Four Cat Stories

One of the countless benefits of being known as a cat lover is the abundance of cat tales that people share with me.  Here are four of my favorites.

A woman who stopped by our booth at Music is Art told me two great cat stories.  The first was about her aloof kitty named Snowbell.  She liked to keep a bell on his collar and over the years he had managed to ditch every single one.  But she stubbornly continued to buy new bells for him.  She ran a day care in her house and one day a child came up to her and said, “That cat hates bells.”  She immediately removed the bell from the collar and the word “bell” from his name.  Snow transformed into a friendly, playful, and snuggly kitty for the rest of his life – and when she replaced her old refrigerator she discovered almost a dozen dusty bells on the floor.

The second story she told me involved Snow’s brother.  I cannot remember his original name but he was almost as reserved as his brother and a troublemaker to boot.  She kept a framed photo of her late husband Gus on the mantle and almost every day this cat would leap onto the mantle and knock the photo onto the floor.  One day she caught him approaching the frame, ready to swat it down.  In her anger she yelled out her husband’s name instead of the cat’s name. “Gus!  Stop that!”  The cat stopped immediately, jumped down, ran over to her and kissed her on the cheek.  He never messed with the photo again and she changed his name to Gus (apparently with her late husband’s blessings).  Gus the cat never messed with the photograph again.

Two of my favorite cat stories came to me from one of my dearest customers at the shop.  Beverly Goldsman was a brilliant and meticulous collage artist and a whimsical storyteller.  She loved to tell stories about her quirky kitty, the inimitable Theodore Roosevelt Goldsman – Theo. 

Theo

Theo was an indoor/outdoor cat with friends all over the neighborhood.  Then he went missing.  A search was launched, but after a week there had been no sign of him.  The whole family was upset, but Beverly’s teenage daughter was especially distraught.  One day she stayed home from school because she was so distressed and her worried mother stayed home to be by her side.

 

As she was comforting her daughter, an unusual vision popped into Beverly’s head - a local street sign at a nearby intersection, by the bus stop bench.  With no explanation to her daughter, she grabbed her car keys and dashed out the door.  She drove to the intersection and there on the bench sat Theo.  She opened up the passenger door and he hopped right into the car as if  he had done it many times before.  If her daughter had been astonished to see her mother rush pell-mell out the door, she was even more amazed when Beverly returned with a very smug Theo.

 

On another occasion, Beverly and her family had been away on vacation for over a week.  A neighborhood girl had been in charge of feeding and caring for Theo.  On the day of their return, Beverly could hardly wait to see her beloved kitty but he was nowhere to be found inside the house.  She went across the street to speak with the teenage caretaker who told her Theo had been seen only that morning.  So Beverly set out down the street to locate him, calling his name.  About a block away from home, she spotted him halfway down the next block.  He saw her and began running towards her, as she ran towards him (yes, just like that old commercial).

When he was about ten feet away from Beverly, Theo suddenly remembered that he was angry at her for abandoning him for so long and he skidded to an abrupt halt, turned slowly around, and sat down with his back to her.  She told me it was like watching a cat in a cartoon.

To quote cartoonist B. Kliban, “Mysterious little creatures, aren’t they?”

Waiting for the cat to die

When I was a kid, swinging as high as I could go on my rope swing attached to the tree in the back yard, I would pump and pump until I could go no higher.  Then I would stop pumping and let the swing go back and forth, back and forth, in ever decreasing arcs, until it ever so slowly came to a stop.  We called this waiting for the cat to die*.

I had not thought of this phrase for many years until the last few days, nursing my old cat Dermot through his final days.  In May of 2015 the vet had diagnosed a hard cancerous tumor growing on his jaw.  The tumor was too invasive for any surgery; it would just grow back.  So we watched and waited, making sure he was not suffering.  The tumor began the size of a pea, progressed to the size of a peanut, then a walnut, then a lemon – it was unstoppable – but so was Dermot.

His behavior never changed.  He ate and slept and lounged out on the catio watching the birds in the sunlight and moths in the moonlight.  He had always been the cat who walked by himself, barely paying attention to any feline housemates.  He enjoyed a simple life – he came to me once in a while for scritches and showed up for every meal on time.  Sometimes in the morning I’d find him sleeping next to me.

