Chicken Soup for the Soul: What I Learned from My Cat

Cats and Comedy

Are You Sure You Want a Dog?

Cats are something else. Once they accept you into their life, it’s forever.

~André Brink

I grabbed the next application and called out a name. A petite woman in her early forties raised her hand. I approached her and introduced myself as the adoption counselor who would help her find her new companion.

We sat at a table, and I glanced down at the questionnaire.

Okay, let’s get started, I said. I see that you’re looking for a puppy today at the shelter.

Yes, but one that is potty-trained.

Okay, we can’t guarantee that in a puppy. Perhaps an older dog would be better.

No, I’d like a puppy. One that’s not too big, though. Or too small.

Okay.

Also, I want a dog that won’t bark at people or other animals or when the doorbell rings.

I see.

I don’t want a dog who pulls on a leash. Better yet, I’d like a dog that doesn’t really like to go for walks. Do you have some of those?

I’m pretty sure most of our dogs would enjoy going for walks.

Also, I can’t stand a dog that drools, so it should have tight lips. I also don’t want a bad-smelling dog because that’s just gross. And absolutely no begging at the table.

Well, a smelly dog can be bathed. A beggar can be trained. But drooling? That’s probably not something you can fix. Is there anything else I should know before I make a recommendation?

Uh, let’s see. I’d like a nice dog but not one that is overly needy. Sometimes, I like my own space.

Is that it?

I think so, she said.

Well, you are in luck. I have the perfect girl for you. Her name is Lucy. Follow me.

When we entered the small room, the woman looked at me with confusion on her face. I don’t understand. That’s a cat.

Yes, it turns out that your perfect dog is actually a cat, I said to her.

It took a moment for this to sink in, but after we talked some more, she agreed that Lucy did check all her boxes.

So, Lucy found her forever home that evening, and her new owner found her perfect dog — who just happened to be a cat!

— Victoria Lorrekovich-Miller —

Snickers

Laughter is a tranquilizer with no side effects.

~Arnold Glasow

I called my husband after I left work to confirm that he had picked up our cat Snickers from the veterinarian’s office. It was nothing serious, just a regular check-up for our elderly fur-buddy.

When I walked into the house through the mudroom door, I fully expected Snickers to be pacing back and forth beside his empty food dish.

Eldon, where’s Snickers? I asked.

He’s under our bed, hiding there since I let him out of the crate, Eldon explained.

Hmmm, I muttered. Strange. He never goes under our bed.

I knelt down at the foot of the bed, pulled up the quilt, and peered into the dark space. Snickers stared back at me.

I scooted him toward me, stood up, and faced my gentle, giant kitty. I stared at the gentle giant’s face inches from mine.

Eldon, this is not Snickers!

He stood beside us and took the cat from my arms.

This is not Snickers, he shouted, staring into the cat’s eyes.

A quick call to the veterinarian’s office confirmed that they had given us a Snickers look-alike.

We returned the sweet imposter to the vet’s office and traded him for our actual gentle giant.

Just as we were about to walk out the door with the real Snickers, the vet reached out her hand and handed each of us a small gift. We got to the car and unwrapped them. We laughed all the way home while enjoying our mini Snickers bars.

— Monica Lawson —

Walking Your Cat Can Be a Drag

Against the assault of laughter, nothing can stand.

~Mark Twain

A few years ago, my roommate Lisa and I rescued two cats and named them Gish and Blackie. Although I was fully invested in my new status as a cat mommy, as a former dog person I shared my disappointment with Lisa that cats couldn’t be taught commands such as sit and stay and perform tricks like give me a paw and roll over. I also liked the bonding and the exercise that you get from taking a dog for a long walk and regretted that I’d never be able to do that with our cats.

Not true, Lisa said, assuring me that cats could absolutely be trained to perform tricks. And, she added, I once saw a man walking a cat on a leash through my neighborhood when I was a kid. After witnessing that, she told me, she’d always dreamed of one day owning a cat that she could walk. After our conversation, she became determined to make Blackie and Gish those cats.

She went out and bought the necessary accessories: cute leashes and tiny harnesses. But when she draped one over Blackie’s head, slid his little feet through the loops, and clicked the fastener, he promptly stiffened and fell over onto his side like a fainting goat.

Undaunted, Lisa said, He always follows Gish’s lead. If he sees her with the harness on, then he’ll feel better about it.

