Herban Sprawl

I never miss an opportunity to pet a cat. Sometimes a cat presents himself and I really do not want to be pestered, like when I read the paper on the floor and Simon decides to sit on the box scores, or the NASCAR racing order. But overall, when one of the boys puts himself in my way and I have a free hand, he gets a few healthy scratches on the head, behind the ears, or just a nice stroke along his backbone.

Why, you non-cat people might wonder, do I bother with such a mundane thing, and why write about it. Simple. It’s a stress-buster like no other.

Those of us who are owned by cats are unanimous in our assertion that if everyone in the world had a purring cat on his or her lap when stressed, it would reduce the world’s aggressive, destructive behaviors exponentially. My cats are like homing devices when it comes to knowing when to show up. They aren’t as tuned in as our late feline, Polly, but when you combine the efforts of three rambunctious males, it’s pretty close. One or the other will know, and then they tag team.

Recently I was the subject of a massive temper tantrum by a woman who had been sorely misinformed on some issues. I was hurt, angry, and feeling really sore about the whole thing in general. Then something magical happened. I needed to sort through some things, and decided to do it on the living room floor. I was lapped. Out of nowhere appeared Simon. He stuck around long enough to get hugged and cuddled (he’s the one who French kisses, mind you) and then ambled off. Charlie wandered by and stretched out near my papers. He effected his spine stretching yoga twist that displays his white diamonds, which is so adorable that I have to mess with that tummy. No sooner does he exit, when I hear the “brrrrt, brrrrt” of Barney, who is bringing me a ball or a mousie to play with.

It wasn’t long before my shoulders went back down, my neck muscles relaxed and my breathing got deeper. The power of cat.

Today Charlie is hanging around trying to get the attention of The House Goddess. She isn’t crazy about cats, but Charlie is determined to convert her. She talks to him, telling him he’s wasting his time. Um, sorry Goddess. The mere fact that you are talking to him is a sign that he is working his black and white magic on you!

During nap time, I often find another black and white kitty who wanders into the yard. He comes for his nip fix. He likes to hang out with me and he has learned I’m good for a nice little neck rub, a belly rub and an ear job. Cats are like Ferengis when it comes to ear jobs… That contact between human and feline is soothing. They impart their calming energy and we impart our affection. It’s a nice trade agreement. It keeps itself in balance, unlike our relations with China.

I’ve noticed that I am surrounded by friends who have cats. Carmen has Felix and Daisy. Jennie Sue has Holly. Allyson has Midnight. Linda has Charlie, and so on… We had a dinner group that boasted ten people at its inception. All five households had at least one cat. When my nephew was forced to give up his two cats, I was saddened. There was something endearing about a 6′4″ guy’s guy stretched out on his sofa with an orange cat basking on his lap. Max missed Steve when he traveled, and would demonstrate this by leaving a calling card.

That’s the thing cat-less people don’t understand. Cats own us, and when we’re not around, they grieve. Sure, they sleep away most of the day, so why could they miss us? They’re like humans in that they never miss us until we aren’t there. While I was at convention, the three terrors had Big Kitty all to themselves, but each, in his own way, let me have it for deserting them. They have gotten used to me being here and they bully me accordingly. And, like any responsible cat person, I fall in line like I’m supposed to.

This weekend we will be working on the screened porch. We miss dining out of doors, and the cats are rebelling about not having the cushioned chairs and the tabletop for naps. We’re anxious to return to our normal summertime routine, but the motivation is the three sets of eyes that glare accusingly when there is no comfortable perch from which to guard their territory.

Yep. It’s tough living up to a cat’s standards…

I admit it. I’m the neighborhood drug dealer. To cats. I have a couple of pretty hardy stands of ‘nip that gather a lot of action, much to the chagrin of my own cats, who take a dim view of the punks who swagger past their windows and ROLL in it, for crying out loud. The nerve!

My friend Mildred cackles about this kind of behavior. Their eighth cat is called Henry the 8th - when it comes to persons who care about cats, Mildred and her family are right up there. The world is full of cat lovers and we have plenty of funny stories to tell.