Dermot (long-haired gray and white tuxedo) and his sister Siobhan (black and white short-haired cow cat) were born in a little farm house out in South Wales, across from my friends’ magical farm called Rivendell.  Their mother was also a long-haired tuxedo, as was their suspected father.  The farm house was full of cats and huge enthusiastic dogs with chickens pecking and clucking out on the lawn and a phalanx of militant geese guarding the perimeter.

 

The kittens sang the song of their people in the car all the way home, won over the border guards with their infinite cuteness, and settled into their new digs nicely.  Dermot was instantly friendly to me while Siobhan acted like I was torturing her every time I tried to pet her.  It took her almost three years before she transformed overnight into a complete cuddlebug.  They played together as kittens and then completely ignored each other as they grew older.

Dermot acquired many nicknames in his lifetime – Dermie Diamond Nose, Mister D, Big D, Big Fuzzy D, Dermie Doodle, Doodlebug, and my favorite – Fuzzy Butt.  His coat was magnificent, his toehawks were adorable, his tail was glorious (well, except for the time he got an abscess on the base of it and lost about two inches of fur so it ended up looking like a bottle brush - but I promised him I would not post any embarrassing photos on the Internet).  He groomed himself religiously.  He also left a trail of fine gray hairs wherever he went.  I expect I will be finding fluffy traces of him for many years to come.

My house is filled with kitty houses and cat beds and Dermot loved them all.  But his favorite places to sleep were inside cupboards – stashing away  laundry was always a trial because he would leap onto a pile of clean jeans or towels.  He even figured out how to get into the cupboard under the kitchen sink to lounge amongst the paper towels, sponges and candles.  I finally had to install a baby lock to keep him out.  One day I discovered a sweatshirt on the closet floor - he had pulled it down off the hanger and made himself a cozy bed.  Talk about a hair shirt!

The Hair Shirt

In his prime he weighed over twelve pounds; on the day he was diagnosed he had dropped down to ten pounds.  We knew he would eventually have difficulty eating and this is exactly what happened.  We switched from kibble to canned paté and when he finally had trouble with the paté, in the last month or so, paté and water were blended into a soupy slurry. Chicken and beef baby food, as well as a liquid supplement, were added to his menu.  Every time I came up with a new meal he could more easily consume he expressed great delight.  He never failed to show up on the bathroom counter for his meals.  But his fur was becoming matted and dry, and his weight continued to drop.  His once-magnificent ruff became scraggly and nearly disappeared.  He was practically a short-haired cat by the end.  And, as he had done for nearly fifteen years, he steadfastly refused to allow any attempts at grooming.

Until his last few days his behavior was completely normal.  One of his cutest tricks was to come to me and “sharpen” his claws on my pants leg – but he never unsheathed his claws while doing this – just huge soft paws going through the motions.  A truly gentle soul. He slept a lot, usually sprawled on the cool tile floor in the kitchen doorway and I had to be ever vigilant not to step on him or trip over him.  I still find myself watching out for him in that spot. It seems so odd that he is not there anymore.

The cool tile floor

It got to the point where I found myself expecting to find him dead on the floor in the mornings when I woke up or in the evenings when I returned from the shop.  I so hoped he could just slip away painlessly.  It was taking him longer and longer to consume lesser and lesser amounts of any kind of food.

Wednesday the 27^th of July was a bad day for Facebook cats.  In one of my many cat groups a woman posted about the unexpected passing of her kitty Sweep and another member of the group responded by posting a poem for her, to cushion her sorrow.  I was at the shop, worrying about Dermot and looking for signs when I read this poem, called "May I Go Now?" by Susan A. Jackson.   Tears filled my eyes as I read this – it seemed to be Dermot speaking directly to me.  It was a sign. I phoned my vet, made that awful final appointment for my Doodlebug, and prepared to close up early.  Then another lady posted about the loss of her kitty Odessa.  Another sign.  I rushed home.

Dermot did not sing the song of his people during the short trip to the vet’s office, but he did murmur a few soft notes.  The exam room was ready with a soft fleece blanket on the stainless steel table and a tech gave him an injection of a sleeping potion.  He did not protest, just kind of sighed and curled into a ball.  I kept crooning to him, kissing him on his head, stroking his still-soft fur and offering reassurances. By the time the vet came in, he agreed that Dermot’s time had indeed come to leave our world.  My once-magnificent boy was gone to the Rainbow Bridge before the needle was removed from his leg.  He was at peace.

