Yes, a post about my cat. #kitteh

Cats. Don't like them? Move along.

For everyone else still reading, today's post is about what those of us possessed by cats already know. When it comes to paradoxical living, cats are Adepts. Vigilant and indolent. Distractible and focused. Solitudinous and affectionate.

Featured this and every morning? The binary opposition of quirky and habituated, often enacted simultaneously because cats also excel at that. Me too, but that's another post.

Today's featured habit: racing from wherever he is and whatever he's doing whenever he hears me ripping open packets of sweetener. It's an auditory cue for Mozart, who immediately groks* that I'm prepping my morning coffee, which includes being enhanced or ruined (depending on your perspective) with whipped topping.

Mozart loves whipped topping and starts whining if I don't make the lid immediately accessible for him to lick. And yes, I return the lid to the container without washing it.

So what's the quirk that accompanied this morning's ritual? Mozart refusing to reenact this scenario for the camera. Until I embedded a Party Mix crunchy cat treat in the dollop of faux cream.

Not the first time I've been played by this pussycat, but at least I got my beauty shot:

*Kudos to you if you don't need to look up this pop culture reference from yesteryear.

Can't Make This Up: My Cat's Selfie

With characteristic feline sangroid, Mozart could not have cared less about Pope Francis' selfie or anyone else's selfie, for that matter. Did Mozart give a tail flip about his own selfie? Hard to tell for sure, but then he did seem fascinated by the functionality of SnapCat.* 

Yes, you read that right...SnapCat, the tag line for which is, "Photos of cats. By cats." 

Mozart sniffed and pawed the smartphone screen a few times to assert his dominance over a ping-ponging red dot, thus generating at least one image worth editing. By me, of course. Mozart was far too distracted by his own butt to bother with choosing filters or adjusting settings.

*Shout-out to Ruth (@rampracer) for introducing me to this new time suck.

A Passage from Hebrews...for Cats

"Cat food is the same 
yesterday and today

and for ever."

An Author's Life: Writing Rituals (XXI)

It's a well-founded sociological truism that stereotypes come from somewhere. Although they can be distorted and misused, stereotypes are grounded in reality. I know this because I'm a sociologist. 

And the stereotype about writers and cats? I know that one is grounded in reality because I'm a sociologist and a writer who is, once again, being supervised by a cat. 

Hand and paw to God, my creativity and productivity has been boosted significantly since Mozart arrived on the scene (aka, my desk).    

Is this the face of a muse or what?

 

Mozart, Now Providing Daytime Inspiration!

My desktop is back to normal.

Gee, I wasn't like this before, at least I don't think I was . . ."this" referring to being one of Those People who incessantly post pet pictures to Facebook and Twitter.

I certainly didn't foist pictures of Thelma, Louise and Itty Bit on just anyone. I generally waited to be asked for pics of my furry darlings, a request that usually came from other cat loonies lovers.

No view? No problem.

But now, Mozart has arrived on the scene and I've decided it's time to (re)embrace my not-so-inner Crazy Cat Lady. 

Not to worry, this isn't morphing into a blog about my cat. I'm not that far gone. Yet.

Mozart, Now Providing Night Music!

Making an Appearance

After Thelma, Louise and Itty Bit died last year, I was absolutely sure I was done with the cat thing. Thank God for friends who minimized the snickering while maximizing support for this temporary delusion.

Several events helped bring me to my senses, primarily the realization there's no way I could ever write another book without a cat to shove everything off my desk and leave nose prints on computer screens during the process.

So we adopted a cat from BARCS, a local shelter that takes in many thousands of lost and abandoned animals each year. Mozart is about 16 months old. His short dense coat, which looks and feels like velvet, doesn't seem to shed...that much. He's a wonderful combination of affectionate and mischievous. 

Can't say, "Let the fun begin" because it already has. And it's a darn good thing that I, too, am a nocturnal animal.

Mozart

Powerless Over...Cats

Ah the human capacity to forget pain ─ or at least have it lessen over time. In this instance I'm referring to emotional pain.

Lately, I've been thinking about letting a cat adopt me. Astonishing.* Until very recently, I could not imagine opening my heart to another kitty because the grief of losing Thelma, Louise and Itty Bit still seems so fresh.

But here I am, suddenly finding myself wandering around on Petfinder when I should being doing other things; wondering where to jam a litter pan in my apartment; worrying a bit about finding a cat who is generous enough to love me and my fiancé.

Wait...what? Fiancé?

If you don't already know about my impending nuptials, then you obviously don't follow me on Twitter or read status changes posted on Facebook. Not to worry. I'll soon be posting stories about this great adventure. But back to the cat. Because of the clerical garb situation, I'm thinking the cat should probably be black. 



