by me, The Muscle, at the end of the single file formation .  Really a big softy, that loves to lay on my back beside my Momma, trapping her hand between my paws so she can scratch the top of my head, now, do my chin, oh please rub my belly as I warble and purr, seems lost on my enemies.  It is as if I have a split personality, I tell you or like maybe feline bipolar, but …I do what has to be done because, like the Three Musketeers, it is:  ‘All for one and one for all.’

I know from whence I came because Momma told me.  It all began in a stamping plant parking lot, a long time ago.  Sometimes I vaguely remember the constant thumping of the 1000 Ton Presses, endlessly turning coils of steel into auto parts that clanged as they fed into Just In Time Bins, for the ‘Big Three’  Automotive Companies. In cat nightmares I still recall the pervasive smell of the lube, and hear the irritating back up beeper of the fork lifts, as they whizzed around the parking lot.  It was our lot, until  the miracle of Momma, Dad (RIP) and Wonder Boy.

My next memory clip is being  bottle / nipple fed by Momma or Wonder Boy, a type of gruel, heavy on watered down milk, light on baby cereal.  It made me gag and choke, spewing the contents over all surfaces, be it the bathroom or the wet nurses. No surprise that I did not retain enough to stay hydrated – not good. Guess what happened to me? Wonder Boy reported my condition, Momma & Daddy rushed me to the vet, a limp, dehydrated, not responding kitten, wrapped in a towel.

Daddy, in emergency mode, made an illegal right hand turn (it is not permitted Monday to Friday, between 4:00pm to 6:00pm) on the way to the vet. Although very lucrative for our city (since it is a legal right hand turn for twenty-two of twenty-four hours in a day), still it comes as a total shock to most of the drivers, who are unaware of the trap.  Having the luck of the Irish, there was one of Our City’s finest, enforcing the traffic laws, that fill the city coffers. ‘Please’, Momma said to the officer, ‘Our kitten is dying, and time is of the essence, just let us take him to the vet.’  Not only did the ‘Mr. To Serve and Protect Officer‘ do that, he said, if we would bring back the vet’s bill, he would cancel the ticket.  A good guy.  I am mighty thankful with your understanding the emergency at hand, Mr. Policeman. I heard Momma talking that just a little longer and it may have been game over for me.

When I was well enough to go home, I chomped down on whatever gruel I was fed, just like The Brainiac and The Diva – it always just made sense to fall in line and copy what The Brainiac did, if you had any wits about you at all.

What do I do with my time? I go out doors, I hunt, I play endless games of chase whether it be  with the squirrels, my siblings, the neighborhood cats or the feral but mostly I am a front and centre solitaire, spending a lot of time resting my head on Momma’s pillow, as I slumber away. However, I still bare the curse of being a Tom Cat.

Early one morning, as the dawn was breaking, to Momma and Daddy’s horror, I even went so far as to hunt down a rabbit.  I streaked across the back yard, the fully grown rabbit clamped in my jaw, trying to hide my bounty, instinctively realizing that Two Footed’s would be appalled by my outlaw hunting action when they so willingly fed me vitamin induced cat food.

Sometimes, when I decide to terrorize the indoor cats, Wonder Boy cools me down by ejecting me out into the dark, cold winter night.  For the next few days, I behave like the fine gentleman cat I pretend to be, (in Momma’s  presence only). She has a calming effect on me, so says Wonder Boy. But, hey, I am The Muscle, so what else would you expect from me?

However, I am special in my own unique way. When Momma says, ‘Hi Beau’,   to me every morning, I reply ‘Hi’ back to Momma, not ‘Meow’, not ‘Hi Mummy’, just ‘Hi’. Then Momma gives me a sliver of a piece of her buttered toast – amazingly I love Two Footed food, although none of the other cats do.

What really inspires me is how easy it was to train Momma to use her ears and eyes to hear and see me as a unique kitty, beloved for what I bring to the equation, not what I am sadly lacking or even worse, being judged by the contributions our other cats bring.   So till later….

