Let's Start at the Very Beginning...

...A very good place to start. Well, usually.

This morning, my beginning came at 3:30, when My Awesome Husband Greg collapsed into bed and said "Ella is still outside. I hope she's not dead, because I want to kill her."

Don't worry. He wouldn't harm a hair on her stubby little tail. He was just in a sleepy stupor, and worried. So of course, I was worried. And awake. And whenever I'm awake at 3:30 a.m., my brain thinks it's a good time to chat, and starts saying things like What the hell--technically, it's morning. You might as well just get up.

But my body was quite comfortable in my soft bed with its flannel sheets. I tried telling my brain to shut up and close her eyes, but she was already rocketing off in a dozen different directions...

You still have decorating to do--and shopping! Have you even made a list yet? You should probably write a few checks, too. And if you're not sending out Christmas cards--again--you at least owe a few people thank you notes...Dust much? Oh, and check out those bathrooms. Dis-gus-ting! By the way, who do you think is going to put away all that junk in the dining room? (Interestingly, I didn't hear one single word about that stupid wayward cat.)

Stubbornly, determined to win, I stayed in bed until five, listening and trying to pretend not to. I might have just managed to shut out the noise when my alarm went off. Sigh.

So now it's 8:00. I've had three cups of coffee and a bowl of cereal. I watched Jordyn get on the bus at 5:45 and caught two segments of my "Local on the 8's" on The Weather Channel. Then I switched to CNN for my morning briefing, because even though I'm, like, a smart guy, too, I like to start my day with the most current information available. I finished the chapter I was reading in my book--"Take this Man," by Brando Skyhorse--and caught up on Words With Friends. I checked my notifications and memories on facebook and I let that damned cat in and/or out several times.

Who, by the way, was sitting inside the kitchen door when I lurched toward the coffee pot at 5:00. Let that sink in. She wasn't even--and hadn't been--outside! We do have a system, but unfortunately, it's not foolproof. Door unlocked = cat out; door locked = cat in. But sometimes the person who lets her in or out is on the phone, or has something in his/her hand, and can't (remember to) change the lock. Or someone might be in the basement when she demands to be let out--or in--and doesn't notify the person upstairs to change the lock. And of course neither one of the people who live in this house is very good at remembering, when questioned later, whether the cat was last seen coming or going. Which is what led to the system that doesn't always work in the first place. Sometimes we just have to guess--which is what Awesome Greg was doing at 3:30 this morning.

This is probably going to be a long day in which not much gets accomplished. But I'm hoping yours is good and productive.

Orange Cat/Gray Cat

The Big Orange cat is fluffy and voluptuous. She loves to give pleasure as much as she enjoys receiving it. When she walks into a room and singles you out as the recipient of the luxurious gifts she comes bearing, consider yourself blessed. As you bury your hands in her flame-colored fur, she will purr like a well cared for engine, letting you know she is pleased. In most cases, you will have had your fill before she has tired of giving. If she's on your lap, your legs will go to sleep. You'll get hungry or antsy. You'll need to move. She may let you know with a sharp meow that she's not ready for your session to end, but she will forgive you. She'll return another time.

The Little Gray kitty, while as visually appealing as the Big Orange, is an entirely different species. Little Grays are aloof, and not at all interested in being friends with Humans. They seem to realize that Humans are necessary, and so will allow them to open doors and fill their bowls, but they have no desire to be petted and cuddled. How fortunate the Little Gray who finds herself in a home where there at least one Human who is irrationally and unconditionally devoted to cats--Big Oranges, Little Grays, Purple Stripes...it doesn't matter. There are Humans who will place the needs of any species of cat above their own and those of the people he lives with. Lucky indeed is the cavalier Little Gray if her owner is one of these. She may even occasionally allow this devoted Human to pick her up and nuzzle her neck, but never for more than 30 seconds.

Both species are a feast for the eyes and the sense of touch. Both are demanding, but one will amply reward you for your trouble, and one will make you beg by playing hard to get. Both satisfy a need to be needed, and to be entertained.

I base this assessment solely on personal experience. I have conducted no formal studies of the personality traits of cats. Our home is now missing its Big Orange Cinder, who lived here for 18 years. We are still being "blessed" by Little Gray Ella. My Awesome Husband Greg is the World's Most Devoted Cat Lover, and she is one Little Gray who will never want for anything.

Cinder

Cinder Jade Fischer, because any cat worth the fur she sheds has a middle name.

Eighteen years. I remember so well the day they brought you home, Greg, Meagan and Dj. It had been Meagan's doing (and my undoing), taking Dj to a pet store and letting him hold kittens. In all of his nine years, he had never had that experience. (Don't judge me -- there are lots of kids around the world who have had far less.) After that, nothing would do but for the boy to have a kitten of his own.

