The Peeing Problem

Yes, readers, we need help!  Both Blackie and Junior have this predilection for urinating outside of the myriad of boxes available around the home for that purpose.  Yes, they do use these litter boxes, but they also tend—quite frequently—to go outside of the box.  Junior especially likes the couch, and Blackie has a thing for peeing on Roger’s feet while he naps in the den…

To-date, we have tried a more “Zen” approach to the situation by just handling the incidents: we’ve resorted to covering the couch and the futon with drop cloths, and we launder these coverings and sanitize the areas quite often… But this is getting tiring .. I know we ought not take this personally, but it’s hard. 

Re-homing our furbies is NOT an option.

As added background:  Both Blackie and Junior (half brothers from different litters) lived part of their early lives out on the street (ok, in our courtyard and backyard), and Roger brought them in when they were about a year old…  Roger saved them and is quite committed to their care…

Any suggestions for breaking them of this rancid habit?

An Emotional Odyssey

The last month of 2011 has turned out to be quite the odyssey.  An emotional rollercoaster of regret, sadness, irritation, hope…and gratitude.

The Monday starting the second week of December began like most any other.  Chewie, transparent as always, woke up Roger with a little kneading and cuddling—with the ultimate goal of earning an early morning snack.  After snacking all our furbies, Roger kissed me goodbye and was about to leave for work.  And, then…

He just bolted.  Chewie got underfoot while Roger was fiddling with the front door, leaving Roger in a daze and Chewie off to God-knows where.  We looked for him for most of that Monday, through the neighborhood, hoping to see a glimpse of him hunkering down…but nothing.  We were so fearful he ran too far he could not find his way home…or that he met his fate with some other beast or vehicle.

By that Wednesday, we posted a lost kitty ad on Craigslist and affixed flyers around our neighborhood.  We looked for him continually and hoped to lure him home with treats…but nothing. Was he scared?  Upset with us?  Lost and hurt?  Or…did he just prefer the life of a street kitty??

This turn of events was disheartening but not surprising.  Of all the indoor cats, Chewie was the one who expressed the most interest in exploring what was beyond that front door.  I guess his curiosity, desire and need to investigate outweighed his desire for safety, comfort and love from his hairless beings. 

Then, by the end of the first week, our regret and sadness turned to irritation.  On Thursday evening, we caught a glimpse of the fur beast just lounging outside our back door!  But when we went to let him in, Chewie bolted…again!  What the  F*%^&*$?!  Now we felt incensed and exasperated.  Ok, he was not hurt, alone or lost, and we felt relief over that.  Now he just seemed to prefer the outdoors?  Was Cheiwe afraid to approach the front door because of Sylvester or Orange Kitty?  Were we just trying to come up with answers, anthropomorphisng our ten-pound headache, in the attempt to understand the changing circumstances?  Even his two older half brothers, Junior and Blackie, eventually returned home after several unscheduled excursions.

For nearly a week, I feel asleep praying that Chewie was ok and trying to understand why he wouldn’t come back.  Of course, Roger felt horribly guilty for not paying better attention and vowed to make our home more inviting for Chewie by refurbishing the fish tank and stocking it with more fish for the viewing pleasure of all the kitties.

Well, we did catch sightings of Chewie several more times.  But in the end, Roger resorted to trapping our furbeast with one of our humane traps.  Yep.  After 11 nights out-of-doors, Chewie came home—a little skinnier and rumpled, but he’s home now.  And within an hour of his homecoming, he came out from hunkering underneath the bed and rubbed against his hairless beasts as if nothing had happened, no time at all had passed.  And of course our hurt and annoyance just evaporated into wellsprings of gratitude. 

Maybe in his mind, no time had really gone bye.  Wouldn’t it be wonderful to truly and whole-heartedly live just in the moment?  One moment you’re inside—woo hooo!  The next moment you’re outside—woo hoo!  No recognition of the passage of time, and no regret for what is not happening.

We higher-level beings are the ones who suffer—perhaps, even by choice—when things do not seem to go our way, or when we do not understand why something is occurring.  If we could truly live in the now, would there be any place for suffering, regret and shame?  Would we take for granted life’s impermanence and the gifts of love, kindness and friendship?

Chewie has now been home 9 days.  He has had to re-earn the title of kitty goodwill ambassador….when he was gone, he left quite a vacuum and the power hierarchy among the four remaining felines began to shift…The first to melt was Junior, after a day, but Puffy and Tigger were still quite vocal with their displeasure.  But after a week, Roger caught a glimpse of Chewie and Puffy cuddling, and I have witnessed the beginnings of Tigger wanting to again play with the Chew-butt.  Blackie still keeps to himself…

Roger now owes the cats one tricked-out fish tank—the first resolution 2012!

