What Makes Me Laugh

So, the two armchairs that are new-to-us have been claimed by the cats. We had envisioned long winter nights reading next to the one air vent that blows hot air in our living room, but have been vanquished to the cold part of the living room by two animals that simply rule by cuteness. How could anyone disturb this?

Peaches is currently unhappy with me. I’ve been traveling a lot. Out of town for a wedding, for work, and now for a family get-together, she’s been lucky to get any quality time out of me this month. Doug has had to fill in, waving cat toys in front of her and Cocoa uselessly, getting the grooming brush swatted out of his hand, and opening the door for the special meow that means, “I want out! Now!”

After two nights away she starts to wander far afield from our house, looking for me. I feel guilty, especially when I get back and I get the old “Do I know you?” routine from her. Cocoa is more forgiving. She purrs and purrs and during the night she’ll lie on my chest as if to say, “Don’t ever leave again, ok?” It takes a few days for Peaches to come around. When we left today she was wrapped in a ball in a corner, obviously upset at the thought of prolonged absence from her two favorite slaves. But, we have a great cat sitter, and she can sleep all day in the clothes hamper if she wants. And a few days after we arrive home she’ll decide that I’m back in her good graces and will climb on my side while I’m sleeping and stretch out like the Sphinx to make sure I know that I was missed.

It just might eat you! My mom sent me this photo. It makes me laugh every time I look at it. It’s of a Maine Coon, the same breed as my cats, but obviously has a larger frame. My first thought when I saw it was, “This cat needs its own bed. No sharing.”

We sometimes (ahem) let our lawn grow a little long, maybe like our hair. A couple of years ago we noticed that our cat Peaches really enjoyed hiding in the tall grass so we decided to leave a little patch under the cherry tree, facing the street. 

Peaches napping in the jungle

What a hit! She naps there, and watches the birds go by, and the little kids on bikes, and the women jogging with their mondo baby strollers, and the occasional derelict (we have a few in Livingston, Montana) who crashes with a cigarette on our cement wall. Plus, the dogs walking by don’t even see her. What a bonus! 

Our next door neighbor walked over the first summer and said, “Hey, I see you grew a kitty jungle!” and the name stuck. Most recently someone said, “Hey, you’ve got a terrarium!”  I looked up terrarium, and our jungle doesn’t really fit the definition of a small, glass-enclosed natural area for frogs, but it’s pretty cute. 

The jungle in full bloom

So, it’s that time of year again when the kitty jungle is in full bloom, and the cats bed down, and once again we wish we had a hammock and better porch furniture and better mosquito repellant, but all in all, we’re pretty darn happy too.

This clever clip of two cats having a minor verbal spat is hilarious. Enjoy!

Cocoa on her harness and leash

None of my neighbors has said anything, but I’m pretty sure they think I’m crazy. And I don’t really blame them.

Imagine what you would think if you saw a woman walk out of her front door holding a pink camouflage leash with a cat attached to it. The cat bounds down the steps and then stops suddenly at a bush next to the porch. The woman stands in the middle of the yard, watching the cat sniff the bush for ten minutes, and then follows the cat to a bunch of grass, where it chews as if it had been born a cow in its first life. The entire time the woman seems to be studying the cat for signs of alien life form.

I “walk” my cat on a daily basis so that she can get a little sun and not kill herself running across the street in front of our house. “Walk” is a very loose term for what we actually do, which is why Zen is in the title of this post. Believe me, studying shrubs and grasses for minutes at a time is not normally on my to-do list. In fact, I typically try to multi-task, which means I am sometimes in my front yard holding a bowl of oatmeal in one hand and the cat leash in the other, which makes me look even crazier.

In the evening, I’ll read, standing up, while I try to hurry her through our loop around the house. If the coast is clear (meaning no cars stopped at the intersection watching me), I’ll stoop down and play her favorite game — chase the stick through the grass.

I‘ve read books about cat walking. These books have a lot in common with dieting books — they make it sound easy, and they give you instructions that are impossible to complete. After all, it’s not like walking a dog, it’s like walking a mule. The cat doesn’t just go where you want it to go. Cats prefer to leap from hiding spot to hiding spot, they don’t want to walk down the sidewalk. They want to be predators, not prey.  

One book I read advised teaching the cat to follow you by giving the leash a couple of short tugs and then letting it go slack. When the cat finally responds, you are supposed to exuberantly praise the cat by saying things like, “What a good girl! You’re such a smart kitty.” In this way, it would learn that following you produces rewards. 

