Life with my monster

Living with a monster is never easy, but it’s never boring either. Yes, my most interesting relationship to write about is with my monster cat. Like when he and I moved into our new place with a gorgeous balcony. I decided to clean, and I mean deep, spring cleaning to welcome in the sunshine. I loved to sit on the balcony with lots of hanging flower baskets and read or sip coffee (well, today it would be tea as I’ve given up coffee, but then it was coffee). After four hours of dusting, scrubbing, sweeping, mopping, wiping and laundry, my home sparkled. But, something was missing. My monster. I checked everywhere. I opened the refrigerator, because my kitty had a tendency to walk in when I opened it and to refuse to leave, even if I closed the door! He would mew loudly but when I opened the door he still wanted to stay. So, I checked the refrigerator (maybe he figured out how to open the door). I looked in the washing machine and the dryer as maybe he figured out how to open those as well. Still no kitty. I had already checked the usual places: bathtub, under my bed, under the sofa, under the chair he has now destroyed, in every closet, still no kitty. I walked outside distraught and begged my neighbors, “have you seen a grey, fat cat, rather large and mean and monstrous, if so, please let me know, has he been hit by a car.” They were very worried, about me being so worried. (I don’t think they were worried about my monster). I went back inside and called and called and, I heard him mewing and crying. I went back outside and called and called and followed his cries to, under my neighbors’ abandoned car. So, I crawled under the car, got my monster who now glued himself to me (crawling on top of my head and sinking his claws into my hair to hold on), and took him home. The thing is, the only way he could have escaped is by jumping off the balcony. I live on the second floor and the basement is half above ground. My kitty jumped two stories AND SURVIVED!! Many of my friends consider the last part a tragedy. Me, I was freaked, checked him over, got ready to call my vet but it was a weekend. My kitty, he wanted food and he was happy. He has not jumped the balcony since, but then I don’t let him near it without me there. I love my monster, even if he is a terribly behaved monster.

Life with Monster Cat

There were so many clues. . . so why did I ignore them? It's not like I have no brain--I have a PhD. But then again, my sister suggests a doctorate means I'm really highly educated in everything but common sense.

A few years ago when I was working in New York City, a good friend who also worked there but had another home in Virginia asked if I wanted a kitten. It seems she and her husband had found a kitten in their barn and fallen in love but, already owners of two cats, they could not keep him. Now, unlike my friend I was struggling to pay the rent on one place, much less maintaining a city home and country home. Also, I was getting ready to move back to Boston.

But, even more than these challenges, the real reason I hesitated was a general aversion to adding a pet to my life. See, I liked my independence—the ability to travel out of the country as soon as my bank account and job allowed. I liked living frugally and, having seen women buying multiple cans of high priced cat food in line in front of me at the grocery store, the pet habit did not appear cheap. Further, I see myself as more a dog than a cat person. Dogs are friendly and wag their tales and they love people and I’d grown up with dogs. My family had a cat when I was a teen, for a few years before I left for college, but we had a dog for all of my life.

There was so much I did not know about cats. The scratching—to declaw or not to declaw. Do male cats spray; do female cats bleed? Can you wash them? How to handle the litter box. Finding a cat vet. What amuses a cat? How do you keep a cat happy?

Well, then my friend sent me a digital photo of this adorable little kitten with a round little belly who was sticking out his tongue. I was smitten. Cat ownership was my habit from that point on. Little did I know . . .

I picked up said kitten in New York City after I had moved to Boston. So, I took the Chinatown bus (from Chinatown in Boston to Chinatown in NYC was $15 each was at the time) and, on arrival, bought a cute little cat carrier. My friend handed him to me and then had to immediately leave, such is the state of parking in NYC. I took the now mewing cat carrier, with a tiny bundle of gray fluff on the subway to the bus pick up spot. I should have gotten worried on the bus. Some self-preserving instinct should have warned me and made me turn around, find my friend, and give him back. There were several clues. Maybe it was the trauma of the noise but suddenly there was this tiny grey paw, sharp little kitten claws barred, poking out from the bars of the carrier. It was a parody of a monster film, in miniature.

When I arrived in Boston, the single paw poking out from the cage, the now screetching mewing, attracted some interesting reactions on the subway. People came over to peer into the cage every time the paw retreated, and quickly backed up (nearly falling in their haste) when it jammed back out again. I took the subway to a friend’s. Yes, I had a job but I was quasi homeless—staying with a friend until my new place was ready.

I decided to name the fluffy ball Payaso, it’s Spanish for clown, Payo for short. My friend was wonderfully understanding and her roommates were great—one even owned two cats. The fellow cat owner quickly initiated me with the name of a good vet, all the reasons to neuter but not declaw, the litter box and the best (read expensive) food. Except for a tricky biting habit, Payo was great. Everyone loved the adorable little kitten. Who doesn’t love a kitten?

Then he shat on the carpet behind my friend’s bedroom door. Yes, the means he shat in her bedroom, and a lot of it for such a little kitten. I bought carpet cleaner, cleaned it up. My friend assured me that the answer was to lay down tinfoil. Her aunt, a veterinarian, had suggested this as, “all cats hate tinfoil.” She would just lay tinfoil where he’d made the mess and Payo would learn to avoid the area. My friend was very certain—her aunt was a vet and she should know. Payo shat on the tinfoil. Like I said, I should taken the clues—but he was so cute, and I was so dense.

The monster sagas continue. . .

So undeterred, or more likely clueless, by my kitten’s biting, scratching and refusal to be deterred by tinfoil (ie, shitting on it), I moved with my Payaso into a new, two bedroom condo on the second floor. I loved the hardwood floors and cook’s kitchen (especially as I am a cook). My wondrous friend undoubtedly loved our leaving (a houseguest is trying on any friendship; houseguest plus kitten. . .) Payaso quickly grew into a large, gangly kitten, eating anything I put in front of him. I took him for his first pet visit and scheduled his neutering and asked about declawing. Everyone fell in love with him and they tried to discourage me from the declawing but when I thought of my custom covered sofa and chair in my new living room, I held my ground. . . until they told me the declawing was so traumatic he would need special litter for at least three days. I crumbled. Payo still has his claws, my chair is destroyed.