Dermot swung through his life in high arcs until one day he lost his momentum and finally began to slow at first imperceptibly and then more visibly.  He lived his life as he always had, enjoying the little things that a cat enjoys – sunlight and moonlight, soft beds and cool floors, a new cardboard box and plenty of food.  Rest in peace, dear lad.

Nothing beats a nice new box!

* The poem, Waitin' Fer The Cat to Die, was written by Hoosier poet James Whitcome  Riley, an old family favorite for his book "Rhymes of Childhood", which included one of his most famous poems Little Orfant Annie.

Cowboy

I killed Cowboy on January 30^th, 1987.  Over forty years of life had left him filthy, bedraggled and tattered.  His ears were in shreds, there were moth holes in his greasy threadbare forehead (when I was a kid I’d rubbed Vaseline there), his dental floss whiskers were drooping, and his paws were festooned with peeling remnants of the circular iron-on patches my mother had used for repair.  If he’d ever had a nose, there was no trace of it – his muzzle was pushed into his already flat face and had been sewn and resewn.

His head had been firmly stitched to his shoulders, no longer swiveling as it did when he and I were young.  There was a jagged line of thick stitching running down the middle of his chest where his stuffing had burst out again and again.  The little plaid shirt which my mom had so skillfully stitched for him was filthy, as were the dungarees which used to be mine that she had cut down and fitted to him.

I had not planned to kill him.  My first action was to merely wash his outfit.  The water turned brown.  I realized he was equally soiled so taking a deep breath, I began to disassemble him.  I pulled out his wadded once-white stuffing which was as brown as the wash water.  There were so many repairs to his muzzle I feared I would tear his face apart when I tried to free the stuffing in his head.

By midnight I was weeping.   I had killed Cowboy, my dear old friend and constant companion.  What had I done?  But I forged ahead bravely, washing the sad limp body and all of the stuffing.  I could have used new stuffing, of course, but somehow it did not seem appropriate.  I washed and I washed until the water ran clear and then I toweled and pressed out the excess and hung up the little bits and pieces of him to dry.

As his body was drying and his stuffing was fluffing the next day (New Year’s Eve), I began searching my fabric stash for appropriate materials to repair him.  I found small scraps of the perfect color of thick cotton velvet for his ears and paws, and a small amount of soft natural linen that matched his poor bare forehead.  I rummaged through my grandmother’s and mother’s button collections and finally found two matching black buttons for eyes.

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On the day I was born my sweet grandfather presented his first (and only) granddaughter with a pale blue plush stuffed toy, which though shaped like a classic teddy bear was clearly a kitty with pointed ears and long whiskers.  I guess you could call it a teddy cat.   This toy was my favorite and never far from my side.  Mom began sewing outfits for it; the first was a pair of summery short-legged rompers in a beige fabric with a brown pattern. 

Age two - see how fluffy he looks!

Age three - wearing the rompers.

Age four - wearing one of my sweaters.

 

 

 

When I was five, Mom pulled out all the stops and not only forced me to take a loathsome ballet class, she made itchy ruffled pink tutus for both me and my teddy cat.  I simply cannot tell you how disgusted I was by this hideous turn of events.  It was shortly thereafter that I made the announcement that “His name is Cowboy and he is a BOY!”

I have to hand it to my mother.  She swallowed her hopes and dreams of having a girly daughter and immediately set forth to create a suitable cowboy outfit for Cowboy.  In addition to the meticulously crafted plaid shirt and recycled dungarees, she made a brown felt cowboy hat (long gone, unfortunately) and a brown felt holster with a metallic plastic Cracker Jack six shooter.  Later she even made him a marvelous pair of chaps (also long gone).

Cowboy and Penny.

Wearing his new chaps and posing with Hilton (Mom's teddy bear).

Over the years of my childhood I fear I treated poor Cowboy very carelessly, dragging him through the dirt and flinging him about with reckless abandon.  I have memories of bringing him, headless and filthy, for my mom to wash and repair.  Mom had reattached his head so many times she had given up on the swivel and just stitched it in place.  It must have taken days for him to dry because we did not have a dryer until years later – she would have had to hang him on the line.  He may have started his life as pale blue, but my only memories of him are his present coloring of pale brown.

When Grandma took up painting she used Cowboy as a subject for several paintings.  One early maquette for a larger piece with all of my toys had this written on the back, “Mr. Burchfield liked this very much.”  That’s Charles Burchfield, now world-famous artist, before he was famous.  Grandma used to take lessons from him.  Grandma painted Cowboy’s eyes as green in this little watercolor; maybe these were his original eyes, before the black buttons!