Gish, however, had witnessed Blackie’s bondage and was hiding under Lisa’s bed. When even her favorite cat toy on a stick failed to lure her out, the walking plan was shelved for the evening, with Lisa believing it was just a temporary setback. She was determined to get those cats outside, walking on leashes.

Maybe they don’t like the feeling of the harnesses against their skin, Lisa reasoned. She bought them little sweaters to wear underneath the harnesses.

The following day, we each held a cat while Lisa slipped on their sweaters and harnesses. Blackie flopped onto his side again, and Gish froze in shock.

Lisa got the idea to sprinkle treats along the carpet. Eventually, the cats became reanimated and gobbled them up. She did this for a week, progressing to attaching the leashes and giving them a little tug, coaxing the cats to walk toward the treats. That resulted in both cats falling over in protest.

Lisa persisted, and within another week, the cats were walking in a straight line to and from the treats while Lisa held their leashes.

I think they’re ready, she announced. We put on their little sweaters and harnesses, leashed them up, and opened the door. Lisa dropped some treats, and Gish stepped tentatively onto the porch and ate one. Soon, Blackie followed her out, and we were dropping treats down the short flight of stairs and onto the path that led to the sidewalk. They were moving slowly, but the cats were indeed walking on leashes.

Let’s just go to the end of the block and back, Lisa said. I don’t want to get overly confident on our first day.

We walked slowly, glancing back at the cats every now and then, noticing that, each time we did, they would stop moving.

I think we’re making them self-conscious, Lisa said.

Right, I agreed. Cats are independent.

We decided to stop checking on them and made it halfway down the block with nary a tug in protest. There was a child walking with her mother across the street, and she stopped to point.

Mommy! she exclaimed. What is that lady doing to that cat?

Quite pleased with herself, Lisa smiled and waved at the two of them. I turned around to marvel at her impressive display of cat training and immediately grabbed Lisa by the arm, stopping her.

Uh, Leese?

She turned as well and gasped.

Both cats were on their sides, purring contentedly, with bits of sweater fabric in their wake. We’d apparently dragged them the entire way down the sidewalk, their sweaters providing them with a nice cushion for their ride.

— Rachel Remick —

The Invisible Force Field

Cats seem to go on the principle that it never does any harm to ask for what you want.

~Joseph Wood Krutch

I was relaxing on my bed, watching an interesting documentary about black crows. The TV was about two feet away from the foot of my bed. Jake, my muscular, twenty-five-pound cat, hopped onto the bed to watch the crows with me.

At first, he sat upright, with his head cocked in curiosity. But when the camera zoomed in on two of the crows, Jake dropped onto his belly, assuming his lethal predator hunting mode: His ears were folded back and his tail was twitching as he locked onto his enemies with a laser-like focus. How dare those crows openly strut about in front of him!

Suddenly, both crows turned, faced the camera, and began loudly squawking directly at Jake. The audacity! Jake leapt from the foot of the bed, launching himself like a missile directly at the TV screen. The mighty warrior wasn’t deterred when his head bounced off the screen and he tumbled to the floor. He merely hopped back onto the foot of the bed and returned to attack mode. After all, the offending crows were still there, squawking even louder. It was abundantly clear they were taunting him, the fierce warrior.

However, before launching his second attack, Jake solicited my assistance. This time, while in hunt mode — flat on his belly, ears flat against his head, tail snapping — he turned his head and meowed at me repeatedly, as if he was imploring me to notice: Look, the crows are still right there! But there’s an invisible force field protecting them that I cannot penetrate — but you, as a human, can!

The two crows continued to cruelly mock his valiant efforts, squawking even louder. Jake decided that the situation was too dire to wait another moment. He would bravely lead the second charge without human assistance. Compelled by the crisis at hand, he launched himself directly at the offending, audacious crows again, bravely risking life and limb to penetrate the invisible force field. Again, like in a cartoon, his head bounced off the TV screen, and he tumbled to the floor in defeat a second time.

I admired the great warrior spirit that he displayed despite his repeated defeats. So, I gave him a toy mouse infused with catnip to distract him from the offending crows and reward his valiant efforts. Happily, he launched several successful toy mouse attacks, and his wounded warrior spirit was fully restored.

— Pamela Dunaj —

Crotchety Cat

Each cat is a singular being — a pulsing centre of the universe — with this colour eyes, this length and density of fur, this palate of preferences, habits and dispositions. Each with his own idiosyncrasies.