But back to my backyard dealership. There has been an adorable black and white kitty visiting. I’m pretty sure he’s a he, but I need Big Kitty to pick him up and make the determination. He wiggles out of my grasp. Loves to be petted and talked to, but gets nervous about more aggressive handling. Charlie, our black and white fella, seems to have reached some kind of black and white brotherhood agreement with him. ‘You patrol outside, and I’ll handle inside.’ Simon, predictably enough, hates his guts, and Barney just keeps an eye on things. Barney seems laid back, but he has his moments.  Don’t mess with the big guy.
B&W Kitty and I are gardening buddies. He hangs out and offers encouragement while I swear at the slugs and weeds. I talk to him, pet him and generally give him motherly advice about looking both ways before he crosses and such like. He’s a really nice kitty and it kills me that he is outside, with no collar and no parental supervision.

Okay, disclosure time: my cats are indoor cats. I don’t want them out and about collecting fleas, diseases and injuries, or worse. I’m not a fan of outdoor cats, and even less so when I step in their calling cards in my yard! I acknowledge that some of my best friends let their cats out, and I keep my big yap shut, but Big Kitty and I are united on this front. We don’t like outdoor cats because of what can happen to them.

A case in point occurred yesterday. B&W Kitty came for some kitty weed and to hang out, but as he scampered across the hill, he was also incurring the wrath of a mean-looking groundhog. The healthiest damn groundhog in the nation for all the echinacea he’s been chomping on in my precious prairie garden!  He’d just gamboled past the groundhog, who can move pretty fast for such a fatso, and the groundhog was giving him a murderous look. B&W Kitty was standing on one of my terraced herb beds, taunting him when I caught his eye from the window and waggled a cautionary finger at him. Then I went outside and groundhog scuttled back to the neighbor’s weedlot, where he stayed until he thought the coast was clear.

How do you explain to a young cat that youth and inexperience are no match for a mean, nasty, well-equipped groundhog? They’re like teenagers. They think they are invincible. I hate that groundhog, and now, the idea that he might hurt this adorable kitty is bothering the daylights out of me. If B&W Kitty had a collar and tag, I’d call his home and let the family know he’s in probably danger and to please try to keep him safe.

BGF has a black kitty who roams his neighborhood. He’s given up on collars. Midnight slips them faster than Houdini. it could be that B&W Kitty does, too. Nevertheless, Midnight’s neighbors all know where he calls home. I don’t have this luxury.So, I worry.

I need to attend to the little seedlings of unwanted flora that has erupted like a bad case of pimples in my prairie garden. I swear, I have had more trouble with that darn area. I’d have glorious coneflowers waving in the wind if Fatso hadn’t chomped the tops off. I’m trying to get a really thick clump going, but at this rate, I’ll be lucky if I get one stem to cut and bring inside. Meanwhile, I’m adding other native prairie plants and hoping that one of these days it will look as full and lush as the butterfly garden.

I also need to replace one of my showercaps, as I developed a huge hole in it yesterday while Stephanie was making fun of them. She even took a picture of my green Chucks covered with caps and posted it on Facebook!

The House Goddess had already taken one look at the caps and erupted until she realized, “You using them to keep you from tracking in dirt, ain’t you?” “Yes, ma’am,” I replied. “I do not want The House Goddess to take off after me with a Swiffer after she’s just cleaned up another one of my messes!” The House Goddess gave me one of those mama looks that strike terror in the hearts of bigger and stronger types than me.

And so it goes down here in the holler. Groundhogs, showercaps on my Chucks and catnip addicts. Now if I could just find the pump for my fountain…

Those of us with pets know that we rearrange our lives around the needs of the “family”. People with kids do this and no one bats an eyelash, but to admit out loud and in print that we do this for pets causes people without critters to think we are out of our minds.

Today the thermometer is reading a lovely, sunny 62 degrees and I really should be outside with my little Merlin rake, cleaning up dogwood detritus and staking the area where the newspaper guy and the mail guy have torn up the only decent grass in the yard. But I am not. I will get outside, eventually, but for now, the doorway is under the exclusive ownership of one house tiger.

Barney, my substantial mackerel tabby, is stretched out in the doorway, watching the goings on the other side of the glass. He has a paw parked on the tiny ledge and I could see it working open and closed. That, my friends, is the sign of a very contented and pleased feline. Who in her right mind would disturb that? Well, okay, my sister, probably, who doesn’t have much truck with any critters, but no one else in my immediate and extended family would dare disrupt that fella.

