ZIP

ZIP

Yes indeed I want to tell you more about Keisa and one of the comments made has told me how I want to do it. This person asked me to write about my other special cats. There were four including Keisa. The same motivation makes me want to show how deeply attached cats become as they age, to a loving care taker.

But first I want to thank all of you kind people for your encouragement by visiting my Keisa Blog and especially those who made comments. One comment had to do with Siamese cats. I did not intend to give the impression that they do not mew. I never had one and I did not want one. I thought they were terrible squawkers who talked all the time. I failed completely to recognize their slim grace and lively intelligence. My two cats of pantomime skill, Chip and Keisa, I called Siamese-mix, based entirely on appearance and behavior. They were recorded by their doctors as domestic cats.

Now I begin with special cat #1 – ZIP, [1929]. I have a feeling of guilt about her to this day because I failed her twice but at least it formed my resolutions: Do it yourself. Don’t cravenly leave it to another.

I don’t remember how I got Zip. She was partly long haired, pretty, timid and a perfect lady. At the family table she had a chair beside mine and she sat there content. She was also a lap cat, a gentle creature that had a horrible experience.


One night after dark as I sat in the living room there was a terrible banging racket on our front porch. I was scared. When it stopped I made myself investigate. There was nothing there. The next morning, Zip had not come home as usual. I searched and called throughout the neighborhood. No result.

It could have been as much as two weeks later that I got a phone call. A cat was under a garage. A cat had been caught by one foot in a leg-hold trap. It was ZIP and her foot had been freed, missing two toes. I carried her home. My mother said to walk her in the fresh air. Then I laid her on the bed in the room next to the dining room and we began the noon meal. Zip came dragging her infected foot to sit beside my chair. I got her onto the expected other chair. So animals don’t love? It is all instinct? Not in my mind.

Zip recovered slowly and lived to age 15. Finally she became incontinent in the house and my mother said enough. I called the humane officer and went to work with the understanding that Zip would be put to sleep at home and left there. When I got home, I learned that she had been put through the terror of being carted away. The officer had convinced my mother that he could do the work better at his office. Zip deserved better.

There had been another time in her life when I had been away from home for six months and my mother had cared for Zip faithfully. When I came back Zip promptly requested the chair at my side be restored. Mother wryly remarked that she got small thanks for her service.

The other three specials were all taken to the veterinarian by me personally and held during the proceedings and buried by me in their yard.

The first of these three was Chip. I look forward to discussing his personality. He was the clown, the investigator, the tease, the biter, the one who couldn’t care less about me, what a fraud!

CHIP

On him I have his parents. He was born in New York State near Albany at the home of my niece and husband. His mother was an ordinary black and white, always in heat but monogamous. She waited for the same big white Tom. I never saw him but I suspect he contributed the Siamese factor. I believe there was a litter of five. Chip was pure white, shorthaired, not blue-eyed and not deaf. When he was old enough I went down by bus to bring him home by bus. He enjoyed the trip. [At nine months he developed a black spot the size of a dime near his pink nose leather]

To my surprise Chip did enjoy the trip to his permanent home. He was in a container which I could carry hanging so he did not show. I sat alone in a window seat and took him out onto my lap. He was fascinated with the scenery zipping past, his head whirling side to side in response.

At break time for food at a restaurant, I boxed him and set him at my feet while I ate. He made not a sound. It was as if he knew he was contraband, so he co-operated. Back on the bus I had a feeling the driver knew but he never let on. After the 3-1/2 hour trip we were home. Chip showed no fear, only intense interest in his new surroundings. Like Keisa, his counterpart so many years later, he never tried to run away. They both understood that this was home.

Next day I had to be at work. Because Chip was a wild climber, I shut him in the bathroom where he would not get hurt. At noon I drove home to feed him. Poor Chip! He had been roasted. It was a small room with a good heat duct. With the door shutting off some of the heat to the other four rooms with the thermostat the furnace had to pump madly to warm them.

My brother John was a traveling salesman and stayed at my home when he worked in my state. His first visit after I got Chip was an experience for Chip. John and I had a good dinner and I did the dishes and went to bed. John was already asleep with door closed. Chip did not join me on my bed because he was sitting outside that closed door in shocked wonder. His ears were laid back against his head as he listened to the volume of snoring. Finally he too came to bed.

A few hours later John got up to get a glass of milk. Chip had to monitor that activity. I heard my brother go back to bed but my cat did not come. He was not in the kitchen but I heard movement. My white cat was inside my white refrigerator and only his gold eyes greeted me. We went back to bed.

