Kitty Meadow

Everyone knows the story of how Phyllis saved my life. I won’t bore you with the details. Everyone also knows the story of how St. Francis sent wee little shedding things to teach me a life lesson. Again, no details required. What you don’t know is that Phyllis is a two-timing little vixen! Didn’t I love her with all my heart? Didn’t I invent a brilliant array of “pet” pet names? I permanently damaged my voice perfecting my “DOES ANYBODY WANT A TREET?” call. I lost an octave for that little devil! Or gained one. Either way it hurt. So it might surprise you to know she really doesn’t miss me. At all.

Phyllis is old-fashioned. A one man woman if there ever was one.  If you could see the queen in her castle you would be so happy for her.  Her first love was Rich and over the years that hasn’t changed.  He held her in the palm of his hand when her meow was a mew. When I visit it tickles me to see her and I tickle her back! It sounds funny but I really don’t mind not being missed. At all.

I was thinking what fabric patterns my cats would be. And before you say it, I know my meds may need adjustment! So here goes and I wonder what your kitty would be.

Renatta Pettibone is a hounds-tooth pattern. Crisp yet jaunty!

RoverLee (Rosalie)  Pettibone is polka dots. Largish ones that say “Hug Me You Fool!”

Phyllis is a tricky one. After veering between several lovely highland tartans it hit me. Paisley in a riot of purples. It screams “I lived in a hippie commune back in the day so don’t think I have always been this straitlaced”.

Hope you are all your wee ones are snug and stylish whatever your ‘pattern” is.

A story appeared in our  paper about a cougar that was on the roof of a house not far from YOU KNOW WHERE! Could Inky have a new friend….me hopes so! Read the details at http://www.thenewstribune.com/news/local/story/935336.html?story_link=email_msg

One of the best things about my life is the time I spend alone with my kitties. Like any four friends we have developed a special style of communicating. They sound pretty much how you would expect. Some chirps, purrs, meows and all completely adorable. On the other hand I use my “cat voice”. It is loud and high pitched. If that weren’t enough most statements end with “MEOW, MEOWMEOWMEOW”. For instance I might say when I find Roverlee eating something she shouldn’t ” NOW THAT’S NOT WHAT A GOOD KITTY DOES, RUBBER BANDS ARE YUCKY!!! M,MMM! (Shorthand for you know what)
While here in the house no big deal. They really do respond to it. Most mornings I open up my “beauty parlor” and give them a chance to face the day freshly coiffed. When done my “cat voice” doles out the rewards. DOES ANYONE WANT A TREET!!!! WHERE ARE THEY? ARE THEY IN HERE? M, MMM? (Picture me pointing to the cabinet where they are stored. Cats swarming, pandemonium without the pandas.) YOU ARE RIGHT!!! M, MMM! Phyllis crunches as she eats her hard treats. The Sisters munch quietly on soft treats. What could go wrong?
Sooner or later I must leave the confines of The Little Blue House. Fact is my “cat voice” comes with me. If I encounter a cute baby I inevitably stop and remark OH, LOOK AT YOU, M, MMM! YOU SMELL A LITTLE FUNNY BUT YOU ARE SO CUTE, M, MMM!
This can be awkward. Not nearly as difficult as my encounters with dogs. Almost always dogs smell better than babies. Problem is the owners of dogs are more sensitive than the owners of babies when it comes to how you address them. Small dogs present the biggest dilemma. The first M,MMM and the owner feels insulted. I am NOT calling your dog a cat. As if! It’s just that I don’t have a “dog voice”. My “cat voice” has to cover all cute things. If I knew a way to make dogs smell a little worse while making their owners a little less sensitive that would be ideal. I’LL KEEP YOU POSTED! M, MMM!