I will do something else for a while. Barney is a creature who likes his rut. He likes to get into his zone and stay there. This door activity is new and I like that he’s branching out, and doing it with such a sense of security. He looked up when I leaned over and flipped the lock. The concern in his eyes made me reassure him, “It’s okay, Barney. I just don’t want anyone to steal you! You’re looking awfully tempting, you handsome devil you!” I got an appreciative wink and he settled back, the paw opening and closing rhythmically. I tiptoed away.

When little kids try something new - a different food, a skill, a game - we are honor-bound to give them encouragement. It’s our job to keep a positive spin on things in order to teach that new stuff is always a crap shoot. That green stuff might be yummy and it might be aquired taste. Reading those words might turn out to be hard, or it might be easy. Playing steal the peck with Uncle Steve might be fun, or, card sharp that he is, it might spell a decisive defeat. But win or lose, it pays to have new experiences.

It is no different with a cat that doesn’t like to take chances. Barney is not a risk taker. He doesn’t do laps. He doesn’t like to be picked up. His paws need to be four on the floor at all times, unless of course, he is dancing. And he is a dancing fool. That, too, was an out of the zone thing.

He was cruising me for a treat when it happened. He lifted one paw and then the other. He lifted a paw and made like he was going to groom his whiskers. I had tunes on because I was cooking and I began to mimic him. I balled my fists and sort of leaned over, lifting my fists up and down like his paws. Then I threw in that whisker thing and son-of-a-gun if he didn’t start doing it in unison with me and to the music! Needless to say, the scamp snagged himself a whole lotta Pounce.

The other two cats don’t share his dignity. Barney is a sedate cat, so on the rare occasions when he tears off after a brother in order to pound the hell out of him, we cheer. Owning the doorway is like that. Once the letter carrier gets here, he’ll decamp and I can go outside. In the meantime, I’m going to let him expand his zone.

Parents frequently muse about the differences in their children, noting that one is laid back while another is anxious, one always has a book open while another is bouncing a basketball, one eats anything you put on the table, another picks at food – People who have cats make the same observations. No two cats, littermates or not, are alike. As this first year of Herban Sprawl comes to a close, it’s time to write about my third fellow, Simon. He reminded me of this yesterday morning, but I started cleaning my office and that was that.

Even as a kitten, Simon was different, but we had no idea what we were in for. He lay, upside down in the crook of Grandpa’s arm. We thought we had a really laid-back cat. And we did, until the window perch became dislodged and overturned. For several weeks, Simon crept through the dining room, belly to the floor. He was never the same. Suddenly, the energetic kitten became suspicious, territorial and feisty.

At the same time, never have either of us had – mind you, between us, we’ve logged a number of felines – such an affectionate cat. Simon, in an amorous mood, will snuggle up and bestow kisses, head butts and paw pats that would melt the heart of the most avowed cat hater. Of the three, the most attached to his people is Simon. The morning after we’d returned from a week in Colorado, I discovered him under the covers, tucked against my stomach, a paw atop my hand.

The undisputed king of the back windows or the chief porch lobbyist, Simon patrols his perimeter with the fervor of a one-cat street gang. If there is going to be a stare-down, he leads the charge. Heaven forbid if one of the others wants in on the fun. He will hiss and box his brothers as though they are the enemy. Yesterday he was puffed to a fare-thee-well thanks to a neighborhood tabby who’d come by the yard for a fix. (I have mentioned that we are the neighborhood dealers, haven’t I? Our catnip is the best – just ask around, any cat will tell you the patch by the stone wall is some good shit, man.) Mr. Cat was going to sidle on down the steps to the back patio for a hit on the patch in the Detectives’ Garden, but he saw me standing at the window and made for the neighbor’s fence. Old Puff and Hiss wasn’t satisfied. He patrolled until he just had to have a nap.

He’s also the herb kitty. We noticed it when he hopped up on the bathroom counter after Big Kitty had brushed his teeth. The tea tree oil in the toothpaste drew him and when I walked into the bathroom, he was busy swabbing down BK’s beard and mustache! BK couldn’t stand it anymore and his amused, but tightly clamped, mouth broke open in a grin. Simon proceeded to swab his teeth! (Listen, we swap spit with cats every time we pet them, so no fair being grossed out!)  When I chop fresh basil in summer, my hands get a thorough washing with his rough tongue. All the things cats are supposed to hate, he likes. Basil is in the mint family, as is catnip. If you know your plants none of that is surprising. But limes?