 

My nephew, Riley

* Okay, maybe not so astonishing, given the fact that Ruth has been cute-bombing me with pictures of and stories about Riley.

My Proposal to the Vatican: Year of the Kitty

Unless I'm missing something on the Vatican website, it looks like the Holy Father has yet to declare it the year of anything. A priest buddy* told me it was going to be the Year of Marriage. I think he was goofing on me.

But even if the Year of Marriage is slated to follow the (dreadful) Year of St. Paul and the (even worse) Year of the Priest, I'd like to suggest Pope Benedict XVI exercise his ex cathedra option and declare it Year of the Kitty instead.

Doing so would be a nice nod in the direction of acknowledging all God's creation while providing plenty of fodder for members and observers of the Roman Catholic church. After all, who does not know that Pope Benedict XIV loves cats? Thus, Year of the Kitty would provide something for everyone ─ like those who love cats and hate the papacy; those who love the papacy and hate cats; and everyone along the spectrum in all directions.

And really, who wouldn't enjoy spending a year singing All Creatures of Our God and King:



and My Favorite Things:

*You know who you are.

Killed by an Angel?

I've already written about how Thelma, my warrior tabby of blessèd memory, bestowed one last gift, a picture of which you can see here. She was one of three wonderful fur angels but I must confess I miss her the most.

She was my gardening companion. This spring I noticed my heart aching as I started clearing out winter plant debris. I wept a bit while greeting daffodils, snowdrops, and grape hyacinths without my tabby in tow.

We had another grand ritual, Thelma and I. Proclaiming, "go forth and kill something for mommy," I'd fling open the front door with a great flourish. Thelma would return with a carcass which, as anyone who has been possessed by cats knows, is a sign of great love and devotion. I recalled this yesterday while watching squirrels and cursing the birds dive-bombing my windows.

I could ─ and occasionally do ─ burst into tears from missing my tabby, like when I opened my front door this morning to find this:

And then there were none...

I'm telling people that Louise decided to leave this mortal coil within six months of Thelma and Itty Bit because living alone with me was too boring.

That's right, I'm cracking jokes because my alternatives seem to be either going numb or wailing. Everyone keeps reminding me that losing three cats within six months is too too much. I know. Cognitively. I prefer not to feel all of the loss all at once and all of the time.

I want my grief in manageable slivers as defined by me. Lord, have mercy, I'm still checking the front window for Itty's face as I pull into my driveway and wondering why Thelma isn't making sure I'm flossing my teeth.

The fact is Louise was either 17 or 18 years old. She had already communicated that her back legs hurt. In addition to not being able to breathe very well, she had started missing her jumps and falling.

I called our blessed vet on Wednesday after it became odoriferously clear that Louise could not get down the stairs to use her litter box. And Louise, being the ever-considerate people-pleasing Louise, chose to take a huge steaming dump on a floor mat rather than the broadloom.

Louise was characteristically such-a-glutton Louise by chowing down prodigious amounts of cat food during her final month of life. I thought it was equally likely that she might explode, but that didn't stop me from letting her eat an entire bowl of cat treats before the vet arrived.

And Louise was characteristically low-maintenance Louise by finding a patch of sunlight away from where Patti and I were sitting. Turning her back toward us, she lay down. (Itty wanted to be held close by me the entire time. Thelma stretched out between Patti and me so we could both pet her.) Out of my need more than hers, I wandered over to rub what I always called her "bunny belly" as Louise drifted into unconsciousness.

Louise's death brings a significant period of my life to a close, one that I probably would not have survived had I not been ministered to by these three fur angels every stumbling step of the way. My tears find their source in gratitude as well as grief and I thank God for that.

The vet returns, this time for Thelma.

"Please don't call me for awhile," said the veterinarian as she left with Thelma's body cradled in her arms.

I don't yet have the energy to clean up the bathroom where Thelma had to be sequestered for the night. Nor do I have the energy to put away extra kitty bowls. All I want to do is write and eat chocolate. I know Thelma would meow "amen" to that.

In the late 1990s, Thelma was featured in an article about pets because of her remarkable paws-on healing ministry. No joke, during flare-ups of my fibromyalgia, she'd gently knead my trapezius muscles. She'd drape herself across my chest if I'd been crying.

Thelma hurled up bloody bile the evening Itty Bit died nearly two months ago and was tested the next week. Although there were treatment options, Thelma was not keen on any of them. During a consult with animal whisperer, Dawn Allen, Thelma could not have been more clear about her end-of-life preferences. Louise could not have been more clear about wanting more wet food on the menu.