What Happened to Recess?

Last night I dreamt about recess with a poignancy I have not felt for a long while.  I remembered as a child how much I enjoyed and looked forward to that time of abandon, a small break in my day to run, to play and to imagine without any thought to the past or any concern for the future.  All I have now are these “snapshots” from my childhood, momentary memories of running and playing tag and hide-and-go seek in the grassy areas behind the schools I attended as a youngster…

When did recess end?  When did being so serious about life overshadow the joy of just living it?

So, I awoke this morning with this rawness, this feeling that I want to play again.  I want to feel the rush of the air in my lungs and the joy heartfelt abandon.  In a way, I truly envy my kitties.  They are such visceral, momentary creatures who—sometimes to my chagrin—just live in and for the moment.  If they want love, they demand it.  If they want to chase a ray of sun, so be it.  If they want to scratch or chew, they just do it…

Ok.  I’ll say it.  Put pointer to computer screen.   I want recess, this feeling of joyful abandon.  I truly believe it is the next logical step in creating a vibrant, abundant life experience.

Reflections of Prrrs Gone Bye…

“August, die she must,
The autumn winds blow chilly and cold;
September I’ll remember.
A love once new has now grown old.”

–from April Come She Will by Simon and Garfunkel

The cool, crisp air brings relief to summer’s heat.  Leaves turn from green to a vibrant palate of reds, oranges and yellows.  Autumn has always been evocative, poignant time for me, a time of transition from the summer’s radiant energy, foreshadowing the slumbers of winter. 

It was this time of year, four years ago when we said our final goodbye to Frisco—an elderly male Himalayan who lived to age 18!  Frisco was primarily Roger’s cat, but he did come to accept me, and I grew to love him.  He was the solo kitty (imagine that!) from 2001 to 2007.  When his kidneys finally gave out, we took him to the vet so that he would no longer suffer.  The old coot was ornery til the end.  One moment he was there, hissing at me (I inadvertently touched his paws, and he never liked that!)… and one final heart beat later his pupils dilated and he no longer was…

Where did he go?

Sometimes it doesn’t seem fair that our feline companions live for such a  short time. You are just getting used to their company when they opt for transition.  And there you are, left with memories of joy and feelings of grief and loss.  They give so much and burn out so quickly.  Is this heartache the price we pay for a few years of joy spent with these lumps of love? 

I have lived with a handful of cats that no longer are…except for my memories of them.  Sometimes they passed due to life’s circumstances; others, of natural causes. My love affair with striped tiger kitties started with Lilly in 1988, when Lilly adopted my ex-husband and me as her official caretakers…  It was during the cool of autumn in 1993 when I realized my first marriage was over and I initially left my ex.  We were quite cordial in the division of the marital assets…Lilly stayed with him—partly out of guilt and as a consolation to the breakup of our marriage… I hope she had a good life, a life filled with warmth and love.

There were other felines that I had to say goodbye to…I was with my friend, Sondra, when she had to make the most extreme decision to put down her Millie, her kitty stricken with an oral cancer who was slowly starving to death yet still wanted to live.  It was a two-step process by a vet who came to Sondra’s home…a peaceful transition, but one that is still heart wrenching to think of years after I was witness to it…

And more recently, nearly half of Slug Mamma’s brood are gone, so young and so soon.  Pumpkin was Junior’s littermate, a short-haired white and orange spotted goof who was so personable and friendly. The last time we saw him was an evening in June 2009.  With one grainy photo, I went to local shelters to look for him…but to no avail.

Then there were Blackie’s littermates: Minnie Me, the female version of Orange Kitty.  She was just a year old and had grown into quite the “maxi me,” full of life and vigor.  She was struck and killed by a vehicle January 2010.  That loss was wrenching, since she was mostly socialized and Roger and I could have brought her inside….like Elton John’s  Candle in the wind (ok, this is a post for old song lyrics), her life force burned bright but oh so briefly.  I miss her and think of her nearly every day.  And within a week of her death, Tawny, the third littermate, went out and about and was not to return….

The ending for all of us—cat, human, all living things—is ultimately the same.  We are here for only the briefest of moments.  How do we spend those moments, those beats that pass with the ticking of the clock measuring each breath taken?  Do we spend this precious commodity of time in shame and regret?  Or do we share our essence—our love and joy—with those that matter most?