Next day at lunch at the office I had to tell my table companions of Chip’s roast. This brought on a shower of gifts and established Chip as a personage.

Since my work required me to travel and be away a lot an elderly couple across the road fed him and let him out. One night he got up on the porch roof and in the morning claimed he couldn’t get down. Poor old Mr. C. had to get a ladder, climb a few rungs and offer his shoulder. Chip promptly accepted and walked down the proffered back.

Chip’s voice: Although I had him neutered he liked to go out with the boys as a witness or to defend his property [circa 65x125 feet]. When there was a fracas I could hear his beautiful clear tenor, distinct from the other howlers. I would go get him to avoid another abscess and trip to the doctor. Sometimes he was secretly glad to be rescued. [How pitiful the day I saw him lie on his side in submission before a trespassing tom on his own porch. There was no fight, no caterwaul. We three knew Chip was old.]

Chip had a high pitched purr, hardly more than a breath. One day I brought him home from a dental procedure, not yet well recovered from anesthesia, barely able to sit up. I stood with my back turned at the kitchen sink. Suddenly there was this deep loud roaring purr. I whipped around to locate a lion but it was only my white Chip, sitting in dignity, purring his joy to be home. [One more voice episode will come later in the part about, “I couldn’t care less about you”.]

Since one doesn’t mew in the house and pantomime does not work when the old gal is asleep, what to do? Ahh! The Venetian blinds! Right in the spare room next to her bedroom. You would be surprised at the racket you can make by pulling out just one slat and letting it snap back hard and with steady rhythm. She’ll get up.

Keisa and Chip were alike in having the gift of mechanical comprehension. They liked to know how things worked and were always ready with a paw to make them work, to rattle the door knob to show what needs to be done to get that door open and to use a paw to open it faster. You already know about Keisa and her special door knobs.

What I have not explained is why Chip early on got the unfair reputation of not caring about me, his caretaker. When I brought him home, my garage was at the very end of the driveway about 15 feet from the house. That left a clear space of driveway plainly visible from the street parallel to it one house away.

Chip spent a lot of time in the garage while I was at work. I had an old SAAB, manual shift, with characteristic putt putt, which Chip recognized. When I came home in late afternoons I could see Chip come out of the garage with an almost pathetic eagerness. He would come to the porch step where I had parked, close enough to be sure who was in the car, turn his back and go off into the yard with never a greeting for me. Some homecoming! I wonder who said, “You’ve never been ignored ‘til you’ve been ignored by a cat”?

In Chip’s reign, the way to the attic in my home was by way of an ordinary wooden door but the top of the stairs was closed off by a heavy trap door. It worked by a long rope around a pulley wheel and fastened to a hook at the bottom of the stairs. One day I unhooked the rope while Chip climbed to the top and waited for me to pull. I waited for him to look back at me to see why not but he ignored me. He looked over his left shoulder at the pulley wheel back of him on his own level but above the rope hook and, without a word, he said, “What’s the matter with the pulley?” Abashed, I pulled.

In his hey day Chip made it his pleasure to disturb anything I was doing like coming in a rush from behind to scatter any planting I was doing; disturbing any work inside that I had not put away; and keeping my hands decorated by claw marks or bites [my Keisa bit me also]. One day a cat appeared on my side porch, looking anxiously through the screen door. It was grey all over. I couldn’t let it in because Chip had no tolerance for trespassers, but I went to the door because of the beseeching look. Then I saw the black spot the size of a dime near the pink nose. Poor Chip! He must have gotten into something where a vacuum cleaner bag had been emptied. Poor me! What a brushing job!

Chip investigated everything that came into my house. He also rather enjoyed having his picture taken, so I have several snapshots because he was photogenically white. I like one where he is testing the texture of my new jumper, just unwrapped.

Both Chip and Keisa were heat lovers, especially Chip who plastered himself against the baseboard registers. In contrast was my #3, Tabitha, a radiant heater herself.

Now back to Chip’s attitude of “I couldn’t care less about you”. He occasionally gave himself away. On one occasion I left him for a week in the care of the Cassavants across the road while I visited a friend over 300 miles away [Chip hated being in a carrier in a car]. We came home together and Chip enjoyed Mary’s presence. Next day was Sunday and we went to early Mass. When we got home Chip was across the road, pacing anxiously in Mrs C’s driveway. She said he had complained bitterly that I had gone away again without telling him.