~David Wood

Bean was alone in a huge cage, the last kitten of her litter. She dashed from corner to corner, stopping on each perch and imploring us with the sweetest little meow we’d ever heard. It was so sweet that, in my besotted state, I was able to instantly translate it into English: Oh, please take me home. You won’t be sorry. Honest.

I was ready to fold, but Bill was with me and he usually keeps me sensible. We already had two cats, a dog, two sons, and an aquarium filled with tropical fish. So, plenty of pets.

Then, I heard a defeated sigh beside me. Oh, go ahead.

I brightened. Really?

I guess.

We called her Bonanza Jellybean after the character in a book I’d just read and because of her jellybean colors. Bean, for short.

At first, the kids and the other pets loved her, but it didn’t take long for us to realize that those saccharine meows had been a ploy. Under that saintly exterior lurked a very black heart, and she displayed her disgust for mankind without playing favorites. She scratched, she bit, and she made demonic sounds. No one was safe.

Still, she was so pretty that people chose to ignore the crazy look in her eyes, even when she was a full-grown twelve pounds.

Don’t touch her! I’d cry.

It’s okay, they’d unfailingly say. I’m a cat person.

Then there would be blood.

But as our lawyer friend observed as he held his maimed hand under the faucet, without a legal leg to stand on, I can’t say you didn’t warn me.

We seldom left town because only one place would board her, and only because I was friends with the owner. As I’d carry Bean in, the staff would start singing the Elton John song, The B*tch Is Back.

When we arrived to pick her up, her litter box was invariably full, her food bowl empty, and the staff was wearing leather gauntlets.

It was a tumultuous kitten-hood. She was so mean that we’d begun to believe she might actually be crazy, and we discussed giving her to a farmer we knew who kept cats in his barn to control rodents. Maybe killing tiny, furry creatures all day would cheer her up.

Before we could move forward with that plan, though, she changed. She left her cat bed and decided to sleep with Bill and me. One of us always had at least one weeping scratch — she didn’t like it when we turned over — but we weren’t about to tell her no. After all, this might be the beginning of a truce of sorts.

In those days, Bill snored — and I mean snored. One night, he’d just dozed off, and I lay there trying to get to sleep before the din began. If I could fall asleep fast enough, I’d manage a few hours before his snoring woke me, but he began immediately.

Bean had been snoozing in a furrow of covers between us when she heard him, and I saw her head pop up with interest. I grabbed the water sprayer I kept on my nightstand for a Bean emergency.

On Bill’s next noisy inhale, she jumped to her feet. I put my finger on the sprayer trigger. On his exhale, she hurried up the bed to look into his face, her expression fierce but fascinated. I pointed the sprayer in her direction.

Then, she started imitating him with loud, accurate snoring sounds. It was so cute! I think I even said, Awww.

But things soon became ridiculous, for as soon as Bean began her imitation, the noise roused Bill, and he stopped snoring. Bean became quiet again and waited, studying Bill’s face with excitement.

In the silence, Bill fell deeply asleep again, and his snoring resumed. Bean chimed in again, and Bill roused again and stopped snoring. So, Bean stopped, too.

This game of copycat continued for a good three minutes. By that time, I was laughing hard and had awakened Bill. I told him what happened, and after we’d laughed together, he turned onto his side. Bean retreated to the furrow in the covers, and the rest of the night was peaceful.

Although Bean slept between us for the rest of her life, the incident of synchronized snoring was never repeated. But Bean had found her people, and though she continued to lose her temper, she never hurt us again.

She saved her hostility for the rest of the world, though. That didn’t change.

— Leslie C. Schneider —

Baby’s First Tooth

A teething baby is so much fun. Said no one ever!

~Author Unknown

Ow, you little stinker! Our rambunctious four-month-old kitten had given me another chomp, this time launching a sneak attack from behind and sinking his needle-sharp teeth right into my calf.

We were perplexed. Our kitten Tiki was a ball of energy from day one, but he hadn’t been a biter until recently. He began biting the corners of my paperback books and chewing on my socks and shoes, but, most unnerving, he was now chomping on electrical cords. We found some bitter spray and coated every cord we could find, so he had now resorted to biting us.

A consult with our veterinarian provided the answer: Tiki was teething! Our doctor explained that, just like human babies, kittens go through a teething stage. The thought hadn’t crossed our minds, as my husband and I had never raised a kitten, nor a child, before. The doctor recommended a frozen washcloth for him to chew on and even to peruse the teething toys in the baby section. Look for something that he can get his teeth around and really chew, she helpfully offered.

