There are Worse Things

"You are turning into the cat lady."                      

At least that's what my friends tell me. Just because during a two week period in December, nine out of ten of my Facebook posts were about my new kitten does NOT mean I'm turning into the Cat Lady. Just because my sister opened a photo text from me the other day and responded, "I thought that would be a pic of your new grandson, not your cat," does NOT mean I'm turning into the cat lady!

I have dogs. I hate the dogs, but I still have them. And what's the use in keeping alien beast canine creatures who wake me up three times a night, sneak naps on the couch which used to be green but is now a lovely dog hair white, eat entire stacks of pancakes from the kitchen table when we turn our backs, and do unspeakable semi-sexual things to each other when they are bored. In the middle of my living room. With company present. Sometimes my mother. What's the point of keeping them around if their mere presence does not preclude me from being called a Cat Lady!

Besides, if I am a Cat Lady, I'm not a very good one. I'm not sure actual Cat Ladies would allow me in their club. I almost got my last cat killed. In my defense, I did nurse it back to health after a broken leg which was NOT my fault, I might add. Still, I did almost get it killed. But not until after I tried to give it away to numerous people. But the stinking thing (and I do mean stinking) wouldn't stop pooping on everything--except the litter box. I just couldn't live in a cat toilet anymore, so I took him to the Humane Society. Seemed like the humane thing to do, right?

After I filled out all the paperwork and said my goodbyes, they inform me that they don't take Pooper Cats. They would be putting him down that day. Then the intake lady confesses that her own cat sometimes prefers to poop on her bath towels and gives me a look that says we should expect as much when we invite animals into our homes. She follows that with a mini-lecture on how cruel it is to just turn a cat out and make him live outside when he's been used to being inside.

Careful, Lady! I perfected the guilt trip lecture! In fact, maybe it was cruel of us to turn him into an inside cat when we "rescued" him from the outside. Maybe he prefers to be outside. And maybe your Pooper Cat prefers it, too and that's why he poops on your bath towels! I took Pooper Cat and left. I brought him home and introduced  him to his new lodgings--nature!

Can I help it if I missed the snuggle of a soft kitty, warm kitty, little ball of fur? So when I saw the ad seeking a home for an unwanted kitty, I couldn't help myself. I ran over to the owner's home and scooped him up (after making sure he was box trained, of course).

So you see, I am not a Cat Lady. Just because my arms and hands and feet and legs have so many cat scratches I look like I've been attacked by a poltergeist but I still let the little furball snuggle under the covers at night does NOT mean I'm a Cat Lady. Just because I turn on Maru You Tube videos for hours on end because the kitty is obsessed with them, which forces me to put off my computer work until it's cat nap time, does NOT mean I'm a Cat Lady. Just because I like to watch the occasional Maru video myself does NOT mean I'm a Cat Lady. Just because I bought my first QVC purchase--a new camera--late one night with the idea in mind to document cute kitty poses does NOT mean I'm a Cat Lady.

...                                                SEE MARU VIDEO HERE
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What does it mean, however, that I am now buying things off QVC in the middle of the night?
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Oh, God! I think I'd rather be a Cat Lady!

There's Only One Maxer Cat

Every kid should have a pet. Think about it. The ideal childhood memory usually involves a puppy or a kitten or at least a goldfish. Even the annoying little red monster Elmo has a goldfish. We have certainly had our share of pets: dogs, cats, hamsters, a bird, and even some fish.

The ironic thing about pets is that they never really come with a happy ending. When Santa brought my daughter a hamster one Christmas Eve, did he know it came with only a 2 year life span? For 24 months we fell in love with this goofy little rodent we nicknamed Houdini. There wasn't a cage made that could hold her. And then one day, she just died. That was it. No more wild house hunts for the sneaky, little furball. No more gut-busting laughter while she stuffed her cheeks to twice her body size. No more panicked rescues from the plastic tubing she'd tried to shove her gigantor cheek pouches through.

The demise of the pet fish was way worse than Houdini's sudden departure. They were boiled to death. Apparently the aquarium experienced a malfunction and in the middle of movie night, someone noticed half our fish floating belly up in the tank. I'm still not sure exactly what happened, but somehow the water had heated up. It was more disgusting than sad, scooping out the once graceful angel fish, crotchety giant gold fish and their deceased posse.

 The truth is, I never really like the fish anyway. I'm more of a cat person. Even if our cat, Maxer, wasn't much of a people cat.

Maxer was, hands down, the very best cat in the world. He was beyond self-sufficient. It didn't matter if the kids forgot to feed him--three of four days in a row. He didn't need some human handing him a meal on a silver platter. He'd rather hunt down his own grub. And as for a litter box? Pshaw! The great outdoors was his litter box!

Maxer kept to himself, for the most part. But, strangely enough, he quietly appeared just when he was needed most. Whenever I found him snuggled up with one of the kids, I knew there was a home-from-school-sick-day coming. And he wouldn't leave them until they were well. Maxer endured whatever play the children's imagination could create. And as they grew up, he did too. He seemed to understand heartbreak, rubbing his soft body against your leg and comforting you with a vibrating purr that could be heard clear in the next room. And he made us laugh every time he tormented the alien beasts we call dogs. I truly think he hated those dogs.

In his younger days, Maxer was the toughest brute. But in his later years, when he lost his quickness and his strength, he still surprised us every now and then. Like the time he out ran two pit bulls and climbed just high enough up a small tree to be safe, but still make them go nuts trying to get to him. This summer, at nearly 17, he began to really show his age. There were many times I didn't think he'd make it through the day. And finally, last Friday, he didn't.

I think he was waiting...for Kate to leave for college, for the other kids to start school, for the start of a new season and new interests. It would have been too hard for us not have him greet us on the front walk every time we came home from baseball or swimming. To never hear his scratching at the door just so we could let him in and then right back out. It would have been too hard to never hear that loud, loud purring on those lazy summer days. He purred until the very end.

As hard as it was to say goodbye to Maxer, I still believe that every child should have a pet. It's the best form of unconditional love. And every child deserves that.