It was so hot that I gave the kitties new names to “celebrate” the heat wave. See if you can guess who’s who! Spicy Southwestern Chipotle is a special kitten to me. I also love Lemon and Rosemary. I can’t forget Garlic and Herb either! Funny names for sure. After sweltering for days I was calling the ladies “my three rotisserie chickens!”. It seemed only natural to find a “flavor” to match their personalities!
They really didn’t let the heat get to them. I was only worried when the power went out. A lightning strike was the cause according to my emergency radio. As the temperature rose I activated my Plan K. Before I had kittens it was called plain old Plan B. That plan just didn’t anticipate feline needs well enough. So it was back to the drawing board and Plan K was hatched. I would scoop up all the ladies and whisk them to my air-conditioned car! Or die trying since they tend to resist both scooping and whisking. As luck would have it the fans and A/C roared back to life and Plan K was put back on the shelf. No scooping or whisking on this day-but a valuable drill like this keeps me sharp.
SPOILER ALERT: I AM GIVING THE ROTISSERIE CHICKEN ANSWERS! IF YOU WANT TO GUESS STOP NOW AND WRITE DOWN YOUR ANSWERS! GOOD LUCK!

Spicy Southwestern Chipotle is…..
Our own little senorita-ROVERLEE!
Lemon and Rosemary is……….
My little kitchen helper-PHYLLIS!
Garlic and Herb must be……….
The main dish herself-RENATTA!
Kitty Kisses to All Who Played!

Spicy Southwestern Chipotle is………..

Hi-
At the beginning of my foray into blogging I let you know that I cared little for felines. In point of fact I never wanted cats at all. As I mentioned though I agreed to help a friend in need by minding a cat while she found more feline friendly living arrangements. That’s when I met Tumbleweeds. She was dropped off with more luggage than I would take on a weeks vacation and a poop box. Her owner was at the point of tears and I was thinking “Oh, for the love of Pete! It’s just a cat!” That was most likely the moment that my father and St. Francis chuckled softly, shook their heads and decided I needed to be taught a lesson.

You see I had deep wounds left over from the turmoil of my childhood. Only I had yet to see it that way. Most people around me did though. It wasn’t hard. I was quick tempered and confrontational. I refused to reform my drinking and fist-fighting because it seemed to be who I was. My identity was at stake and after all I had survived by fighting. I just couldn’t stop. At the slightest irritation my temper would flare and then the yelling would start.

The first afternoon with Tumbleweeds was going along great. She explored and acclimated and I went about my business. This is great I was thinking. She does her thing and I do mine. Then it happened. A friend was with me and we were at odds over something. I yelled at the top of my lungs. That cat immediately ran for cover and did not come out for a long time. No amount of coaxing would bring her out and it was obvious she was terrified. Something broke deep down inside me. I knew how she felt. I had been that scared and been forced to hide. Not only was I sorry for what I had done but I also felt deep sorrow for being blind to the effects my behavior was having on others. I knew then that a change had to happen in me.

I apologized to Tumbleweeds and stopped trying to coax her out. She needed time to regain her sense of safety and I respected that. I asked St. Francis for guidance and forgiveness. Eventually Tumbleweeds made her way out and I never raised my voice in her presence again.

Like you, my life has been filled with challenges. In the face of whatever the world was throwing at me it was comforting to center myself with this question. “How the hell did I get myself into this mess?”. As time passed however the futility of this approach became apparent. As the Zen Master so wisely said “When struck with an arrow does one ask, ” What wood is the shaft made of? What bird surrendered the feathers to keep it true?”. “No! You pull the arrow out and do your best to stem the bleeding.” So gradually the question became “Where is the Emergency exit and can I possibly outrun these angry villagers?” My latest challenge has left me begging for angry villagers. I am taking care of an old person. A very unpleasant one. To be fair I don’t know of any pleasant ones but I have met old people who were less unpleasant and that’s all I have to judge it by.

How does one recognize an old person? Could one be living in your midst? Use this simple two part test. First notify them that the record player has stopped working. It’s not important that the record player really be on the blink, this is a ruse you see. If they say “It was my turn to wind it, please forgive me” it is likely you are dealing with an old person. To positively confirm the fact go to your refrigerator and remark how the milk feels a tad warm. Again, you need not heat the milk, this is an elaborate deception remember. If the person asks “Well what day does the iceman deliver?” then the case my friends is most decidedly closed.