"Mr. Burchfield likes this very much."

She also painted a small oil on board featuring a black-mustachioed Cowboy as a pirate complete with an eye patch, a hoop earring, and two knives thrust into his heavy belt.  The stitches zigzagging up his shirtless chest made for a very fierce appearance.  This was a pure flight of artistic fancy – I cannot remember any such outfit in Cowboy’s wardrobe.

Cowboy the pirate.

As a child, I also painted his portrait – in this one he “almost” appears blue!  I may or may not have employed artistic license in making a pink nose and paw pads.  Also, notice the black whiskers which may have been the original color.

Looks blue to me.

One Christmas I was recruited to play an angel in the Christmas pageant. After obtaining my permission to do so, Mom made an angel costume complete with tinsel halos for both of us and cellophane wings for Cowboy.  Poor Cowboy doesn’t appear very happy in this photo!

Two Angels

My friends always enjoyed Cowboy’s company, whether we were camping in the backyard tent, sitting on the front steps, or tooling around the neighborhood on our bikes.  But mostly, Cowboy was my little brother, my other half, my confidant.

Joey and me, Cowboy and Hilton.

Peggy with Cowboy, me and Donna.

As an adult, still collecting stuffed toys, I chose Cowboy to accompany me on my travels to folk festivals.  He always guarded our motel room while we were out listening to music.  One year he expressed a desire to meet Trout Fishing in America after hearing their version of “The Teddy Bears’ Picnic”.  He wanted to meet Mister Bear.  I brought him to an afternoon workshop, met Ezra between workshops and asked if I could take a photo.  He told me Keith would be back soon.  When Keith arrived, he took one look at Cowboy and exclaimed, “My God, how old is that thing?”  I informed him he was my age.  They posed for this photo, one of the last to feature the original Mister Bear who was stolen shortly thereafter.

Trout Fishing in America: Ezra Idlet & Keith Grimwood, Mr. Bear and Cowboy at Summerfolk.

Several years ago a new friend came to my house for the first time and burst into tears when she met Cowboy.  I thought it was pretty cool that she felt so moved by his sweet countenance. 

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New Year’s Day, January 1^st, 1988:  The resurrection of Cowboy.  The stuffing was clean and dry; the husk of a body was at least somewhat renewed.  Deep within his oft-sewn muzzle I found a small fluffy patch of pale blue plush – proving the verity of his original color. Slowly but surely I began the reassembly process, stuffing and stitching and sewing and sewing.  The stuffing had fluffed out to such an extent that I couldn’t stuff it all in – Cowboy was bulging like a body builder and barely fit into his shirt. 

 

I fashioned new ears with soft velvet on the outside and linen on the inside.  I covered his holey forehead with clean linen and reinforced his front paws with the remaining velvet.  I sewed the new black button eyes into place, added fresh dental floss whiskers, and embroidered his small mouth.  He looked like my dear Cowboy again!  And the swivel mechanism, a simple flat bolt and a leather pad, was intact and is now working!

"I wasn't always like this."

I made a polymer clay version of Cowboy, riding a painted pony.  This is how he thinks of himself - riding off into the sunset, on his trusty steed.

Ride 'em, Cowboy!

Look at that smile!

 When I was a child, Cowboy and I used to have many long conversations.  He had a soft kindly voice, but alas, I have not heard it in many years.  Now he sits, seemingly bemused, and gazes into the distance.  Sometimes in my dreams I find I have two Cowboys.  I am happy to have a spare of such a precious soul, but I awaken slightly confused at this concept since I have searched diligently on eBay and never found another vintage stuffed kitty even remotely like him.  He is truly one of a kind.

His name is Cowboy, and he is a boy. 

Rocks in My Head

We moved to Attica, New York in the summer of 1953.  I had just turned seven and our parsonage was located on the edge of this tiny town, in a Leave it to Beaver neighborhood.  The Tonawanda Creek meandered at the bottom of a huge clay cliff behind our house and the mixture of neighbors was right out of a sitcom:  the rich folks at the end of the street with an extensive orchard of lilac trees, the reclusive former teacher with the stark "modern" house that did not even face the street, the kids, the teenagers, the dogs, the cats, and the mysterious elderly couple next door.  I do not remember their name but I will never forget their home and the priceless gift they gave to me.

