First a word about Charlie. I forgot one funny story about Charlie that bears telling. When Charlie was a kitten, he loved playing with toys on a string, or just a string. As he moved on into a rotund adulthood, he still loved to play, but wasn't as highly motivated. One Thanksgiving, my younger daughter (yes, his rescuer) was over to visit. I was tempting Charlie with a fluffy cat toy on a string. He rolled this way and that on his roly-poly behind, batting at it haphazardly while we all laughed. She promptly dubbed him "Jabba the Hut!"
During my second marriage, my husband Tom and I were owned by three cats. The first was Coffee, a little tortoise shell, with ideas of her own. Busy with a full time job, a husband going back to college for a third degree (no pun intended - Tom was a retired cop), and a red Husky to care for, I guess I didn't get the litter box cleaned out fast enough to please Coffee. That night, she climbed into the bed and peed on my back. If the loud cursing while we changed my nightgown and the bedding didn't clue her in, Coffee had to know her days were numbered. Within the week she found a new home with Wanda, the girlfriend of a rock musician who used to live with us from time to time.
A couple of weeks later, we were shopping in Wally World. You know how they cunningly display those appealing pictures of pets who need to be adopted near the pet supplies aisle? Well, there he was - a purebred Siamese, neutered, named "Tom!" I knew "Tom" was coming to live with us, and he did. However, the name just didn't suit him. Tom had had a purebred Siamese named "Sammy" when growing up, so "Tom" became "Sammy Two." Once we got him home, I did two terrible things to him, quite unwittingly. We bought him one of those webbed cat collars which was way too long, so I nipped it off to a reasonable length. Unbeknownst to either of us, the damned thing was wicking up water every time Sammy took a drink, then when it dried it shrank until it was eventually choking him. One day Sammy went missing. We looked all over the house, upstairs and down. We even got Sky and the De Soto cops in on the search. At long last, I found Sky sitting in the basement, whimpering. I looked up, and there was Sammy, perched in the basement rafters, unable to meow or even croak. I brought him upstairs, and we cut the offending collar off, doctoring his wound, which encircled his entire neck, with Neosporin. He forgave us, or at least forgave Tom.
To add insult to injury, when we got Sammy home, we discovered he only had two toes on his left foot. We never knew if he was born that way - Siamese are prone to foot deformities, but usually it's polydactily, not the other way around, or was the victim of a botched de-clawing. Once Tom named him Sammy, I promptly nick-named him Sammy Two Toes. He was not amused, in fact, he was downright offended. He never forgave me. Sam also had a lower canine that stuck out, giving him an upside down sneer, a la Elvis. You know me - I couldn't resist. I called him Snagglepuss. He was also highly offended by that, but at least he had the good grace not to piss in the middle of my back!
When Sam reached the end of his days, about age 17 or 18, my younger daughter paid to have him cremated, and he's in the basement, in a plastic tub, in his pretty little urn, waiting for the move to Mountain Air, NM, a writer's colony where Tom and I intended to retire. Since we never got to make that move, as soon as I find Sammy he's going to reside in my shrink Ray's pet cemetery. Ray is a fancier of the noble Siamese.
The final character in my litany of felinis nobilis is Larry. Tom got the bright idea that I should have my own cat, though I was perfectly happy with my red Husky. He adopted a lilac Burmese with china blue eyes named Ling. When we got home from our second honeymoon, a trip which entailed picking up my grandson to spend part of the summer with us, they went to the vet and picked up my birthday present - Ling. Well, Ling hated everybody and everything. He wouldn't have anything to do with any of us. Morty, the rock musician I mentioned earlier, promptly diagnosed the problem. "The problem is, your cat doesn't like you, because you're calling him by the wrong name."
Knowing Morty sometimes appeared to be a few tacos short of a complete meal, I snapped back, "How do you know that?" I shoulda known. "Because he told me so." So, of course I had to ask, "Oh yeah? So what's his real name?" "Larry." Not wanting to offend Mort, we began to call the cat Larry. And guess who became Mr. Friendly? You guessed it. We discovered a few things about Larry during his tenure with us. One, he was a bit of an escape artist, which is probably how he came to reside in the pound. One Sunday morning when chow was served, Larry didn't show up. As in the case of the missing Sammy, we searched upstairs and down with no result. I thought I'd take a look outside before calling the cops. Sure enough, between the wall and our huge dog carrier on the front deck was a pitiful, chilled, very bloody Larry. Apparently, one of the teenagers who speed up and down this street when school isn't in session, or one of the early arrivers at the church across the street hit Larry.
We weren't able to reach our vet, but found one 50 miles away who was willing to come in on a Sunday to treat our feline foundling. He howled for 50 miles going and 50 miles returning. All he had was a broken leg and a lot of missing hide. The vet set the leg, splinted it with a couple of tongue depressors, and wrapped it in gauze. Once we got him home, we discovered it was impossible to keep him from trying to chew the gauze off, so I rigged up a contraption consisting of an empty toilet paper tube fastened on with more gauze. Our gauze bill for the next four weeks was astronomical!
The six week recuperation period was the only time Sammy ever allowed Larry in the bed with us. He allowed him to sleep between Tom and I. Since Sammy was doing the fur hat number with Tom, Sky liked to sleep spooned up to me while I was spooned up to Tom, and my grandson's yellow Lab, Bear, liked to sleep on our feet, it was pretty crowded in that bed! By the way, Larry never tried to escape again.
We also discovered Larry was an absolute slut for shrimp. Sammy didn't care for them, he preferred his dry cat food. So when we had shrimp, Larry got the lion's share. After Tom died, I started remodeling the house for a quick sale and a move back to Oklahoma. I also decided I never wanted to clean another litter box again as long as I lived. Larry now resides with a friend of mine named Steve. Steve and Larry are great buds, Larry gets the occasional shrimp feast. He even goes outside to poop, and has never attempted to escape. Go figure!
I know I said this would be my last post on felines, but on the next post, when I talk about Ralph and Bear, two of the most unique female yellow labs I've ever known, I'll also tell you about an adorable black Lab named Dottie and a feral tabby named Trespasser.
Larry and his shrimp, Charlie and his string - both sound like our Maine Coon. They act so human at times. Trespasser -wow, wonder how she got the name. :-)
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