The next episode of this kind was not amusing. My work required me to be away for a month and a young neighbor, Chuck, who liked Chip, was in charge, and knew where I kept the key. He came over while I was gone to let Chip out into the yard and lie on the grass with him because he was aware of his loneliness. When I got back home late at night I put my key in the lock and pushed the door open. The most blood curdling scream came from my bedroom down the hall. How that cat ever knew it was my key in the door after so long tells me how much he had longed to hear it. I never left him alone overnight again and he stopped all pretence of not caring. He was getting old and so was I. Eventually he reached a point where I was all he did care about and he wanted me beside him all the time.

I now realize Chip never did say, “I couldn’t care less”. He was saying, “Oh, she’s home so I’m OK.”

He died of cancer of the mouth. A lesion inside his lower lip was excised and sent off to a laboratory.

The report was benign, an error. After a year or more he could no longer eat and finally had the humiliation of incontinence. I took him to the veterinary for his final sleep while I held him, and then buried him in his own yard as he deserved.

The next offering will be about cat #3, Tabitha, or “Tabby of the Tender Touch”, with only one accomplishment and one dramatic episode but much loving understanding.

TABITHA/ TABBY

Tabitha/Tabby

After some years with no cat and living on TV ads for cat foods instead, I gave in and thought maybe it would be reasonable to hope to outlive another cat. The last thing I wanted was to abandon an old, sick dependent pet. So I went to our local shelter to select a kitten, a small buff-orange one. There were no kittens of any kind. I cruised the cages. A small, tentative paw reached out and said, “Take me, please”, so I did. She had an ordinary black and grey tabby pattern, with an angora type face and longer hair around her neck and a bit of buffy ruffle on her chest. Her tabby pattern was perfect, mirror matched on both sides and her tail was long haired.

Of my four special cats she was the most psychic, not very smart, not helpful, expecting care and love. She knew how you were feeling especially if you were ill. She stayed with you and asked for the minimum of service.

Also she was the only one of the four who did not have confidence in my ability to take care of her in emergencies. She was easily frightened and panicked, racing off wildly to hide. [This trait brought on a problem for my neighbor one day.] When we went to the doctor, she screamed all the way and when taken from her carrier, she shoved her face into the crook of my elbow and kept it there during procedures. Not a wail on the way home.

One night I had two guests in the dead of winter and maybe we did not pay much attention to Tabby. When she asked for the door I let her out. When the guests left and Tabby had not returned, I panicked. I called and my visitors searched the yard and especially her hidey-hole under the front cement steps. No response. By 4:00 AM when my newspaper lady arrived I enlisted her help. At daylight I tried again under the porch. A faint mew! She was O.K. but she did not try to come out. The opening had been to a slippery slope but getting back up was impossible for arthritic legs and could have broken her spine.

Gita, care taking neighbor, came over and I went to get my fireman neighbor. [In those days firemen rescued cats]. He could see Tabby. The ground was hard-frozen and I could not dig it but when I proposed hiring a crane to lift the set of cement steps just as it had been dropped there, Fireman Brown thought enlarging the hole was a better idea and he did that, God bless him!

Still Tabby would not stir at my coaxing. So with sincere thanks I dismissed my good neighbors and waited at the hole. After a few moments of quiet Tabby poked her head out so I was able to pull her free none the worse for her experience.

Now about Tabby and the tender touch: Besides the gentle paw at the Humane Society Shelter that won her a good home for years, Tabby continued to use her touch to “win friends and influence people.”

Tabby earned her keep thereby. As always there was a table at arm chair level on the left of the big chair where I took my meals on a tray. Probably she got some tidbits from my tray at times but I don’t remember. I do remember the little ceremony of concluding each meal with the same dry food she liked so well.

It was handed to her one by one in response to an incredibly delicate touch to a bare arm resting on the arm of the chair. To my surprise she would accept the pieces from my friends seated in that chair, always bringing a look of pleasure to the face of the giver.

One of my dearest memories is of my brother’s reaction. He was not fully in tune with my permissiveness about cats in the house. This day he stopped in on a visit and saw the little game. I persuaded him to take my place and supplied the bits and instructions. Tabby cooperated. Her first touch was magic. I had never seen such a look on my brother’s face, a look of wonder at being so moved.

Tabby died at age 15 or 16 of cancer of the mouth. She went over to Gita’s for that purpose one evening but I went and brought her home to her table. She never moved all night and I knew it was time. In the morning she did not resist my taking her to be put to sleep. As I waited for her doctor we were at a window with a bird feeder outside. Incredibly Tabby aroused to excitement at the sight. She was the one of the four with the strongest wild instincts.

Her place in her yard was ready and I put her in it. This time I said, “No more cats” and I meant it.

Then years later, came Keisa, the Companion Cat whom you already know, but whose resume needs a bit more detail.