This couple had a lovely garden, festooned with beautiful rocks, gazing balls and vessels.  They traveled frequently so I rarely saw them, but I used to sneak peeks at their magical side garden.  One day they invited me inside and gave me a tour. I remember being in awe of the museum-like interior.  They collected vases from all over the world (from dollhouse scale to taller than I was!) and they collected rocks and minerals.  My eyes must have been like saucers.  Then they presented me with this precious gift that still inspires me to this day.  They gave me a massive chunk of white quartz with shiny black crystals here and there.  It was so huge I could barely hold it in my two little hands.  Oddly enough, though, this rock seems to have shrunk over the years because now it fits easily in one hand.

My first rock - 1953

This rock has moved with me almost a dozen times and my love for it sparked a love for rocks and minerals of all kinds ever since.  I believe it also helped to inspire my dad to collect rocks, and lug them back for me from many trips.  Since his death I have inherited his favorites (also survivors of many moves).

Last week I joined a rock group (I have always wanted to say that!) - actually a Facebook group of rock hounds and collectors.  This has prompted me to photograph some of my small but much-loved collection and dig up some memories.  As time goes by I have become increasingly tired of dusting and re-dusting my collections and I have been trying to protect everything in display cases, or in the case of small rocks and crystals - I have been framing them.  Hey, I am a framer and a collector - it is a perfect matching of my interests.

Geologea was my first attempt at framing part of my collection.  In my hoard of materials was a wooden box, fashioned with a rounded spine to resemble a large book.  I cut down an worn old gold-leafed frame to fit inside this book, fitted it with glass and suede walls, and placed my little loves inside.  I can add new ones and rearrange them any time.

Geologea, 2004

The smooth pale green speckled stone has delighted me since my grandma and I both spotted it at the same time on the shore at Lowbanks, Ontario and I snatched it up first.    I have always loved it because it reminds me of the color and pattern of the fabric in one of her dresses.  My best friend in junior high school gave me some of these crystals.  The slab of lace agate was a gift from a high school friend (her dad was just getting into rock cutting).  Some I purchased from a rock hound friend when he was broke  and in need of money.  Some of the fossils I found in the creek bed.  I love them all!

Specimen card, circa 1955

I framed the specimen card  after I realized that the thin cardstock that I had been holding and oogling for so many decades was finally starting to disintegrate.  I used to recite the names like a mantra:  Rose Quartz, Pyrites, Chalcedony.  Magical, mysterious, beautiful and ancient.  

Rock collecting has snuck into my dollhouse scale roomboxes.  Madam Tabitha is a rock collector and she displays them on the shelf in her parlor.  She has recently added a few new specimens.  She loves to rearrange her large bowl of rocks, crystals and shells, and she is also very proud of her malachite pyramid.

Madam Tabitha's Parlor

Madam Tabitha's shelf

Madam Tabitha's collection

Alas, my legs no longer allow me to clamber around in slippery shale creek beds, or wander for miles down rocky beaches, struggling back with pockets laden with great finds.  But rocks still seem to find me. Terrapin Station in Buffalo is a sweet source to buy small specimens and I have found a few pretties at Lily Dale.  A few years back a friend gave me a generous gift certificate good for anything in the Galleria Mall.  Now, I hate malls and avoid them at all costs - but hey, a gift certificate is a gift certificate.  I searched through many stores: clothing - ack,  jewelry - ack.  Then I found The Nature Store.  It was like a museum with price tags.  I was in Heaven!  Of course my friend looked at me like I had lost my tiny mind when I told him I had bought a rock with his gift certificate.  (I think he was hoping I'd buy lingerie.)

Current and perennial favorites

In the photo above the striped specimen in the top left was one of my dad's favorites.  He found it in the Southwest.  The round black half sphere has always been a mystery since my late partner Kim saw it at Terrapin Station and said, "Wow - Mar would love that!" and Barry gave it to her to give to me.  I have already told the story of the white quartz, and the petrified wood in the center has been with me almost as long.  The sphere is a recent find at Terrapin Station.  The starburst crystal is part of my inheritance from my dear friend Barbara, and the ammonite never ceases to transport me to another time and place.  Even if I had a room full of ammonites, this would be the most loved.

I guess I will always have rocks in my head.  I still have dreams of finding piles and mounds of pretties or stores full of them.  But until money falls from the sky I will be happy to play with the pretties in my collection that have been in my life for decades.  Rose Quartz, Pyrites, Chalcedony - nice mantra, eh?