I apologize for hitting you with two cat stories in a row.
Last Thursday and Friday I was in Hotlanta for work. When I got home I collapsed into one of the living room chairs and Jackson (my grey tabby) jumped into my lap.
Jackson is a fairly easy-going cat, and he's also extremely affectionate. We adopted him in February of 2000 and on the ride home he nestled into my pea coat with his paws around my neck: he purred the whole way home and it was love from that moment on. I know I'm not supposed to have a favorite, but Jackson is mine.
When it's time to go to bed he'll hop up and snuggle up next to me. If I move even an inch away he'll wiggle over to me until he is nestled against me. I realize that this is starting to sound like a 3rd grade essay assignment, but my love for Jackson is quite deep. (Okay, it's pathetic really.)
So, imagine my horror when I started petting him on Friday and I felt crusty bumps on his tail. And, when I got to the crusty bumps he let out the most pitiful wail. It made my heart leap and I was thisclose to running him straight to the vet. I didn't because the vet was closed and Jack was still eating and playing so overall he seemed okay.
My heart broke the following morning when I saw him trying to get comfy on the bed and he tried to fall asleep with the front half of his body on the bed and his back half hovering over the mattress.
That was it: my baby was in pain and I couldn't take it.
So, off to the vet we went and what oh what did they find?
Bite marks.
Jack, although he is my favorite, can be a bit of an asshole you see.
He is what my mom would call, an instigator. He likes to start shit with the female cats in the house. Often he will jump on a peacefully sleeping Sweet Pea simply because her spot on the bed looks good to him.
He's a bit of a bully.
I don't have proof of it or anything, but it seems awfully coincidental that Sweet had blood around her face and mouth just a few days before I felt his scabby tail. She's lived with him for two years now and I guess she'd had enough of it.
Jack really hasn't been the same since this whole ordeal. He's been sleeping more than usual and he's keeping his distance from Sweet Pea.
I can't say that I blame him.
Bitch is crazy.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Monday, October 03, 2005
Life with Cats
So, I've gotten into the habit of letting my cats go outside.
I realize there is some inherent risk to letting them go out (cars, dogs . . . ), but they look so happy and (so far) always come back when I call them.
Last night, let's call her, "Not-So-Sweet" Pea scared the shit out of me.
See, when she first came into my life she was an outside cat. Well, she was actually an indoor cat that was forced to become an outdoor cat. She was declawed and tossed out by former neighbors. By all appearances, it had been months since she'd seen a vet or been fed a good meal. Following many tears (on my part) and Not-So-Sweet Pea throwing herself at J's feet, he decided we could keep her.
She was an easy cat. Mostly, I think she was just happy to know where her next meal was coming from and thankful for the central air and heat that we provided her. So, we could leave the door wide open and she'd stick her head out, look left and right and just walk back in the house. She showed no interest in going outside.
But, since we've been letting Jack and Sasha out, Sweet realized that we weren't kicking her out, but letting her come back in when she was ready.
Lately, she's been asking to go out at sundown and will usually find her way back to our front porch by the time we go to bed.
Last night, S went outside to round them up and one by one they returned with Sweet bringing up the rear. I was in bed at the time and Sweet jumped up to the foot of the bed and just as I was reaching out to scratch her head I recoiled in horror.
Blood.
All over her face and her front left paw.
I leapt off the bed and went to see S on the front porch:
Me, "Why is Sweet covered in blood?"
S, "What?!?"
We both ran into the house to find her and as I scooped her up in my arms S did a quick assessment of her limbs and face. She let him touch her and did nothing other than purr in my arms.
We took her over to the sink and I held her while S lathered her paw with kittie soap and rinsed off her face.
Our only conclusion: she killed something.
This wasn't the first time, but it was the first time that I was witness to the gory aftermath. Some months ago, she took down a mockingbird. Our roommate walked out to check our mail only to find the grisly remains and a proud Sweet prancing and preening around her "contribution" to the house.
He praised her and once she was satisfied there was an air of "please see that it is taken care of" haughtiness in the lift of her tail as she walked in the house.
Which, is what is confusing about last night. Usually, cats bring their catch home. We didn't receive any such gift, so we are going with one of two options:
1. She brought it in the house and we have yet to find it.
or
2. She didn't quite finish it off last night.
Either way, it's not a pretty thought.
I realize there is some inherent risk to letting them go out (cars, dogs . . . ), but they look so happy and (so far) always come back when I call them.
Last night, let's call her, "Not-So-Sweet" Pea scared the shit out of me.
See, when she first came into my life she was an outside cat. Well, she was actually an indoor cat that was forced to become an outdoor cat. She was declawed and tossed out by former neighbors. By all appearances, it had been months since she'd seen a vet or been fed a good meal. Following many tears (on my part) and Not-So-Sweet Pea throwing herself at J's feet, he decided we could keep her.
She was an easy cat. Mostly, I think she was just happy to know where her next meal was coming from and thankful for the central air and heat that we provided her. So, we could leave the door wide open and she'd stick her head out, look left and right and just walk back in the house. She showed no interest in going outside.
But, since we've been letting Jack and Sasha out, Sweet realized that we weren't kicking her out, but letting her come back in when she was ready.
Lately, she's been asking to go out at sundown and will usually find her way back to our front porch by the time we go to bed.
Last night, S went outside to round them up and one by one they returned with Sweet bringing up the rear. I was in bed at the time and Sweet jumped up to the foot of the bed and just as I was reaching out to scratch her head I recoiled in horror.
Blood.
All over her face and her front left paw.
I leapt off the bed and went to see S on the front porch:
Me, "Why is Sweet covered in blood?"
S, "What?!?"
We both ran into the house to find her and as I scooped her up in my arms S did a quick assessment of her limbs and face. She let him touch her and did nothing other than purr in my arms.
We took her over to the sink and I held her while S lathered her paw with kittie soap and rinsed off her face.
Our only conclusion: she killed something.
This wasn't the first time, but it was the first time that I was witness to the gory aftermath. Some months ago, she took down a mockingbird. Our roommate walked out to check our mail only to find the grisly remains and a proud Sweet prancing and preening around her "contribution" to the house.
He praised her and once she was satisfied there was an air of "please see that it is taken care of" haughtiness in the lift of her tail as she walked in the house.
Which, is what is confusing about last night. Usually, cats bring their catch home. We didn't receive any such gift, so we are going with one of two options:
1. She brought it in the house and we have yet to find it.
or
2. She didn't quite finish it off last night.
Either way, it's not a pretty thought.
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