the cat whisperer

i almost lost my standing as the Cat Whisperer tonight.

a friend of mine told me yesterday that his house had been over-run with fleas and immediately my skin crawled. although i have not seen a flea in my house of 6 cats, i was taking no chances. i flew to the Cat Hospital after work and purchased a 6-pack of flea killer for kitties. i will have none of those insect vermin invading my house. my Fear stems from childhood. i don't think my parents had any idea about flea control. after all, they had no idea litterboxes existed. when i was about 9, getting ready for school one morning, i pulled on my kneesocks and could literally see the fleas jumping on and off them. That sight is burned unpleasantly into my memory.

so i rounded up the herd one by one and squirted Vectra on the backs of their necks. most of them were easy to catch and treat, although Big (the 20 pounder) was uncannily suspicious when i sweetly sing-songed his name, hanging out of reach under the kitchen table until i tricked him. food is the trick. he's a sucker for food.

but Mosby was the hold-out. Mosby, if you know your civil war history, is named after major mosby, otherwise known as the "grey ghost". alot more appropriate the Mister Kitty, the name he came with from the shelter. Mister Kitty and his sister, Miss Kitty, lost their home when a foolish woman gave up her cats for the sake of a boyfriend. no human, in my opinion, is worth abandoning your pet. but abandon them she did. they were unceremoniously returned at age 3 to the shelter where they'd come from originally. victims of a woman's insecurity and the ultimatum of a selfish boyfriend. Mister and Miss Kitty had been caught in the wild as kittens, right on the cusp of becoming feral. perhaps Mister Kitty never shed his feral kittenhood entirely, or perhaps he was mistreated by The Boyfriend before he came to the shelter. all i know is that he was unreasonably terrified of people, clinging to his sister and never coming out of the shelter of a cat house during the day. since i volunteered at the shelter, i made him my project.

they dubbed me 'the cat whisperer' at the shelter because i was somehow able to bond with even the most antisocial and frightened cats. even the cats with "STAFF ONLY - Vicious" posted in orange on their cages. i had the time to spend with them, the staff did not. and so i was consistently pleased to report back to them that so-and-so was now approachable. it only took patience, quiet tones, and knowing when it was finally OK to pet. i was only attacked once in all my 7 years there, and that was by a cat in the front room who'd been cleared for adoption! i shudder to think what his fate was after that. once they draw blood there's no telling.

on every visit i would try to assuage Mister Kitty's terror, reaching behind his sister to gently pet him after i'd allowed him to sniff my hand. but every time he acted as though he'd never seen me before and i had to start all over again. as i stroked his fur he lay rigid, eyes huge and dilated. because it was a No-Kill shelter he was allowed to live. for six months i visited him, sometimes dismayed by my inability to bring him around. he obviously could not tolerate the constant comings and goings of people and other cats. the shelter tried to offer the two of them together - two for the price of one, convinced he could not survive on his own without the comfort of his sister. one week, to my delight, they were adopted. the next week they were back. rejected.

finally there was talk of euthanasia. there seemed to be no hope for Mister and Miss Kitty. the shelter could not afford to keep them on indefinitely. i pleaded with my husband, please at least come meet Mister Kitty. they're going to kill him. bob relented and accompanied me to the shelter. the siblings were sequestered this time in a large metal cage and Mister Kitty was, as usual, hidden in a box, peering out of a round hole. bob took one look at those eyes, so full of pathos, and said 'oh OK, bring him home, goddammit.' and so with much difficulty we tugged the frightened cat out of his box and stuffed him into a carrier. Miss Kitty was left to fend for herself and was adopted within the week.

all day i sat at work pondering names. what to call him? mouse? he was timid and grey after all. then i hit upon Mosby. when i got home bob announced, "i know what to call him - Mosby!" we'd independently come up with the same name. Mosby lived for several days locked in my computer room alone with food, a litterbox, and only my visits for company. cats respond to this treatment. suddenly you are their only living link in the world and they decide you're not so bad after all. i cried with happiness when Mosby sat beside me on the couch and suddenly trusted me so much he laid on his back, baring his belly. almost smiling. within a week we gave him free range of the house and he was soon adopted by Mattie, the big brother cat of the house, who licked him and bonded. we thought it was a milestone when he allowed us to walk by him and he didn't run. we were astonished when he'd rub up against our legs. years went by and he came around of his own accord. everything had to be on his terms, but that was OK. sometimes i could even catch and hold him and eventually his stiff body would relax and he'd purr.

nowadays Mosby has decided i am safest approached while on the toilet. i don't know how he figured out that i couldn't easily catch him from that seat, but he did. so every morning we have the love ritual on the toilet. sometimes on a chilly morning he will leap onto the couch to head butt me and allows me to pet him. on those mornings my heart swells. he trusts me. i've never shown him any reason not to. but old habits die hard in a cat that once clearly had a hard life. he is still far more comfortable in the company of his fellow cats, still a baby enjoying the head-lickings Big gives him since Mattie died. but i've been his accepted human for 5 years now and i've considered it an honor. bob was too when he was alive. but he plied Mosby with bits of steak from his dinner, so he cheated.

