Cats: who's the boss?

Greye joining me in the "Square" this Sunday morning

 

A column in the Saline Courier last week by Gene Lyons, one of my must-read writers, was titled “Humans don’t domesticate cats.” Aha, thought I, here’s my next blog. Though I won’t allude to any erudite sources as he did, I have plenty of empirical evidence that agrees with the headline.
 

A month before hosting the family reunion, I’d returned from a week in Piggott. The cats, Greye and Bibbs, were outside that week, fed every two days by Daughter. Since one of the relatives was allergic to cats, I thought (again), “Why not keep the cats outside until after the reunion on July 4?” Surely, that would alleviate any further buildup of dander. I would sweep well and wet-wipe the back of the upholstery where they used to sit.
 

Done.
 

But they were not happy campers, uh, cats. Greye, named for his color, brightened by patches of white here and there, has been with me the longer. He’s a sweet cat and loves to be brushed under his chin. He often closes his eyes as if in ecstasy. But he isn’t a lap cat like Billy’s first feline, Elizabeth.
 

 Greye used to lie on any available rug or floor pillow. After his month outside, he has chosen to sleep nestled against two wooden feet of the old, columned dining table. Now and then, when I’m in the kitchen, he’ll pad in and meow. I know he’s ready for a brushing. He hasn’t yet done what a poet/writer friend said her cat did once: brought me the brush!

 

Bibbs, on the other hand, “fixed” as early as was possible, must have a dreadful memory of the experience. He keeps his distance, and when he’s down from his favorite haunt—the attic—he skitters away when I come around. Despite this, he didn’t like his outside confinement. Don’t tell the relative this, but two days before the event, Bibbs stealthily positioned himself so that when I opened the front door, he could slip in. Which he did.
 

 Oh, my. I quickly opened the attic door and he zoomed through it. “You’re here until company leaves,” I hollered after him. Taking food, water and a small box of litter to the head of the stairs, I closed the door firmly. That night, I heard him yowl. I opened the attic door, hurried to the front door and opened it, and he flew outside as fast as his tabby legs could run.

 

I was saved. My relative was saved.
 

After the reunion guests left, I called the cats up. Of course, being their own bosses, they took their sweet time. When I held the door open, both were a tad hesitant, but wanted inside badly enough that they took the chance. Bibbs still prefers the attic and Greye, the table legs. Their sustenance, etc. is at the back of the house, and, obediently, I see to their every need. Bibbs will never see the inside of a vet’s office unless he is so sick he can’t resist my blanketing him for the trip. I CAN still get Greye inside a carrier, thank goodness.
 

Thanks to Gene Lyons for the idea. Maybe I can return the favor one day.
 

Yeah, when cats obey!!

 

 



Owning cats means arranging for their care while I'm away

 Annamarie Parker, my volunteer cat/plant/yard "girl" while I'm away

 

Spring is not a good time to be away from home for two weeks at a time.

 

Grasses grow, flowers bloom, indoor and porch plants dry out, litter boxes fill up, cat food and water disappear.

 

Lights need changing every night or two. Doors to the bedroom area need "locking" against paws that want to investigate and knead--as they did before new carpet was laid.

This acre of yard needs mowing fairly often, especially when it rains often.

 

Grandson Billy's mother--my daughter--lives five miles away and insists that she will tend to these matters for me. For that I am grateful.

 

And so are Greye and Bibbs. They should be: while I'm gone, they get the best seat in the house.

 

 



A mild winter day takes us to the attic

from Google images 

 

 

                From six to 58 degrees—in just a handful of days. From an icy attic to one comfortable to work in, to re-store Christmas decorations.

                When the weather read single digits, I allowed the 3 feral cats to come inside with the 3 tame ones. Three of them chose to go to the attic. One of them stayed for over a month—food, water and a litter box provided. Finally, the cat came back, uh, down, and spent days and nights hidden in one corner or another of the front rooms. Then, after two weeks, it finally arched its black, longhaired tail and walked out the front door where it's been ever since.

                Children that I know (including me) have always been fascinated by the attic. At the last, Mom refused each request for permission to go there. But I remember the pleasure of going up Grandma Flossie’s back stairs.

                When I was a child, our attic was not safe for anyone but Dad. Two-by-fours (insulation I don’t remember) and a few one-by sixes laid over them comprised the flooring.

An ancient typewriter sat on that floor that somehow I managed to get to. Hmmm. A budding writer at that age, do you suppose? We’ve heard stories about Dad tossing an old wall-hung telephone out the attic window. For the longest time, a Victrola graced one corner.

At some point, Dad floored the entire place and sheet-rocked the sides and ceiling. Probably when we needed more bedroom space. But he assured us until his dying days that a bathroom could NOT be built into the attic. And, he added, he was a carpenter and knew what he was talking about. God rest his soul.

For many family members, using the attic for storage was a given, whether you lived here or not. A port-a-crib belonged to a sister whose boys are now in their forties. An over-sized runner-up trophy from a Miss Benton pageant so long ago the two sisters (60-somethings) who had entered could not remember to whom it belonged.

Dressers and books go back four generations––some from my maternal grandmother’s, some from who-knows-where. Cardboard boxes are full of Mom’s college papers and projects. During the 1960s, she attended ASTC (UCA) on Saturdays and in summers while she taught first grade on an emergency certificate. This, after her eight children were in school. God rest HER soul.

Kid Billy and I hauled down a coiled wire bed spring that went to ABC Salvage. A metal bed frame and mattress—now quilt-covered—lean against a wall.

Two ironing boards—mine and Mom’s—are set up. One is for stacking stuff on and the other to use as intended.

Old copies of Better Homes and Gardens and Look are worth a bit online, some issues more than others, of course.

In the few weeks of spring and fall, the attic makes a good writing space. Windows on the north and west provide plenty of light during the day.

 Here is an attic poem written several years ago that won two first and two second places when it was new. It also scored a 4HM in NFSPS’s contest, which is a feather in my cap, so to speak.

 

 

THE ATTIC – (a Foster Sonnet)

 

 “With restlessness of childhood, underscored

by weeks of ice and snow, no school demands,

 I beg for Grandma’s leave to spend some time

 beyond the mystifying door. “We climb

the narrow, testy stairs where treasures’ hoard,

 in paint-peeled chests and mothballed trunks, is stored.

When eyes adjust to garret’s gray, on hands

and knees we snake across the hinterlands,

 dirt daubers’ buzz in dormered warmth no threat,

 spy shoeboxed photographs./“In flannelette,

 I sit on Grandma’s lap. Her stories spill

like water from the back porch pump until

 the clump of boots in lower hall cuts short

 our winter trip to attic’s warm resort."  

--PL, c 2014, lovepat press