And so, there I was, staring at an endless display of teething options: rattles, necklaces, bracelets, and soft cloth books. It was overwhelming. I had just picked up a soft, beaded bracelet when a woman cornered me. She was wearing an infant in a carrier and pushing an overflowing shopping cart.

She wanted to chat.

Always something to buy, right? she began.

I nodded and avoided eye contact, hoping she’d take the hint and move on. I continued scanning the shelves, pondering the merits of a silicone ring filled with some kind of liquid that squished between my fingers. Something told me that Tiki’s little fangs would pierce right through it, so I put it back.

Those water teethers are really great, the chatterbox offered. My oldest liked those a lot, but we’ll have to see what little sister here likes, she said, patting the infant snuggled into her chest. How was your birthing experience? Did you deliver here?

I started to explain that I was actually looking at teethers for a kitten with growing anger-management issues, but she proceeded to answer her own questions.

I did, and let me tell you, I’ll pick a natural birth over a C-section any day of the week, she said. Then, she proceeded to enlighten me with medical details that I absolutely could have done without.

What kind of diapers do you like best to handle blow-outs? she asked.

Uh…, I stammered, trying to stifle laughter. I could take one guess at what a blow-out was before she launched into another line of conversation.

And baby monitors, she said, shaking her head. What a nightmare that has been, let me tell you.

Speaking of nightmares…, I wanted to say, but I kept mum, trying to quickly settle on something that our grouchy feline could chew on so I could make my getaway.

I finally landed on two nubby bracelets and a pineapple-shaped silicone ring when she reverted to teething.

So, your little one is teething, huh? she said, pausing briefly to come up for some air.

I’d had enough of this motormouth and decided to have some fun.

Oh, yeah, he’s teething something awful, I said. And biting everything in sight.

Her eyes gleamed. She was going to take the bait. Hook, line, and sinker.

Sensing she’d found a maternal comrade-in-arms, I waited to launch my attack, as she relayed several stories about her teething adventures before she finally turned the conversation back to me.

So, how old is your little one? What have you tried?

Oh, he’s just about four months old, I said.

She cast me a knowing glance. A bit early, but yeah, it happens. My Oliver, his teeth started breaking through, oh, I’d have to say six months maybe, but he was so fussy. How many teeth does your little one have now?

Well, our little stinker has a full set, I grinned. And he’s chomping everything in sight and leaving bite holes in my books, but he really likes biting me in particular. And, let me tell you, his teeth are sharp!

My plan had worked. I had nearly shocked her into silence.

I… did you say he has a full set? Of teeth? she finally said, completely baffled.

Oh, yeah, I nodded. And he knows how to use them.

What does your doctor say about all this? she asked, looking at me in astonishment.

She told me to wash out the bites with peroxide and get ointment on them right away. And that I needed to really get something for him to start teething on, I said with a smirk. So, here I am!

He draws blood? she stammered.

Let’s just say Dracula would beam with pride at his little fangs, I smirked. I should probably get going. He’s with his PePaw right now, and I know he has to be getting fussy.

She reached over and clutched my forearm. Bless your heart, honey! I’ll sure be praying for you!

— Kristi Adams —

Home Remedy

To a cat, No means Not while I’m looking.

~Author Unknown

When we moved into our new house, it had just been recarpeted. Oatmeal was the name of the whitish-colored, woven carpet, highlighted with bits of pale gray and tan tones. It was fresh, clean, and beautiful. The operational word here is was. Soon after we moved into the house, the dining room began to smell of cat urine. Then, we saw one of our two Siamese cats using our dining room as her personal litter box. Our gorgeous carpet was soon covered with yellow stains. What in the world could have possessed our sweet kitties to behave this way?

After some investigation, we found that the previous owners had indoor cats, and their felines must have started this egregious habit. When they had the new carpet installed, they must have kept the same old carpet pad underneath it. The scent of cat urine communicated to our kitties that this was an acceptable place to use as a restroom, and they were probably marking their territory by covering up the old scent.

We knew we would have to retrain our kitties and scrub the carpet until no scent could be detected. But no matter what kind of cleaner or deterrent we used, the cats always made another fresh spot. I stood guard with a spray bottle of water and did everything I could to discourage our cats from using our beautiful dining room as their personal latrine, but nothing worked.

