Inessential Stuff

Introduced a new cat to the family, which Marcus has named Bamboo. He’s a total lover-boy and purr-bug. Just don’t mess with his carrot-toy that hangs from the ceiling. He’s pretty protective. He also has enormous paws, so I think he’s going to be big. I love this cat. Big. Bam. Boo.

Meet Fidrych!  He’s handsome, no?  He might be the cutest cat in all of Spokane.

(And no, there is no chance that he will eat and eat and eat and be enormous and end up really dim-witted besides, right?  Right?)

Mattie and Bailey have been faaaaascinated by the views from the window.  Mattie seems very, very tempted to jump (if, in the future, it ends up that Mattie does jump, I think she will be fine.  If Bailey sees this, he will probably give it a go, terrified, and limp around for a week or so.)

This is my new cat Mattie.  She is super-curious, and completely unafraid.  Turn on the vacuum, and she comes running to see if something exciting is happening.  Drop a dish with a crash of glass, and she comes running.  Noise, chaos, commotion,  all these things hold the potential of adventure for Mattie.  Did I mention she likes exploring?  And climbing?  And jumping?

She’s named, in part, after Christy Mathewson, the great New York Giants pitcher from the early 19-aughts.  And she is rather athletic.  But she’s also a sweetie who, if not finding adventures to go on, would like to sleep close by.  Maybe not on one’s lap, but close enough to notice if something starts happening.

This is my new cat Bailey, and such a fine, good-looking boy he is.  He’s extremely affectionate (as in, if he’s not in my lap while I work, he must be getting a drink).  He is also a bit reckless with his claws.  I’m not sure they retract.  And he’s kind of lazy, which is to say, when he finishes his drink and wants to get on my lap, he pulls himself up rather than jumps.

He gets away with things like that because he’s exceedingly handsome.  Okay, yes, he’s coasted through life on his good looks.  But what a fine lover boy is Bailey.

Big and big-boned. Patient. Slow-moving. Tolerant even when toddlers pulled on his tail. And sporting the world’s longest, most splendid whiskers. A perfect lap cat. Not pushy. But always glad to accommodate an empty lap. Easy-going. And, in the right situations, given to spectacular love attacks: glassy eyed, purring, rolling around, when thisclose was not close enough, reaching some level of ecstatic bliss only he knew. With an epithet of “Big Fat”, on account of his size. But mostly on account of all that loving. Big Fat Cello. A very fine cat. 1994-2010.

All pet owners think their pets are the most marvelous in the world,  and pet stories can be insufferable.  Cat owners, it seems, can be the worst.

In spite of this, I want to mention Sula today, on the day she died.  I’ve owned 7 cats in my lifetime, but Sula stands alone.  Tortoiseshell.  Yellow-green eyes, always bright and alert.  Quick and agile.  Difficult to photograph, for she was always on the move.  When we first got her, she could sleep in our palm, and she never grew very big.

She was nothing but energy.

We planned on her being an indoor cat.  But Sula literally ripped the carpet to shreds by the doorway.  When we compromised and let her out on our second story deck,  she promptly leaped off.  With a log leaned against the deck and the sliding door open a crack, would come and go as she pleased (to the envy and amazement of our other cats).

She would bring shrew moles and field mice–and once an unidentified larger rodent–into the apartment, alive and well.  Then she’d sit and watch her home-bound cat-mates play with them.  She also brought home a snake once.  But mostly shrew moles.  Lots and lots of them.  The birds she caught, however, she wouldn’t share.

We had her spayed twice.  The unsuspecting veterinarians missed the 3rd and 4th ovaries during the first procedure.   It seemed fitting:  nothing halfway for Sula.  Everything in extreme.

She had a loud meow, which saved her once when, gone for three days, I searched for her and tracked her down by her Siamese-esque mraaows; she had entered an empty house that was for sale, and needed out.

In spite of her small size, she was feisty.  When she was feeling generous, she would let me hold her, for as long as 30 seconds.  Otherwise, no one held Sula.  And she would fight those who tried.  Her medical chart at the vet was marked with dozens of fluorescent “Will Bite!” stickers.  We were often called back to retrieve her from her kennel, which we did with plenty of towels.

Later, we moved to the forest in the mountains of Arizona, and those were the salad days.  Sula roamed as she pleased, and would sometimes be gone for a few days at a time, then come home and sleep for 24 hours straight.  She liked to sleep in the sink.  Or on top of the refrigerator, where the other cats couldn’t reach.

She kept the neighbor’s husky dog at bay.  She’d puff up her fur, turn to the side, look as ferocious as possible, and the dog would slowly back away.

She purred loudly.  She hissed loudly.  Hissing, in fact, was her preferred form of communication.  It didn’t mean she didn’t like you–she might rub against your leg, purring, but hissing, too.  Just to let you know that this was on her terms.

Her thyroid went crazy 6 years ago.  She went through radioactive iodine treatment.  During the screen x-rays, they discovered that she was riddled with bird-shot.  She was radioactive for a month.

I think the best day in her life was the day she came too close to a Stellar Jay’s nest, and the Stellar Jay dove at Sula, repeatedly, and each time, Sula made acrobatic leaps into the air, fascinated by this new game, even if it didn’t end with a meal.

She preferred yogurt, actually, to just about anything.  And if we wanted to go to bed and couldn’t find her outside, opening a yogurt container, as loudly as possible, often brought her running home.

When the radiologist said that 5% of animals have recurrences of hyperthyroidism, I was almost certain that would include Sula.  She never went halfway.  And so it returned.  Furiously.  Medication staved off the inevitable as long as possible.

It was a good day for Sula.  She spent most of it outside.  She’s too small and weak to fend off the neighbor cats now–less than 5 pounds–and she walks with a hitch in her step, but together we chased away the pesky cat that has been hanging around the driveway.

She had some yogurt, then spent some more time on the porch, where I scratched her favorite spot on her neck and she meowed, louder than ever in her partial deafness.

She was feisty at the vet, growling and looking for fingers to bite, but it mostly seemed for show.  Still, the veterinarian was appreciative:  “Sula to the very end,” he said.

Indeed.