He’s jealous of his siblings and even though he’s claimed ownership of a lap, a passing brother will receive a swat from above. Crabby Tabby will muscle one out of a warm nap site if it suits him. And just as he might be craving affection, he will turn around and snap with the jaws of a steel trap. (Neither of the other two bite us – maybe each other, but not their people.)

In the evening, he greets Big Kitty by a well-timed and executed leap to his thigh, whereupon BK will respond with a quick movement upward and maybe a steadying hand. Simon then settles around BK’s neck, where he nuzzles and grips with his paws. He’s been known to muscle in on my smooch for BK. Brat.

Visitors have a hard time distinguishing Simon from Barney, even though Simon has a bull’s-eye on his sides. He’s not as flabby, that’s for sure, and he doesn’t weigh quite as much, but he’s just as large. When he settles on my lap, my joints feel it, especially when I’m on the floor sitting pretzel style, reading the Sunday paper. He demands my undivided attention and will brook no excuses, making his displeasure known by means of retaliatory puddles on the kitchen counter. Luckily he hasn’t done that in a long time, knock on wood!

He rounds out the tribunal with his crabby nature one moment and kisses the next. Demanding and petulant, he claims ownership of us. Sharing is what others do. He manages us with the persistence of a border collie. The other two offer polite hints, but the Border Tabby routs us from whatever it is we are doing (You weren’t planning to sleep past five, were you?) and herds us to the food bowl.

Most onlookers would correctly assume that Big Kitty loves his boys dearly, but that he especially adores Simon. He’s the only one we got to name! He keeps us in line. It’s his job and he takes it very seriously!

The House Tiger and I share a morning ritual. I have my second shot of espresso with him in the living room. He sits regally on the arm of the loveseat and nudges me to give him a nice neck scratch. He also is extremely interested in whatever I might be eating. Not being much of a breakfast person, in the American sense, my compromise is a piece of whatever I might have baked – tea bread, muffin, cookie, toast – He always gets a tiny taste. He hasn’t been impressed with the lemon pecan buttermilk tea bread and was pleased to note there is only one more slice.

Barney Reed Jr. is his proper name. He has nicknames, though. House Tiger, Mr. Four on the Floor (he hates to be picked up) and Barnabus come to mind. He is a very large cat, with a rather dignified manner. He rarely deigns to engage in the petty squabbles of his siblings, but he definitely holds his own in a rumble. He also chooses to exercise his dominance over Charlie in a rather cellblock sort of way.

He doesn’t sit on laps unless that lap is Big Kitty’s, and it must be a jeans lap. Work pants or sweats or pajama bottoms will not do. It has to be a pair of jeans. He despises summer. Shorts are his enemy. The other requirement is that the lap has to be in front of the computer. He has flirted with a television lap, but can’t quite seem to close the deal.

Under that chunky hauteur lies a marshmallow. His feelings get hurt very easily. He mews like a tiny kitten when he gets picked up. His paws go straight out in four directions, his bulk turns to concrete and he squirms furiously to get loose. Big Kitty has to hold him in order for me to give him a pedicure, and heaven forbid he will ever need medicine! When he gets stuffed into the carrier for the annual trek to Dr. Wilson, he cries all the way to her office.

He didn’t give me much affection until The House Goddess and I rearranged the living room, putting the loveseat in front of the windows, and his radiator. At that point, he appropriated the arm, and we’ve had our morning lovefest ever since. It’s as close to a lap as I’m going to get.

What makes this so tough is his flirtatious tendencies. I mean to tell you, this cat has eyes that put a spaniel’s to shame! He does a little dance and he raises a paw to his cheek and just makes you want to pick him up and cuddle him. On the occasions when I decide to upset his chi, he gets really panicky, running to Big Kitty for sympathy when I put him down. He gets none. Big Kitty does it to him, too!

Every household should have a tiger guarding the front windows – quietly, intently watching for marauders - then he’s out of the office from nine to five for his power nap. Nice work, if you can get it.