My cats have been and continue to be a wonderful teacher of staying present to the present.  And a reminder of our most precious, enduring commodity: love.  As in the words, attributed, in part, to the Dances of Universal Peace: “All I ask of you is forever to remember me as loving you.”

Costly Kitties

As cat owners, we expect to pay for pet maintenance such as food, vet visits, toys, perhaps an occasional grooming… but when do these lumps of love become too costly?  Is that even a fair calculation?  They are so loveable, yet at times they wreck such wonton destruction!

I have found their crimes fall into main categories:  inorganic and organic transgressions. Tigger is a chewer of inorganic materials. When he gets nervous (which is often) or wants attention, he chews…my computer cords, the plastic slinky on my desk.  And the most expensive offense: I am now on my 4^th hands-free ear piece for my landline phone!  And all the cats like to sharpen their claws on the couches.  And the continual peeing by Junior and Blackie have cost Roger and me plenty in laundering time and purchases of drop cloths and carpet cleaner.

Grrrr!

"Crime Scene" Photo

And these cats are thieves of all types of organic matter!  On a number of occasions, we have found half eaten food strewn about the floor, evidence their petty crimes.  Just last week, one of them wrangled an organic zucchini out of my shopping sack and chewed through more than half of it, leaving a broken and tattered carcass in its wake.  I  was tempted to draw a chalk line around it…I suspect it was Puffy, who has been caught chewing through plastic bags to get to onions and lemons…who knew he had a sweet tooth, as well?

Sometimes I feel I reach my limit on patience, especially when I am cleaning the same covers three days in a row…But, truly, there is no internal score keeping in terms of which cat is more challenging to maintain.  Because in the end, that score is meaningless.  As forever parents of our five cats—a responsibility, joy and obligation we’ve freely and whole heartedly taken—our felines are priceless in terms of the love they give and the lessons we learn about ourselves and life. 

I’ll readily admit that last week was just a particularly trying one for me in terms of their destructive powers, which seems to multiply geometrically since there five of ‘em.  If I come across one more soiled blanket, I feel my head will explode or spin a-la Linda Blair in The Exorcist…but then I take a deep breathe, sometimes a primal scream, and all is well.  Now, where’s a kitty when I need to pet one?

Life’s Simple Pleasures

He’s  a big boy weighing in at about 12 pounds at his last vet visit in March.  He’s a long haired blondie with hints of red.    He’s Puffy, aka The Puff, Big Puff Daddy, Puffenstein,  and sometimes even The Puffernator.

Puffy is the epitome of persistence and a lesson in the benefits of consistency.  He is a simple cat with a hint of the divine—the kitty reminder of stopping and smelling the roses…Puffy’s  needs are uncomplicated, and he revels in life’s sensual pleasures.  Nearly every morning, Puffy is waiting by the back gate, demanding to be let in for his morning dose of mother love.  With his rump raised high in anticipation, the scratching session begins!  Ooooo….ahhhhh….underneath the chin, now.  Oooooh, the belly.  Prrrr.  PRRRR.

In terms of habits, Puffy has his usual sleeping spots: atop of the closet in my office or in a “slot”-like area of Roger’s wardrobe.  Puffy must think of himself as a circus kitty, a feline contortionist when he wraps his big, bulky body around the pole of a kitty tree, hind legs and front paws akimbo. 

And he certainly enjoys just hanging loose.  With his  limbs a-danglin, you can find him precariously perched on all sorts of surfaces:  most currently, atop of the fish tank; and on various high ledges, carpeted cat stairs, or inside the bottom of one of my congas.  That’s right.  I have a set of congas on a stand, and The Puffernator likes to crawl up through the bottom of one of them and just hang, with a hint of his tail peaking through the bottom.  We believe he just exhales to expand and uses his girth to keep him in place.

He’s won a special place in my heart because he has put the prime bully, Blackie, in his place in the household kitty hierarchy.  The Puff is like a protection detail for Tigger.  Sometimes he overwhelms the woosy poosy with his enthusiasm, but Tigger has certainly expanded his in-home roaming range now that Puffy is on the prowl…

Slugg Maa-ma

Sluggo during her "modeling" phase

Maybe I should be  jealous.  She’s cute, small yet has quite the big personality.  She’s looking svelte after a plump phase…and my husband dotes on her whenever she appears. Which, to Roger’s chagrin, is not as often as it used to be.  She’s his furry girlfriend—the other woman.  And there is a lot of history tied into that small bundle of energy known as Sluggo, Slugg Mamma or just…The Slugg.

