Cats have nine lives because they have a death wish.
Running in front of cars, needing rescue from a tree or housetop or letting their curiosity get the best of them, they dance with their own demise.
Our cat Tilly – short for Atilla the Hun – is a feline who has, maybe, six lives left.
Take the latest incident which reduced that number by one.
“What emergency are you reporting?” asked the fire department dispatcher in response to my 911 call.
“I’m sorry,” I began, “but I just didn’t know who else to call. My cat Tilly has his head stuck in a hole in the decorative brick that is part of the foundation of the house across the street.”
“Tilly is your son?”
“No, Tilly is my cat.”
I explained that Tilly had chased a squirrel into a hole in a brick wall of a neighbor’s house.
“Tilly’s head is through the brick and underneath the structure,” I continued, “and his body is on the outside. His neck is connecting the two.”
“Well, it sounds like an emergency for the cat,” deadpanned the dispatcher.
“Yes ma’am. We share the same birthday,” I added awkwardly.
“Fire is en route,” she replied.
With lights flashing and siren blaring, a fire truck arrived a few minutes later. As the fire captain surveyed the scene, I again apologized and explained what I surmised had happened.
He walked over and petted what could be seen of the head-in-the-hole-in-the-wall cat. A minute later another fire fighter used the Jaws of Life and broke apart the bricks holding the cat.
Tilly – who was now down to five lives left – took off lickety-split for home without as much as a “meow” of thanks.
So I thanked the fire fighters, mumbled an apology and something to the homeowner about my insurance policy covering the damage to his brickwork, and walked back to the house.
Where in the front window sat Tilly.
Smug and self-satisfied – and probably plotting his next death defying stunt.
About the Cat
In my lifetime I’ve had seven cats. Ordinarily, and had I done my due diligence, I would not have chosen this last one. I had decided to get another cat so that my partner, Annie, would have another being with whom to engage. So, we went to the Humane Society, past the gauntlet of cat cages, and picked 3 of them (we were limited to three in one session) as possible candidates for adoption in what were euphemistically referred to as meet-and-greet interviews.
The first cat was a very large, older adult male who looked decidedly unfriendly. We were advised he was bound to warm up to new owners once given a good home: small children in the household not recommended.
The second cat was a young male who would not stop bouncing off the walls. I think our ‘facilitator’ might have mentioned they were still in the process of adjusting his medication.
The last feline (the one we wound up adopting) was a solidly-built fireplug of a cat, a female ginger tabby with a luxurious silky coat. I should have been more cautious in choosing, perhaps deciding to come back on another day for interviews with three other cats; but this cat purred loudly in my lap, so I thought, “What the hell” and I made the decision.
Had I been more circumspect, perhaps I would have noticed this cat’s intense wariness, the distrust- fullness, and recognized her for the ‘fear biter’ she turned out to be. I have a picture of her taken the first day she was in our home: cautious and menacing, creeping around a corner: a picture that says all you really need to know about her. Some of this I know was my fault: I just assumed she would be grateful for having been adopted and would let me approach her casually as if I had known her all her life. Several band-aids later witnessed the futility of this assumption.
I would like to say we have finally made our peace . . . after a fashion. She still swipes at me but mostly keeps her claws sheathed. She still tries to take me down in the hallway (I understand that this take-down is part of every feline’s natural hunting method: something they do before applying the ‘coup de grace’). She still goes after the carpet, and trying to prevent it using various stratagems is like playing wack-a-mole. She demands to be petted and brushed, but only at certain times, at certain places, in certain places, and only for a limited (her calculation) period of time. And every morning she wakes me by getting up on the bed and putting all of her thirteen and one-half pound weight on my sensitive parts.
In fairness, I will say she is a fastidious creature, greets me at the front door, is always on-time for dinner, comes when I call her, has good table manners and excellent toilet habits, and will, from time to time, when the mood suits her and when I least expect it, leap onto my lap, purr like a buzz-saw and squeak with pleasure.
Though she may still see me as prey, all is forgiven.
“Though she may still see me as prey . . .” So fun your entire comment. John Simpson, who compared notes wirh me on his cat for this story, has a similar anecdote of “tough-guy time”, his daily battle between man and beast. All of which explains why all dogs go to heaven and no cats. 🙂
Why is it ok that people let their cats run free. Dog owners are often chastised if their pet is off leash. In fact they can be fined. Did you know domestic cats are detrimental to our wild birds, which are on a decline? Cats would only need one life if owners kept them inside then they wouldnt get hit by cars. #ResponsiblePetOwner