I tried this. A few short tugs later and Cocoa and I had progressed approximately two inches.  I spoke in my best praising, semi-baby voice, and Cocoa just looked at me like, “You’re one plate short of a full dishwasher, my friend.”

Then I tried to treats, and a clicker. I’ll write more about clicker training later. It deserves its own post. But for now, let me just say that treats and clickers didn’t make her move any faster.

So, given my lack of patience and Zenness, the plan is for Cocoa to someday join Peaches (our oldest cat) in running freely outside while we’re at home (which means during the day, while we are gardening, etc.). When Peaches was a kitten, I walked her on a harness and taught her the boundaries of her territory (our yard) with treats and loud hand clapping to scare her back into our yard if she ventured onto the sidewalk. It worked. She never crosses the street, and she comes when she is called, unlike Cocoa

 I’ve made some early attempts to set Cocoa free already, and here’s what happens. First, she pretends to really like our yard. She runs into the backyard, eats some grass, sniffs everything, and then when I’m not looking she decides to jump over the fence into our neighbor’s yard, where a cat-killing dog lies in wait.

Fortunately, I hear the bells on her collar, run out of our gate to the neighbor’s yard, and witness in slow motion the dog’s head appear from the dog door.  Unfortunately, I freeze in emergency situations, so as the dog is running to eat my cat all I can think to do is scream the dog’s name as loud as I can. “Reading!” (which is pronounced Redding – as in the town in Massachusetts) and he stops, in fact, I’m pretty sure the whole neighborhood stopped because the scream sounded like someone was about to die and in that instant my cat jumped to the top of the fence and back over into our yard to safety.

By far the most embarrassing times are when she runs away and I try to catch her to bring her back. It’s at this point that I have to decide whether I should risk trespassing in neighborhood yards to retrieve my cat. What is the etiquette on something like that? Is it excusable because you’re trying to get an animal, or should you politely knock on the door while the cat runs to the next neighbor’s yard?

Most of the time I sit on the edges of a neighbor’s property calling, “Cocoa” in a soft, whistful, come hither, I-want-to-make-you-think- I-have-something-good-for-you-but-really-I-want-to-kill-you-tone. But sometimes, neighbors I know who won’t mind catch a glimpse of a crazed woman running through their yard chasing a small cat while shaking a bag of cat treats. The funny thing is, no one has ever commented or offered to help. Maybe I’m just too scary to mess with.

The most humiliating part  is that I never catch her. She’ll sit underneath an abandoned van or canoe in someone’s driveway looking at me like, “Can’t get me now!” while I crouch down and do my little pleading act. Or, she’ll crawl underneath our porch while I try to entice her to come out by playing the stick game or putting out treats and food as an offering. I feel like I’m worshipping some finicky ancient god.

Usually, I give up and she shows up at my door about an hour later wanting access to food and shelter on her own terms. I just sigh, open the door up wide, and walk to my stash of cat treats. “Next time,” I tell her, “you’re going on the leash.”

Dr.:  So, why are you here Peaches? Can I call you Peaches?

Peaches:  If I had another name I’d let you call me it. Can you believe that they gave me such a stupid name? How’d you like to be named after a fruit? How ’bout if I called you Dr. Apple, how would that be? Or Dr. Pomegranate? I’m a cat; I’m not a fruit.

Dr.: You sound very angry. Are you angry? 

Peaches: Of course I’m angry! You would be too if you knew what the other cats are saying about me. I can just tell by the way they look at me — that blank, expressionless stare. It says it all.

Dr.: What do you think they’re saying about you?

Peaches: Well, it’s hard to tell, but I don’t think it’s good.

Dr.: Everybody knows you can’t tell what cats are thinking about you by looking at them. It’s just unsettling, that’s all. What would you like to talk about today?

Peaches: I don’t know.

Dr.: Let’s start with your parents. How do you feel about your parents?

Peaches:  You don’t go into therapy unless you’re angry with your parents.

Dr.: Why are you angry with your parents?

Peaches: It’s the way they call me. They stand on the deck and call out in this high sing-songy baby voice. “Here pee pee! Come here pee pee!” They refuse to treat me with respect and it’s ruining my reputation in the neighborhood. The three cats next door snicker at me every time I walk out the front door. I can’t even keep them off my own yard.

Dr. : Sounds like you’re having trouble making friends. You know you’re not alone. A lot of cats have this problem.