If you were to look for a definition of a feral cat, you would have seen her picture and a description:  a wide-eyed tortoiseshell calico, wiry, looking for a quick handout and a place to raise her many litters of young.  Yes, for nearly two years this diminutive female was one major kitten-producing machine.

At first, we did not know how to deal with her—which, we actually thought a him, given the cat’s demeanor towards the other ferals: quite the ball buster who took no attitude from other felines or …dogs.  Aptly named Sluggo, at first we didn’t realize that the saggy belly was NOT due to extra fur.  We were so unschooled in handling pregnant cats, and we didn’t realize she was “with kittens” until the first litter: Pumpkin and Junior.  Then the second…Tawny, Blackie, Minnie Me.  Then the last…Chewie, Puffy, Bear and Corrina.

Oyyy…we feared the cat population growing exponentially.  And since we did not want to become the neighborhood cat maternity ward, Roger began to feverishly research ways to humanely trap her for spaying. Yes, you could rent or buy these specialized traps, but Roger just did not like that idea. Our first attempt was a failure: Roger constructed this large, cage-like area on the property.  But the idea was too unwieldy and I was not available to help at the needed crucial moment to close the door—so she escaped and hurt her ear in the process.  Now permanently bent, we both felt really bad over that fiasco. 

That slice-of-life experience was a great looking glass into how available I am and have tended to be over the course of my relationship with Roger.  Sometimes the image reflected back is not very pretty.  

In my mind at the time, I was busily preparing to travel for paid performance gigs south of Denver, in Colorado Springs.  Couldn’t this trapping wait another day or week? I had a week’s worth of early rising, and I had to be well rested for the drive and to perform optimally.  But in my husband’s mind, this was the perfect opportunity to catch this kitten bearer.  And she got away—and stayed away for nearly three months—due, in part, to my not being available.

Sluggo Today

While we both realize we should have done something to curb the kitten producing from the outset, Roger took this lack of forward movement as a personal reflection of his inability to handle life’s circumstances.  And my not being available to help when he was so close to resolving this issue just added to the emotional maelstrom…  As a life partner, I should have realized that my sacrifice in rest would have been greatly offset by  my contribution to marital accord.  Hindsight is always clearer…

POSTSCRIPT:  Roger finally did catch Sluggo—with another type of trap “box,” researched on the internet—and had her fixed late fall 2009. 

 And partially out of guilt and to make amends, somewhat, I’ve continued to indulge my husband’s predilections for wanting the do the right thing…  That is why I agreed to bring the partially feral  Blackie inside the home after Minnie Me died..which created quite a bit of havoc with the cat hierarchy.  But I put my foot down—literally and figuratively—when he started campaigning to bring Sluggo inside.  Seriously?!  A nearly 100% feral female into a home with one woosy poosy and four half brothers?  Roger will just have to be satisfied with feeding his furry girlfriend out in the courtyard.

Just for fun, the cat timeline:

August 2007: Tigger born

November 2007: Adopt the Tiggster from Dumb Friends League

May 2008: Junior and Pumpkin born

December 2008: Blackie, Tawny and Minnie Me born

June 2009: Pumpkin is gone (doesn’t return)

June 2009: Chewie, Puffy, Corrina and Bear born; August they make their debut

September 2009: socialize the June brood; a friend adopts Corrina and Bear

Late fall 2009: Roger trapped and had Sluggo spayed.

January 2010: Minnie Me dies (hit by car) and Tawny is gone

June 2010: Take in Blackie

August 2010 – June 2011: caretake Fuzzy (in courtyard and garage throughout the winter)

Touching Eternity

Cats have this wonderful way of just being—of being present to the present.  At times, I truly envy this ability.  Cats can just enjoy the cool, refreshing breeze as it whispers a kiss across their whiskers…bask in the healing warmth of the late afternoon sun, chasing the rays as they slither and shimmy through the cracks and crevices… Momentary pleasures or pains.  Fleeting as they are, but pass as they must …until the next moment beckons for attention.  Feed me!  Love me!  Play with me or leave me be! 

Cats exist in the moment.  There is no yesterday—nor do they anticipate tomorrow.  There is no crying over past injustices or fear of future betrayals.  There is no need to obliterate the present with mindless activities or substances… 

What a wonderful life lesson—truly experiencing the present.  And being both an observer and active participant in all sensual aspects of this plane of existence—the sights and sounds and the smells, tastes and touch.  In this lifetime, I have come close to quieting my mind long enough to give me hope that there is more to this corporeal reality, but I have yet to “grok” this concept—which seems so ephemeral and just of reach… 

In this sweet spot, the union of the earthly and the divine, I imagine you have the potential to tap into—or at least touch—eternity.  You get a glimpse of existence much greater than the boundaries of your own flesh, blood and bones.