My name is Charlie, short for Hush, Hush Sweet Charlotte, but nobody has called me that in a way long time – I mean, I am called Kitty, or Pussy-Cat-Pussy-Cat-Where-Have-You-Been but never Hush, Hush Sweet Charlotte – if I gave a pop quiz, I bet you not one of our house guests and their hang-a-longs would remember when I used to have a name, fit for a Girlie Kitty, because I’d been to London to Visit the Queen. I have been told I am now called Pretty Little Miss Hush, Hush Sweet Charlotte Cat but just call me Charlie, I will come…now-a-days…but it was not always that way….

You see, years ago, before I got all Amish, shunning Momma like she was the dreaded ‘English’, I had an amazingly contented life. But then Cat Mandu happened.  It is no wonder Momma called me her ‘Phantom-of-the-Opera-Cat’, with my mental health issues that may have been learned or inherited.  I skulked around downstairs, only coming up to the food dishes, hissing and snarling at every cat that dared to come near – even though there were 6 dishes and truth be told, I could only eat from one of them at a time.  But I had seniority and let every cat wait till I got my fill of food & water (if I got my fill), that was my reasoning.

It was not always like that.  I had been rescued from a manufacturing facility as a feral kitten along with my sister, Black and White Mao. Can I tell about her, please, please – no, she has to tell her own story, well, OK, I guess. We were dirty from crawling around lube laden bins and food dumpsters, scrounging for our next meal.  In order for us to meet standards apparently in place for domesticated cats, Momma almost drowned us by bathing us in water and scrubbing us down with Dawn Dish Detergent (well, drowning might be harsh, Momma let us keep our heads above water, as our little legs and paws trod the water furiously). You should have seen us, we looked like a Tom & Jerry cartoon, fur flattened in gobs, our  ears bent backwards – we were towel dried, that felt good but I had to shake my head forever to get the water out of my ears.  Good news is we learned to self groom so never went through that indignity again.

Then we were set up in a room with a lot of cleanser smells, porcelain and gurgling water, like the Creek my Baby Momma took us to.  The Shower Stall was set up with towels, a litter box,  whhaaattt??? And food and water in shiny dishes you could see your face and whiskers in, once it was emptied, of course.  We were no longer in Kansas, Toto.

In no time (what is time to a kitten, you ask?), our boundaries expanded, we moved to a larger bathroom, then we were allowed to roam in the bedroom and the bathroom so consistently hid under Momma’s bed. No one could find me, even poor Momma  who got on her hands & knees with a flash light, could not find me – but as she left, she said to the room at large, ‘You will come out when you are hungry.” That is one astute Momma – but those were the days when formation of character was happening and somehow, I fell off the track……………..It started out fine, before Cat Mandu from the Moraine taught me her version of the George Orwell, Animal Farm philosophy – some 4 Footed, good, 2 Footed all bbbbaaaaaddddd!!!

Once we had the free range of our new home, I would creep in to my Momma’s room at night, jump on her bed, stretch my growing body against her legs, and nod off to never-never land where I won all the battles and had an endless supply of fresh food and water.

However during the day I am sorry to say I came under the influence of Cat Mandu (I know, I know the rules, she tells her own story).  She was already living with Momma when Mao and I arrived.  Like me, Mandu was a Calico Cat and maybe because of my coloring, she became my Baby Momma, through adoption.  She had no time for a Black and White Cat so Mao was left out of our inner circle –  sweet, small and curious Mao was the first casualty of my shunning.  How could I have done that to my own sister?  But one thing, I promise, I never hissed at her when she was at the food dish.  She and Mandu both were on the “Do Not Hiss List” I created in my head.  So I agree, I am a bit bipolar, but aren’t all calico cats?

Now, now that Cat Mandu is History, I heard Momma claim, like a Monarch caterpillar, I have morphed into a chrysalis and emerged as a multi-colored butterfly, (albeit with thick clumps of mattered furs) –  that is why  now she calls me Pretty Little Miss Calico Butterfly Charlie. We’ll catch up later – I have lots to say, these days.