A Cat's Life. . .

Throughout my entire life, with a handful of exceptions, I've always had a cat. Or two. Or three.

I can name all of them.

Chouca, Meo, Angel, Varmit, Sammy, Kitty Witty, Butch, Kit, Cat, Boo Boo, The Guy, Momma Kitty, Ché Boludo, Bobcat, Black Kitty and finally, Wildcat.

Each of them had a unique personality. Like Meo. She was a big, fat Siamese momma kitty and when I was a kid during a moment of great distress and began crying, like the time I tried to "adjust" my cowlicks with the scissors but ended up mowing my bangs down to the skull, she curled up in my lap and purred her little heart out. A mother first, a cat second.

Or Butch. A female Calico, who was run over by a car and managed to pull herself from the driveway with her two front paws around the corner of the house and through the open back door, suffering from a broken pelvis and the ball of her leg/hip joint snapped off. Once rewired by my godfather, Dr. Johnson, she lived a happy 13 years, "butching" around on her bum leg catching birds and mice.

Or Sammy. A gray and white American Shorthair who grew to a fiercesome 17 pounds of ass-kicker. Just ask the dopey Golden Retriever from down the street who would come to our yard with his personal tennis ball for a game of catch every now and then. I wouldn't have believed it if I didn't see it, but Sammy whipped his butt and took his ball too.

Now I have Wildcat.


He just showed out of the blue one day. Like Bobcat and Black Kitty, great wandering felines who simply happened upon the right doorstep.

I named him Wildcat because the night he arrived, he had Black Kitty cornered on the front porch and was putting on a spectacle of cat intimidation that even real wild cats could've learned from. His body was twisted and contorted to such degree and his vocal emanations so loud and chilling that if I were a cat, I would have not had any second thoughts about getting away from such insanity.

The racket was loud and scary enough to roust me from my bed at 11:30 at night. I stepped outside to see what was going on and in the split second that I opened the door, Wildcat barged inside and made himself a feast out of the community food bowl. Right at home, whether I liked it or not.

Since then, he has become a part of the great cat family. Always rambunctious and never knowing when to quit, he is always on the lookout for something to do. Like, taking a giant leap from the floor to the bed and scrambling across my face at 700 miles per hour at 3 o'clock in the morning. Leaving me as a total, discombobulated wreck. Or diving under the covers as I seek safety to bite me on the ankle or toe. Or even launching himself onto the screen of the window from outside when he wants to come in.


Bobcat, Little Ms. Fussbudget, has learned to temper his aggressiveness with some scowling and guttural growls. Wildcat learned early on about Bobcat's razor sharp claws (we all have scars), yet this does not stop him fron an ocassional moment of bothering. Like plopping down just close enough to irritate, but slightly out of the danger zone from a quick swipe.


But Black Kitty on the other hand, still hasn't come up with a worthy defense. He, the perennial loner and lover of all things, has taken to slithering under the couch for a kitty nap or curling up inside the cat condo that no one else has anything to do with. Although, Black Kitty has learned that if a chase ensues, simply by stopping and spinning around with a hiss will halt all Wildcat pursuit. Hey, if it ain't running, I guess I don't want to eat it. Or harass it.

RETREAT!!!!


Yet, episodes such as this will never stop the intrepid Wildcat. He's always on the lookout for something to do. He is an adolescent after all and has much to learn. And of lot of that learning I fear, will be the hard way.


Take for instance, giant birds. They look tasty enough and maybe they'll run too!


Look good to eat from a distance.


On second thought though. . .

Where is Black Kitty? I think I'll just harangue him instead. . .