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Last Call
Shades of Blue
AT SOME POINT DURING THE shrill and shameless attacks on Sarah Palin, I didn’t bite when I read that on top of everything else “she hates cats.” Certainly there was no corroborating evidence, nothing along the lines of the shabby treatment Mitt Romney meted out to the family Irish setter during a vacation trip some decades ago. Back when my family had an Irish setter, I would have sooner ridden in a crate atop the roof myself than subjected him to such cruelty. As far as I was concerned, the backseat was his natural habitat, with both windows rolled down if that was his preference.
Not to stray too far afield (like my wandering setter invariably did), I think no matter what the truth, Gov. Palin’s reputation is safe with me. You see, I’ve just been accused of being a cat-hater myself— all because my wife and I recently purchased a purebred instead of adopting a cat from the local shelter. Can I say something in my defense? Or at least plead extenuating circumstances?
It was like this: Back in the fall of 1996, our boys fell in love with two Abyssinian kittens they saw in a pet shop. And if you saw how those cats were kept at the shop (one was actually asleep in his litter box), you’d have liberated them too. Supposedly these beauts were half-brothers, one a ruddy, the other a blue. A friend expressed alarm that we actually paid money for them. And what did we get in return? Two gentle cats who never liked to be held or sleep on a lap. By morning they wanted out for a day of solitary hunting. Sometimes they’d come in for a midday snack, but mainly they’d wait until sundown before joining us for their main meal. The ruddy, it turned out, was more of a homeboy. To this day he’s always within calling distance, allowing his prey to come to him. He weighs too much and never seems to smile. But as he’s aged he’s become nicer and even sleeps on our bed at night.
The blue, by contrast, preferred to go on safari, sometimes disappearing for days. Once he crawled back home badly mauled and infected. Emergency surgery saved his life—it was only when we picked him up the next day that the loving look in his eye told us that he knew who we were. He remained grateful the rest of his days, which ended in the dark of last winter. Cancer.
His departure left an awful void. No way he could be replaced, but when the time came we knew we’d get another blue. But try to find one. Which we eventually did—on the other side of the continent. He arrived by plane shortly after Labor Day. A tiny little thing, but with more personality than a gaggle of New Yorkers.
Our older son was aghast—how could we do this to the senior cat? No problem, as it happens. The old boy pretty much ignores him. Plus he eats up all his special cat food. The little guy in turn samples the big guy’s turkey. And they now eat from the same plate, atop the counter, at safe remove from our mini-dachshund— who’ll be hurt that I’ve only now mentioned her. So let me hastily add that no one greeted the new arrival more enthusiastically than the doggie, her maternal instincts kicking in immediately (her wagging tail was the giveaway). The little guy licks and hugs her, with both paws, and jumps on her back. It’s a nice bit of theater and heaven combined.
One thing I wasn’t prepared for. Our late blue, as I mentioned, wasn’t a hugger. A great companion, yes, and loyal, but he just wasn’t big on emotional displays, other than always rubbing against my legs when he came in, or flying after me if I left for a walk. But Mr. Bluey (that’s the new guy’s name) sits on my chest and pets me, scraping the whiskers off my beard with his sandpaper tongue. He’s something else to observe, a perfectly gorgeous creature. You might say he has something in common with Sarah Palin. Or at least with Piper Palin.
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The Bishop| 1.8.09 @ 8:10AM
You know, it's funny how life works out. All the years my kids were growing up I was so alergic to cats I couldn't be in a house where they were for more than a half hour without gasping for breath. But after they left home, my system changed. We've had three loving cats (two still with us) since then and I've realized what happiness I'd missed all the years of my children's childhood. They are wonderful pets and part of the family. Your story touches a very special chord. By all means, you should get your blue wherever you can.