A Question of Balance

I know I shouldn’t.  Whenever I visit my local Petco, I am compelled to visit the cattery area, where they highlight several highly adoptable cats and kittens from local shelters.  My thought, my justification is that I go to give them love and send good adoption vibes their way.  But, inevitably, one or two catch my eye, and I ponder the possibility of adding to my brood.  Just this past week I met two lovely four-month-old striped tiger tabby ladies, just clawing and mewling for attention.  The first sister was quite the show-woman, out there in front purring and rubbing and wanting nothing but for me to have the cage opened… Her sister was a little more demure but still strongly signaled, through her eyes and friendly disposition, her desire for a forever home… 

And for a serious moment, I considered paying the $90 adoption fee for both girls and taking them home.  But then I came to my senses:  Did I really want to become the kitty caretaker well on her way to becoming a true cat lady?  Would it be fair to place these two fair damsels in a home with five males (albeit, all neutered), for them to claw their way into the cat kingdom hierarchy?  I made myself feel somewhat better with the logical thought that kittens get good homes pretty quickly—especially those highlighted at the Petco stores.   But, still, my heart was somewhat heavy as I left the store with my specialty cat food…

Yes, logically, I know I did the right thing.  A balanced and responsible decision.  Unless there is an extraordinary need (which was NOT the case here), my choosing to adopt two additional cats to be brought into a home with a brood of existing feline inhabitants would have been selfish on my part.  But I do know that both Roger and I love cats and — if you ask in a weak moment — we will say yes if another feline approaches us with a true need.  So there is always that tendency to expand…

This incident begs the larger life question of balance.  How do I truly know if I am making the right decisions in my life?  And…  how important is balance when it comes to living a creative life—a life not only replete with responsibility and obligation, but one that’s also painted with whimsy and magic?  

How do I balance my left-logical brain with my right-brained desires for expression and freedom?

The Silly Wookie

Meow.  Meow.  Let me out.  Let me out.  We want out! Those hairless, huge monster humans corned me, my two brothers and sister and now we’re imprisoned in this….box. Meooow.  Oh, dangly things.  Fun.  Scratching posts.  Funner.  Ok. These hairless monsters are feeding us this liquefied but very yummy  food…but we miss our mommy.   Meow.  Meow.  Meooooowwww.

Ohhhh….my tummy doesn’t feel well.  Who is this monster turning me upside down and wiping my private area?  Ohhhh….this smaller hairless creature is now rubbing my belly and scratching my head.  Prrrr….I may like this.

Allright.  It took a couple of days, but I do think it was love at first swipe.  The poor little kitty—now our Chewie (Chewbacca, the silly wookie)—had a serious case of the runs from the human baby food we were feeding him and his litter mates as part of the socialization process.  It was disgusting, but it had to be done.  And to my delight, he allowed me to “woman handle” him and get him all cleaned up.  It was the beginning of our love affair…I knew, right then, I had the trust of this wily, still somewhat feral kitten. 

It’s been nearly two years, and Chewie is socialized to Roger and me (he’s not so keen on company).  Chewie is affectionate when he wants love from Mommy or Daddy—or when he wants to be fed (which is often!).  And he’s actually quite bossy when you brush him, rubbing against you and the brush, “demanding” more of your service. 

As a king archetype and dominant, Chewie is a prime example of living life fully, yet with an independent mindset.  He gets affection and food needs met—but on his terms.  He does not need to follow you around or cuddle with you continually or even cry for your attention.  No.  He has figured out that the two large hairless ones will stop what they’re doing to scratch and cuddle the moment he graces them with his presence.  And as the kitty “goodwill ambassador,” Chewie does not need to demand the respect of the other cats by hissing and psyching them out.  Naaa.   He gets along with all the cats because it serves him.  They’re quite willing to play with him, roll around, lick and cuddle.

Chewie just is.  He does not need to prove anything.  In this extremely cute, 10 pound package, he is the personification of the adage—a reminder—of being in this world but not of it.  To express who you really are while fully experiencing ALL the gifts of this life—the joys and the sorrows. All the time remembering that this world is just a highly experiential classroom of the self, the soul.  

How wonderful it would be to be so free.