It’s impossible to explain, at least until the statute of limitations runs out, how I came to be responsible for an old person. Let me just say that if this were a sitcom, I would be playing the part of the Wacky Neighbor, forever getting mixed up in hilarious hijinks. Like bathing the elderly-cue the laugh track. In all honesty there are some lighthearted moments. We play games together to pass the time. If my old person says ” I know I came in the living room for a reason, now what was it? ” I gamely suggest some possible reasons. If it were a Sunday I might offer ” You came out to watch Ed Sullivan with me silly. Stiller and Meara are on for sure and maybe those guys who spin the plates on poles will be on too”. This would never work on a Monday. You probably see this coming but I might say “Don’t you remember that last week Gunsmoke was a TO BE CONTINUED. All week you have been on pins and needles about how Festus would escape those gypsies, or was it Comanches? Either way, pull up a chair!” We no longer play Hide the Dentures. Suffice it to say that once he found out he still had his own teeth the two hour search had angered the bee in his bonnet exponentially.

So why do I do it? It’s just that he had a cat named Tiger. Once you have a cat like that you miss him terribly and ache inside when he leaves you. I wondered what made Tiger so special so I asked. Holding the sterling silver tin that contained Tiger’s ashes my old person just choked up. I get it I told him. I know three cats just like that.

Throughout our time together my goal has been to clearly explain the circumstances that led to my current awkward situation. It has probably become painfully obvious that I am not a “cat person”. It is not always easy being caretaker and confidante to three four legged ciphers, especially against one’s will. Three factors were working to prepare me for the difficult task ahead. First my father, a stoic of sorts but prone to fits of temper. The second factor was my mother, a martyr of sorts but prone to fits of giggling. The third factor involved a stranger who spoke no English. He shared this bit of wisdom with me, “Arriba ya del caballo, hay que aguantar los respingos.” Whenever the three mischief makers seem to be getting the upper hand that old proverb gives me the boost I need.

Woody Allen said, “I know a lot about art, but I just don’t know what I like”. This roughly describes my spiritual life up til the time the two kittens joined Phyllis. Now don’t think that this is in anyway a reflection on the Trinity. Feathers can be ruffled and feelings hurt when Trinitarian terminology is taken lightly. As you no doubt remember there was quite a dust up regarding the Holy Spirit around 1000 A.D. Was the Holy Spirit descended through the Son or from the Son? Now for these folks the answer to this question determined how you would spend eternity. Today it seems people struggle to find something to do on a rainy afternoon that doesn’t bore them. The bloom has gone off the rose of eternity, you might say. As for me the final straw was the sacking of Constantinople in 1203. I am Irish after all and an 800 year grudge is a cinch. Don’t just say your sorry about sacking the city. You have to mean it! Now I’m mad all over again.

Simply put, the arrival of the little ones gave me a new dilemma. Phyllis was being raised a Catholic. Her chewing on crucifixes didn’t start till the little ones got here. Hold off on judging her just yet while we dissect the situation with regard to Renatta. She dabbled in VooDoo, this much was clear. Youthful indiscretion I later decided. As a Siamese American was she gazing Eastward for guidance? Shintoism seemed like a good fit. Then she began vocalizing intently for no apparent reason, especially in front of closed doors where she was not welcome. Shazam! She was half Unitarian, half Jehovah’s witness. She was persistent in the face of a closed door, that explained the Witness in her background. When you opened the door however she had nothing to say, at least nothing that made sense. This was her Unitarian side. Suddenly I understood that scene in The Miracle Worker when Patty Duke quits acting up. Subsequently she is sent back into a tail-spin when her identical cousin shows up. But you already knew that.

Next week Phyllis goes Eucharistic and Rosalie comes along and hopes for an old fashioned all you can eat loaves and fishes buffet!

(Post by Matt) I’m not old really, except in gay years. Still the world has changed considerably in the last 4 or so decades. Growing up was a process quite a bit more, let’s say, less structured. Kids like me had a lot of time on our hands. So unlike kids today we didn’t waste it texting or playing video games. We were much more imaginative. We watched television. When remotes first came around my Dad couldn’t see the need. “That’s why I had kids” he’d say. Frankly it was the first time he offered a plausible explanation for why he kept us around…and the last.