So I bought wet food for Louise and let Thelma be Thelma, which she promptly proved to be by slaughtering her first, only, and last chipmunk of the summer season and leaving the carcass on the deck for me to admire. Her health declined rapidly after her last stand as a Warrior Tabby

Today, we said our goodbyes for this lifetime. Since Thelma was on my desk, the veterinarian administered sedation there. I don't know about Thelma, but both the vet and I noticed she was curled up over a copy of the Julian of Norwich icon created by Robert Lentz.

Given the choice, I'd choose veterinary care.

It's mighty quiet around here these days now that Itty Bit is gone.

She had a punishingly loud and extraordinarily insistent meow, probably because she was hearing impaired (aka, deaf) and could not hear herself. But everyone else could and for the past nine years, it was not unusual to have callers exclaim, "Aw, Itty!" and then crack up laughing at the other end of the phone line.

Itty was always yowling for something -- food, kisses, food, head scratching, food and food, mostly. Of course I noticed she was getting more frantic about food, yet losing weight. I noticed other changes. I've been adopted by many cats over the years and know when a cat is dying. I knew this was the case for Itty.

The veterinarian came to my home. She examined Itty, explained options, and listened carefully to me. She let nearly thirty minutes elapse between administering sedation and the injection that stopped Itty's heart. She sat with me the entire time and then went quietly about the business of taking stuff out to her van before coming back for Itty's body. The vet arrived at 6:30 and left at 8:30 PM.

If I become terminally ill, please call my veterinarian.

Photo of Itty Bit by Michael Mancuso

Cat Food, Biblically Speaking

Last night, I was so exhausted that I inadvertently provided a biblical experience for the cats by spilling an abundance of dry cat food onto the kitchen floor. The sixteenth chapter of Exodus came to mind as this was happening. But if you think I'm referring to the raining manna from heaven part, you'd be only partly right.

I had a more nuanced reaction as I watched my kitties scramble, jockey, and joust for nuggets of Meow Mix Wholesome Goodness scattering far and wide. My memory conjured up the lead for that story. More specifically, I recalled the grumbling and melodrama among the ancient Israelites. Why did you drag us out of Egypt? Better off dead back in Egypt than starving here in this desert. (Exodus 16:2-3).

Please excuse my reckless disregard for the second commandment, but I swear the Israelites' seemingly endless meowing and growling in Exodus about physical sustenance is exactly what goes on around here. Indeed, my cats reenact the seventeenth chapter of Exodus so frequently, I'm thinking of naming their water bowls "Massah" and "Meribah."

This morning, I woke up to a kitchen floor that had been licked somewhat clean. I also woke up to more tribal caterwauling for food and water. I can't imagine enduring forty years of this, which is why I probably would've forgiven Moses for the hissy fit that cost him entrance into the promised land (Numbers 20:2-12).

Life as a Personal Aide: Job Scope Creep

Entered into Evidence:

Exhibit A

Exhibit B

Blessing? of the Animals

Cats.

Today is the Feast Day of St. Francis of Assisi.

This should be enough information but do indulge me as I fill in a few details.

So I wouldn't forget this is their favorite celebration of the sanctoral cycle, the cats began their Feast Day of St. Francis by honking up hairballs. These were carefully splattered onto the carpeted floor outside my bedroom. I, being wise to the way cats celebrate, managed to avoid starting my day with the distinctive tactile sensation of hairballs squishing against bare feet.

Let me assure you that I was not singing any Franciscan canticles while I was blotting everything up with paper towels. Yes, paper towels. Adding poor stewardship of God's creation to the mix. I'll need to recuperate a bit before they get anything that looks like a formal blessing (see: Ironic Catholic for how to bless cats).

As for their special annual feast day meal of wet food, that's on hold too. I want to see if this morning's dry food stays down. Their throats.

(Itty Bit is the Great White Way, Thelma is the Striped One, and Louise the Calico is exempt from the gallery above because she's not the culprit.)

On the subject of papal cats...

The papal dogs would really be enhanced by kitten heels.

Anointing the "Cat" in Catholic

The headline for the April 21st New York Times article was absolutely correct, Cat Lovers Appreciate Soul Mate in Vatican. I certainly appreciate the pope's fondness for felines. I think this speaks volumes about his intelligence and sensitivity. No slobbering sycophantic pooches for this pope. Clearly, he realizes that "God" is not "dog" spelled backwards.

Yesterday morning, a gal pal and I chatted about B16's affinity for cats. She's distressed that he didn't move his kitties with him. "If I were pope, I would not leave my cats behind," she said. I'm not as disturbed by this, trusting that B16's decision was made after prayerful discernment. What do we know? Maybe there are more mice at the Congregation for the Doctrine of Faith than at the Apostolic Palace.

At least the pope bothered to think it through. Let us remember, shall we, that Bill and Hillary Clinton schlepped poor Socks from the governor's mansion to the White House. They went dog after one term in office, something that also speaks volumes.