It would be Thanksgiving in a few weeks, and we had invited the extended family to come and see our new home. And, of course, a lovely Thanksgiving meal would be served in the dining room: the room that smelled like ammonia 24/7. My husband suggested that maybe we should cancel our Thanksgiving plans. I couldn’t imagine my mother-in-law, as nice as she was, not pointing out the smell.

Somewhere, I read that cayenne pepper would do the trick. I could just sprinkle an abundance of the stuff around, and our fur babies would get a whiff and head for the hills… or litter box. Then, the pepper could be vacuumed up, and my carpet (and sanity) would be restored, just in time for Thanksgiving.

I went to the market and selected an especially large container of cayenne pepper and brought it home with high hopes. I decided to surprise my husband, so that night after he went to bed, I sprinkled the spice all around the dining room. The pungent aroma smelled slightly smoky and almost sweet. That ought to do it, I said to myself and went to bed feeling proud.

The next day, I woke early and snuck downstairs to take a look at the pepper zone. To my dismay, both kitties were walking around on the cayenne dust, and one was finishing her morning potty in one of the usual spots. As I yelled to her, she ran off, tracking little, spicy footprints around as well as dribbles of kitty wetness. By now, my husband was awake and came to watch what was going on. He turned and looked at me as though I was the offending feline.

After my reasonable explanation on why there was wet and spicy cayenne pepper all over the dining room carpet (and also tracked into the living room), my husband looked like he wanted to commit a capital crime.

Within a few days, we booked a professional carpet cleaner and pet-stain expert. He was able to clean the carpet and pad, and he used his industrial-strength pet deterrent to convey the message to our cats to stay out of the dining room. Of course, there was a hefty bill with an extra cleaning fee to get the red-orange cayenne stain out, too.

Ten days later it was Thanksgiving and the crisis was all but forgotten. I served a lovely meal, and the family relaxed and enjoyed themselves. And my mother-in-law even commented on how nice the oatmeal carpet looked.

— Laura McKenzie —

A Battle of Wills

Cats have a scam going — you buy the food, they eat the food, they go away; that’s the deal.

~Eddie Izzard

Our cat, Rustle, is seventeen years young and is as willful as he is old. Recently, he has convinced himself that 4:00 a.m. is a perfect time to wake up and be fed. The battle begins strategically on his part, testing my strength and patience, but it quickly escalates to an all-out war.

At approximately 4:01 a.m., he innocently starts by tapping my face with his paw ever so gently like a baby’s kiss, stirring me from my slumber. He often rubs his wet nose on mine and proceeds to lick my cheek or forehead with his raspy tongue. I meet his attempts with several sleepy groans, telling him that it is way too early to get up and pull the covers over my head. His incessant purring gets louder with each passing minute. I soon realize that his war machine is just warming up.

Rustle walks on and around me until he lands on my shoulder and begins pulling the blankets from me. I respond with a stern No. Seeing how this is not working, he jumps off the bed with a thud and gallops down the stairs. I believe he has retreated and has given up due to my commanding presence and superior intellect. But I am sadly mistaken.

At 4:17 a.m., just as I lull myself back to sleep with my false sense of security, my cat stealthily creeps up to the bedroom like a silent assassin. He pounces right on me and circles my head with his paws, which then pull on my thinning hair. Now, he has my attention. He proudly displays his derriere in my face, taunting me, as if saying, This battle is far from over.

I cover my head with my arm, and he aggressively head-butts my elbow. I push him away. He returns, head-butting and pouncing. I push him away again and turn my back, only for him to jump off the bed for what I expect to be another frontal surprise attack.

But he switches strategies. He jumps on my wife instead, circling her head like an attack drone, pawing, pushing, and pouncing. I hear the words, Go see Papa. I am betrayed by the woman I thought was my ally, but I guess at 4:28 in the morning it’s everyone for themselves.

I’m now lying on my back, staring at the ceiling, wondering what on earth has gotten into this cat. Why now? Is he getting senile? Am I? What is the meaning of life? Why do we exist? What sins have I committed? Why am I being punished? Who really is the owner, and who really is the pet? I’m delirious with lack of sleep.

I have left myself in a vulnerable position and Rustle knows it.

He attacks like a Green Beret.

He jumps right onto my throat. As I gasp for air, he leans forward, putting his entire weight, all fifteen pounds and three ounces of him, on my jugular. With his nose nearly touching mine, he stares directly at me. He is no longer purring but meowing