Appleby| 1.8.09 @ 11:29AM
I have tried both kinds of cats, and they have their separate charms. My "purebred" cats were a Russian Blue named Luke Skywalker (he didn't answer no matter what you called him) and a Black Persian named Field Marshall Montgomery (called Monty, but again, he took a memo and got back to you later). Luke lived to the age of 20 and became more mellow as he aged; Monty died at about age 5 of a virulent strain of feline leukemia.
My two Regular Cats were Bertie Wooster, who was a girl as it turned out (Mama was aghast at having made such a mistake) who was always called Bert and produced about five litters of kittens -- she was an Escaper, and would even go out a second floor window rather than stay in -- before we could get her between acts and turn off the machine. She began life as a barn cat and had a strain of Siamese in her somewhere, and lived to be 21. Current resident is Eloise, who was a Shelter Foundling. She is a beautifully marked tricolour with a white background and a perfect mask that is dark gray on one side and golden on the other. My grandson went with me to pick out a new cat after Bert's demise, and Eloise reached out of her cage and tapped him on the shoulder. "She wants to come with us!" he said firmly, and from that moment on there was no other cat for us. Eloise is a very bright cat who does not acknowledge the fact that she is in fact a cat; she recognizes six words, responds to "shame on you!" by going immediately to a specific corner to sit for about five seconds, and if you roll a ball to her, she will roll it back. Like her namesake who resided in the Plaza Hotel, she is a nuisance in the lobby, and when anyone is trying to talk on the telephone. She wakes me every morning at 6:00 a.m. regardless of the day of the week or of Daylight Savings Time, and if I don't get up within ten minutes, she chooses an object on my dresser and gives it a baseball-type thwack with her paw and sends it crashing to the floor.
I really can't imagine how people live without cats.
Spartuchis| 1.8.09 @ 12:35PM
Cats are awesome. I like my cats straight from the Kliban school, fat and warm and friendly and thick and meatloaf-like, like slabs of furry ham waiting to be sliced. Our Siamese--apparently there are two breeds, the Brilliant Purebreed and the Apple-Faced Doofus--isn't that thick, and she's a bit of a doofus, and she hates other cats, but will sit on anyone's lap. We took her off the hands of a friend of my brothers, where she lived under the nomme-de-plume "Antoinette", named for my father, Anthony, who died in 2001. They brought her as a wee kitten (her mom was a showcat) to his going-away-party at my mother's house. We changed her name to RN Schmitty after her habit of giving podiatry exams with her head and taking our temperatures on our stomach.
Michele San Pietro| 1.8.09 @ 5:56PM
I think the scoundrels who threw mud at a wonderful woman and politician like Sarah Palin should walk the streets only at night in shame.
Robert Pinkerton| 1.8.09 @ 5:59PM
As I read the article, my younger one, Lady Hathaway (rescue from the street, uniform dark grey with a black nose), climbed onto my lap. (IMHO, the domestic cat - any domestic catm familial or feral - is the second-most beautiful thing the Creator ever did.) (When I brought her home from the vet, she eased warily out of the cat-carrier. My older, Sultan - half Siamese, half Bast-only-knows - walked up and touched noses with her. ) This post took rather long to write because of interruptions, namely one or the other of them giving me a look as if to project, "What could Master be doing that's more important than petting a cat?!"
President Kristi| 1.8.09 @ 6:13PM
My Dad, affectionately known as El Viejo, doesn't like cats; we didn't have any when I was growing up. I was an adult when for the first time I saw my boyfriend's cat dealing with a furball; I thought the poor thing was choking to death.
The boyfriend and I (now the First Gentleman) had a small black cat named Gypsy. She had the habit of early morning hunting, dissecting her kills on our front doorstep with the skill of Hannibal Lecter. Gypsy wasn't afraid of much, including El Viejo. Once when he was visiting, Gypsy decided to leap onto my Dad's lap and began kneading furiously. The poor man was paralyzed and I nearly died laughing at the expression on his face.
Our lives are much richer for cats.
Chris| 1.8.09 @ 8:16PM
How did you manage to get Sarah Palin to lick the whiskers off your beard, you rascal?
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