Hard to know whether the outrageous sum I paid Lowe’s for three pots of fake Boston ferns anchored in concrete was money well spent.
On the one hand, I managed to save the heirloom begonias that flourished in the antique fernery. Heirloom being ones that came originally from Dave’s bachelor apartment 40 years ago. And the fernery from Mother.
On the other hand, the artificial ferns appeal to the kittens just as much. They are given to making running leaps up into the sea of plastic fronds. Wiggling their small butts and stretching out as if they were outside among branches. Camouflaged. Ready to pounce undetected.
The begonias wait on the porch to be transplanted into smaller pots. And I haven’t a clue where I’ll put them so that they will be happy and safe. The only other two “real” plants in the house are swathed in tin foil—a texture kittens are supposed to dislike.
I brought these boys home little more than a month ago. And changed their Humane Society names to the oh-so-unoriginal Tuxedo and Tiger Tiger. Tiger Tiger comes from William Blake’s poem, “Tyger Tyger burning bright . . . .” Tuxedo is wearing one. The sleekest, perkiest formal wear I’ve ever seen.
My heart broke when Simon needed to make his way to the next life. As it did when Mr. Noodle made the transition. But I can’t live long without a cat. Almost perfect companions, I think.
This time I let all of a month elapse and then adopted two—as recommended by the Humane Society. A bonded pair, though not siblings. And in another switch for me—true kittens. As I write they are currently almost four months old.
They have progressed from living in a kitty play pen, to the bathroom, to my bedroom, and now—for significant blocks of time with many toys available—to the rest of the house. I won’t tell you how many times I’ve been to the pet store in the last month or heard the clerk say, “ooh, spoiled cats.” I’ve never raised human toddlers, but I’m operating on the premise that diversionary tactics are important for my sanity and either cats or children.
In fact, I am alternately enchanted and beside myself.
Tiger Tiger is a diminutive, intricately marked baby wild cat. Polite and deadly. Of the two, he’s especially enamored with outdoor smells and action, sitting for long spells on a window sill. A little more reserved. But also more independent of me and his buddy. Slower to eat—which has its consequences. I worry that his family removed him from his mother too soon. In the middle of the night, Tiger Tiger cuddles as closely as he can to my face and licks every available spot of skin—purring loudly. I am reduced to silly giggles when he reaches my ear.
Tuxedo is all legs and bounce, accentuated by those two white gloves, two white spats, his immaculate bib, and a shiny black coat. Rather like a child, he does not walk. He runs, hops, and leaps. And those leaps are getting longer and longer. My living room is two leaps wide. The larger and lankier of the two, Tuxedo is something of a debonair bully. A Great Gatsby kitty. He beats Tiger Tiger to most toys. Gobbles his food and begins to push his little nose into Tiger Tiger’s dish. And views all treats as HIS. He’s also more overtly affectionate. When I return after a spell of being away, he stretches up and puts his paws on my chest and his face next to mine.
Battery-operated toys catch the boys’ fancy. They are mesmerized each time I turn one on—even if it’s for the 15th time that day. They are also intoxicated with feathers. Cat manufacturers are right to make many versions of mice, birds and fish. However many epochs of breeding as domestic cats have elapsed, the guys recognize prey that they might have enjoyed out in the wild. The two also love mirrors and their own reflected cuteness.
And really, these boys do not need commercial entertainment. They have each other–tails, ears, legs, tummies–always available for pouncing, biting, and strangling. Seemingly without damage. Tiger Tiger initiates the mayhem as much as Tuxedo. When the two came home from the required snipping, I found it virtually impossible to enforce the recommended bed rest—inactivity. I could hijack all their toys–but not each other. At the moment, they are puffed up like Halloween cats, tails bushy, dancing sideways towards each other, glaring. They’ll meet each other in a mid-air leap. And in about 10 minutes, collapse together on the bed.
I try to look at the house through their eyes. None of the labels that I use—wing chair, Talavera vase, cat tree, kitchen counter, desk, window screen—means an iota to them. I believe they are thinking: big jump; smells of cat food; feels good to scratch; bug just outside; where’s that barking dog; too far to jump—except, I CAN go HERE and then THERE and then THERE and I’ll be up high. Seen through kitten eyes, the whole house is a delightful jungle gym. How on earth would they know which objects are sacred and which expendable.
Cat aficianados discourage spraying water as a disciplinary measure. It might work, they concede, but your cat is likely to resent you for a long while. Current experts recommend rewards for good behavior. I’m trying a clicker system: getting down OUT of the plastic ferns—one click and one treat. What’s astonishing (Pavlov wouldn’t be surprised) is the effect of one click. Tiger Tiger and Tuxedo are at my feet and they know that I’m wrestling with the package to extract their little tasty nugget. I’m not the least bit certain that the cats link their corrected behavior—getting out of the phony ferns–to the sequence.
I am sad that so many cat owners do not invest in spaying and neutering—services which are often free. But I am tickled to work with extraordinarily professional and kind Humane Society staffers who go out of their way to care for all the kittens dropped on their doorstep.
In adopting Tiger Tiger and Tuxedo, I’m indulging myself. My longing for companions who will be here when I come home. To whom I can say “good morning,” grouse about winter, and cuddle. As I did the day Simon died, I wish for true “cat” communication skills. To know whether these little guys feel safe and loved. I know that they are smarter, more intuitive, emotional than we assume.
In fact, I’m inclined to think that pets—if we let them—teach us much more than we reckon about the complexity and wonder of all life. About the sweetness and intelligence and caring that they possess—when the human world often does not. ©