getting Mosby to the vet is a once a year chore i don't relish. tonight i just realized that flea treatment is too. like Big, he suspected something was up when i sing-songed his name and tried to corner him. he was having none of it. plump as he now is, he hurdled upstairs and vanished into the spare bedroom. not a sign of him. i closed the door, certain he was in there, and looked under the bed from all sides. i suddenly realized the fabric of the mattress was hanging like a hammock and staring out at me were those big round terrified eyes. i used my best calm-a-cat voice but something about being that cornered made him turn like i've never seen before. i've heard the plaintive howls, but never before were they accompanied by hissing and spitting. and that's what i now faced. i couldn't really take him seriously. after all he's spent his life as a gentle and timid ghost. but when i reached into his dark hammock i discovered a whole new side of him. as if the feral ghost had risen. he lashed out at me with teeth and claws. i stood my ground, however taken aback, and pulled him out by the scruff of the neck and plunked him on the bed. i might as well have been handling a hellcat. only a blanket over his head stilled him and he realized his battle was lost. i still don't understand why there was a battle. flea treatment squirted onto his neck, i let him go. he just lay there looking at me, hurt and betrayal in his eyes it seemed. then i left the room.

Mosby rushed to the safety of the outdoor cat cage where he lay like a meatloaf in a hay box. he wasn't over the ordeal and i knew i had to regain his confidence. i crept into the cage and used my softest cat whispering voice. it's OK, Mosey, i would never hurt you. i didn't mean to scare you. it's just me, Mose. his ears were back and his nose buried in his paws, obviously hoping i'd get lost. as a hummingbird whirred in the trumpet vines nearby i tenderly stroked between his ears. ran my hand over his back over and over, talking quietly. as his ears relented and came forward i tickled under his chin. then i heard it. the purr. i had won his heart and trust again. we sat there in the big cage and i ignored mosquito bites so that a sudden slap on skin wouldn't set him off again. my half-feral childcat came around and looked up at me, his eyes soft now and almost apologetic. his velvety body relaxed under my hand and after i knew he remembered i am "safe" i carefully took my leave. he watched after me and i told him he was very brave. for years he has associated "very brave" with something good.

pink Hello Kitty bandaids now cover my various bite wounds and an impressive scratch runs down the tender inside of my arm. i have a lot more respect for the grey ghost now and i think it would be best if i practiced more togetherness with him so we don't have a repeat performance of terror and pain in two weeks when he's due for a trip to the vet. perhaps i have neglected the velveteen cat and though i won't lick his head, i will bond more with him in the days to come. i have learned the lesson of Siegfried & Roy. the title of Cat Whisperer is a tenuous one.

the blair duck project

bob was doing laundry one night. god bless him, he liked to do laundry. but that might have been because he knew he'd have nothing to wear if he waited for me to do it. i was sitting in the living room when he passed through, laundry basket on his hip, and i heard him open the basement door, flick the light switch. and then roar "What the FUCK is a DUCK doing in the basement?" abruptly the door slammed shut as if he'd seen a ghost. and in a way he had.

naturally, the idea of a duck in the basement was curious to me and so i got off the couch to go see what the raving and ranting was all about. bob stood there in the kitchen, laundry basket toppled over on the floor, gesticulating wildly. "there's a dead fucking duck at the bottom of the stairs!" naturally, the idea of a DEAD duck in the basement piqued my interest even more. i opened the basement door and peered down and, sure enough, there at the base of the stairs, posing as if left as a sinister message by some duck-killing Godfather, was a dead duck. sure enough. it was incongruous, puzzling, baffling, mystifying. i remember that night like a film reel whirring in my head. bob, usually the Big Brave Man of the House, was quite unnerved by this duck while i thought it was the most hilarious and bizarre thing i'd ever seen.


we have CATS for god's sake! FIVE CATS and not one of them noticed a duck in the basement? and how did we not hear so much as a quack? bob wracked his brain. we'd been in the basement several times in the past week doing laundry and never suspected the presence of Dark Wing Duck haunting an already spooky cellar. the windows are not only all closed but sealed with plastic to keep out the cold and the damp. the vent for the dryer was quite intact. there was no conceivable way for a duck to wriggle into our basement that we could see. sure, bob had the hatchway open about 2 weeks before....but we've never even seen a duck overhead much less in the yard, so how could one have waddled its way down the steps unnoticed as he did whatever it was he'd done with the hatch open? there was no good reason for a duck to be on the ground, in the weeds, near our house much less in it.

but there it was. dead at the bottom of the stairs. bob was convinced someone had broken in and left the duck as a warning of some kind. yeah, the mafia is using ducks these days, bob. sure. and what could we have possibly done to deserve an incomprehensible message in the form of a dead duck anyway?

bob had the heebie-jeebies something fierce and found my uncontrolled laughter very disturbing. but come on! it was the craziest thing i've ever seen! i wasn't terribly concerned about how it got there, nor did i believe it was some evil prank, i was just insanely amused. but bob. he was not.



he got a snow shovel and scooped the pretty iridescent and speckled duck up off the cement floor and really, about then it did take on a certain "blair witch project' element. i opened the hatchway and followed him, still giggling uncontrollably, out to the woods out back, guiding his way with a flashlight.



then bob got a pitchfork and i must say he was looking a tad deranged at this point, scratching his head in the flashlight's beam and digging a shallow grave for a duck. he wanted to banish it from his life. it was too disturbing for him to wrap his mind around.

we never solved the mystery of the dead basement duck, though he spent the next hour examining every nook and cranny of the cobwebby realm where a duck had, apparently, waddled around for what may be days quacking amid the heater and the rusty paint cans and the washer and dryer. and we and five cats never suspected a thing.