One show in particular aroused my interest. And my ire. Lassie was a dog who weekly performed amazing rescues. “What’s the matter girl?” someone would say. Invariably the message being conveyed was that Timmy was down a well. Or maybe trapped in the old abandoned mine. Timmy was a lot of things but risk averse wasn’t one of them. Everyone marveled at Lassie’s predictably heroic actions and welcomed Timmy back like the Prodigal Son. Where were the social workers for pete’s sake! I mean who let’s a dog babysit a kid! After the first mine cave-in, didn’t anyone think it wise to keep a closer eye on the little daredevil!? I guess not. ONE WEEK later he was down the well! One question gnawed at me. Why didn’t they get a cat? That dog was terrible at keeping the kid in line and brought bushels of bad luck. Maybe a cat could’ve turned this mess around. “For crying out loud” the cat would implore-”fill in that well and board up that mine before somebody breaks their ever lovin’ neck!” Tragically, necks were risked because of the inability to recognize the wisdom of cats.

It bears mentioning that since I have kept company with cats I haven’t fallen down a well or been trapped in a mine. Case closed collie!

(Post by Matt) Before I get back to what I was saying it might shed some light on things to talk about Harold. There is no Harold really, not now. But once Harold mustered his men in the Battle of Hastings. The year-1066. He was ultimately defeated by William the You Know What. But ever since then I have liked that name. A lot. Since my everyday life at home with the cats looked as if it would never afford me the chance to meet an actual Harold I had to create one. He works with Rich at the firm. “How’s Harold?” I ‘ll ask. “How’s who?” he replies. “You know the fellow you work with-Harold!” “Do you mean Howard?” “Of course not-I don’t even like the the name Howard! Now quit the Abbott and Costello routine and tell me how Harold is!” You need to make your own fun-and sometimes your own Harold.

What I am getting to, and I am getting to it I assure you, is the sacredness of naming names. It’s a theme that runs through history. Let’s run alongside for a moment. Moses had a lot on his plate. We know for sure it wasn’t meat and milk-not at the same time anyway. We also know he had to deliver his people out of Egypt. Naturally he needed inspiration and back-up to convince Pharaoh. So he went to YOUCANTEVENSAYIT. That’s right-BUTDONTSAYIT. When it came to the most dreaded part of any meeting-the question and answer-he spout’s off by asking “So what’s your name? You know in case anyone asks. Personally I’m not the curious type but it might give me a little more clout if I drop your name.” You know from Sunday school how YOUCANTEVENSAYIT felt about that. It isn’t even necessary to point out how the Egyptians loved cats. Or how Mother Arlene would sometimes say, “I wouldn’t know him from Moses housecat” or was that Adam’s? Not important since I am not going to point that out either.

Which brings me to Baby Whiskers, Sister Whiskers, and Auntie Whiskers. Or if you prefer Bullet, Dingo and Bandit. Alternately, Catfish, Goldeneye and Frittatta. I could go on and on-but you already knew that. The power of names is not to be taken lightly. I have found in life that it is easier to create an imaginary Harold than to pin down the true spirit names of cats.

Good question. A lot of things happened over a long period of time. It didn’t seem that they were connected. You see I am 46 years old. But I used to be younger-a lot younger. The whole story starts in the mid 60′s with my father. I might get back to that. Since a cat knocks over a Christmas tree and shatters dozens of glass ornaments in that part of the story I probably will. I kept getting older but not really growing and I met Joe Tomlinson. No time really to explain Joe. It’s too bad really. No smarter, funnier man has ever crossed my path. He introduced me to St. Francis of Assissi, not in person of course. He also challenged me with Socrates, Buddha, Confucius and Jesus. And they all ended up having a hand in me ending up with three cats. But it probably was St. Francis who clinched the deal. Of course I didn’t know it at the time. But you probably guessed that.

I think friendship is important. If a friend needs a favor I will do my best to help out. It really is one of my worst qualities now that I reflect on it. Because I DIDN’T want any cats. It wasn’t in my plan. O.K. I didn’t have much of a plan but what I did have certainly didn’t include a litter box. Or something that shed hair as big as tumbleweeds. But I ended up with both by doing a favor for my friend Keith. Just cat sit for my friend he said. She is staying with me but I am allergic. She will find a place of her own in a week or so and then the litter box and the bales of hay-I mean hair- will be out of your life forever. It didn’t work out that way. But you probably guessed that.