I like to start my mornings quietly, slowly warming up to the day ahead. Weekdays mean poking the bear, I mean waking our teenager so that he has ample time to perfect his hair for school. Weekends find me brewing tea and making toast and marmalade as my husband, the Brit, settles in for a day of British soccer matches on the telly.
I shower, dress, and putter about the kitchen, silently making my coffee, listening to the news and weather report as I gradually come to. This is how I like to start my day.
But not yesterday. I came out of the shower to find that Golda had left a “gift” for my husband.
Golda is our cat. Well, she’s really the Brit’s cat. She is part Maine Coon, the largest of the domestic cat breeds. With a paw in each room, this girl weighs more than 16 pounds and is almost twice the size of our shih tzu dog, Honey.
On this particular morning, I came out of the shower to find The Brit snoozing away and Golda stretched out proudly on the covers, on which she had deposited a very fat, formerly healthy looking, dead mouse.
Golda had neatly set the mouse on its side, tail curved around its body. Chef Gordon Ramsay would have been proud of her presentation!
Once I was able to stop the sound of violins from the movie Psycho screeching in my head, I calmly woke my husband and explained that the cat had brought him breakfast in bed.
When he saw the ex-mouse lying by his legs, he did what any proper, city-bred Englishman would do. He squealed like a schoolgirl and begged me to get rid of the deceased rodent.
I explained to him that cats do this because they consider themselves part of a family unit or pride. Each must pull their own weight and provide nourishment for the other members. Thus, she was simply doing her part.
As I gingerly scooped up the small corpse into a plastic bag for disposal, the Brit heaped praise on Golda for her prowess. I got no such praise for removal of said dead mouse.
I have had dogs and cats most of my life, and even a goldfish that lived in a bowl on my bedroom dresser for four years. But for the past 40 years, I have always had a cat.
The Brit, on the other hand, grew up in war-torn London and has never lived with an animal. When we combined households, I brought Poppy—my English Staffordshire—and Nellie, the last of the group of kitties I raised.
The Foursome, as I call them, was composed of a sweet calico cat named Nellie; Foss, an old orange Persian who always looked miffed; a wise, white shorthair called Athena; and a tortoise-shell, long-haired polydactyl named Minerva whose extra toes on each foot made her look like she was wearing baseball mitts.
Foss and Minerva were inseparable. Athena loved to burrow under the covers at night and warm her paws on my back. And Nellie was just sweet and prim, like a little Victorian lady.
Living with The Foursome was like living with the Marx Brothers. You never knew what would happen next, but it was certain to be entertaining.
I once brought home a balloon that I got at work for my birthday. Filled with helium on a long ribbon, it floated and moved around the living room as the four kitties played with the dangling ribbon.
Then Athena grabbed the string in her mouth and ran with it. Sure of her prize, she turned and was alarmed to find herself being chased by a large red sphere.
The other three felines thought this was a game and gave chase to catch the balloon. They ran through the house for several minutes until Foss leapt and captured the balloon in his claws. The resulting explosion of helium and cats was hilarious!
One memorable morning I awoke to find all four cats and Poppy curled up on my bed. Poppy always slept with me, and Foss slept with her, his head propped on her hip. Then, it happened.
Poooofffft! Poppy, snoring happily, passed a silent doggie fart that quickly permeated the bedroom and began peeling the paint off the walls. Foss sat bolt upright, twitched his flat little nose, and stared at the dog in disgust.
One by one the three girls woke and quickly exited the room. Survival mode kicked in and I got up to escape the deadly funk. But Foss remained steadfast, frantically trying to bury Poppy’s ass with the blankets.
Meanwhile, the three girls were huddled together in the living room, fastidiously grooming themselves. They all glared at me as if to ask, “Now will you get rid of the dog?”
Over the years, each one of my furry little family made their way home across that rainbow bridge until only Nellie remained. When she finally passed away at the ripe age of 18, we found Mae, a little calico whose family was moving and could not keep her. She was 13 and cared nothing for me, but fawned over my Brit who, in turn, doted on her.
Every night I could hear him reading his cigar catalogues to her. “Oh, look, Mae, Bolivar Double Coronas are on sale this month!”
Mae would sit attentively, like a small sphinx, front paws crossed as she gazed adoringly at him. When I would come to bed, she’d hiss jealously, then pout when Daddy scolded her.
Sadly, we only had her for two years when a heart condition took her. The Brit was so upset that he firmly placed a ban on any more pets. One week later he sadly said, “I miss Mae and want another cat.”
I said I’d find the perfect one and I did. Woods Humane Society had a large, pale-colored calico they called Toby who had been there for two months after they brought her over from the animal shelter. She was a testy little diva, requiring sacrificial offerings of kitty treats and ear rubs.
I brought her home, we changed her name to Golda, and she immediately settled in, calling our master bedroom and bath her personal domain. And she found the love of her life in the love of mine. She sleeps at the Brit’s side and grumps if I get too close when he’s petting her.
I swear it’s like he has another woman! She fusses over him, cooing and purring, and sulking dramatically if he scolds her over her tendency to nip anyone she doesn’t care for. That would be me!
But I wouldn’t give her up for anything. She gives lovely massages, keeps our feet warm, and is a terrific mouser! And for all our differences, we do share one thing in common—we both love the Brit!
Ariel Waterman’s says adopt, don’t shop for pets, and get them spayed, neutered, and microchipped. Send kitty treats via Managing Editor Joe Payne at [email protected].