Now I know this will come as no surprise to you, Cinder (but I hope I've fooled at least a few other people) -- I am not a Cat Lover. Oh, I admire cats for their grace and beauty, and I love how adorable they are when they play. But if I had to choose, I'd say I prefer dogs, just because you always know where you stand with a dog. A dog loves you. Period. With cats, it's not always obvious.

Then along came you, with all your cuddly cuteness, so vulnerable in your tininess, yet with that Big Kitty Attitude.

Do you remember your first day with us? We had that big old clumsy dalmatian, Baby. She was so excited, anxious to see what we were holding. We had no fears that she wanted to harm you, because her tail was wagging like...well, like Dj's would have been if he'd had one. And she had this big, stupid grin on her face (also like Dj's). But, as you were about one-tenth her size, we thought it better to keep you separated for a little while. That's how I ended up that day, sitting on the sofa in the basement, cradling you between my shoulder and my neck, while everyone else was upstairs convincing Baby (unnecessarily) that no one would ever take her place.

That was when I caved and admitted that I did like cats, maybe just a little. But it was you, Cinder. Honestly, you're the only cat I've ever truly loved. Maybe it was because of Baby, who soon became your best buddy. Maybe it's that she instilled in you all the best qualities of a dog. I mean, you would come when you were called, you never climbed the fence to leave the yard (although you certainly could have), and you would pee on command (the command being "Be a good girl,") just like Baby. When company would come, you wouldn't go all aloof and disappear, but rather, you'd stay around and be sociable.

Oh, you were loved, Cinder, by everyone who met you, but especially by the people in this family. Even me. I know that most of the time, I took you for granted, allowing everyone else to shower you with physical signs of affection, holding back until you and I were the only ones home before I would bury my face in your fur and revel in the wonderful pillowishness of you. Often, I was annoyed with you for wanting to come in when you were out and go out when you were in, and for meowing pitifully for lunch at 9:30 in the morning. I never tried to hide it. But I loved you.

I loved you for the beauty you brought to our home -- how you graced our chairs and sofa and beds with your glorious orangeness.

Mostly, I loved you for the happiness you brought us. Everyone had their own special way of loving you, of playing with you. And you were always game.

I loved you, Cinder. I just loved you, you Big Orange Cat, you. And I will miss you.

A Kitten Named Ella

Ella, June 2011

One Friday afternoon last June, my Awesome Husband Greg went out to get the mail from the box. He thought he saw a squirrel sitting in the middle of the road. But he was wrong...What he saw was a tiny gray kitten, sitting in the center of the road, right between the two yellow lines.

Bravely risking life and limb, he stopped traffic with his one free hand (his other clutching our granddaughter, Charlie, whose life he was also risking).

Ella, August 2011


...So I had written exactly one year ago today -- August 31, 2011, the day I decided to write about how we acquired Ella, the hapless little kitten. But somehow (the usual way, I suppose) I got distracted and never finished.

We still have Ella, who was really only hapless for a short time. That would be the time between whenever she was born, and that day last June when Greg rescued her from the middle of the road in front of our house. Since then, I guess you could say she's been very hap. She found Greg.

Ella today, in one of her favorite poses. (I'm afraid she'd have to suck it in a little to fit in that window now.)


I didn't really want another cat. Greg tried to pretend he didn't, either. We made a few phone calls, "advertised" on facebook that we had found a kitten and would keep her for the weekend if anyone wanted her. I guess we were implying that if no one did, it was off to the pound (gasp!) on Monday. But I know us. We'd never do that.

Even so, we did still have this girl...

Cinder, the Big Orange Cat

Cinder is 16 years old now. I, never really a cat lover, love this cat. Greg adores this cat. We almost lost her a couple of years ago, and I had a glimpse of how painful that loss was going to be -- for everyone. So when I saw how Greg held and fussed over that bedraggled little gray ball of fluff, I knew from that first afternoon that she was ours. He'll try to tell you that I convinced him to keep her, but I didn't. I simply got out of his way.

I will admit to having some regrets...

The reason I love Cinder is that she's really a dog who looks like a cat. She comes when you call her. She hangs around and socializes when company comes. She doesn't indulge in displeasing cat-like behaviors, like clawing the furniture or leaping onto tables and bookcases. She lets us use her as a pillow or a blanket -- sometimes even a mattress. She's generally very nice to have around.

I had forgotten what real kittens are like. Ella was a real kitten. And she's a real cat. Last Christmas, I relented to putting up a tree, against my better judgment -- fortunately, it remained standing, although a few ornaments took a topple -- but I refused to bring out my "good" red slipcover and quilts. I can think of few things more unnerving than the sound of a cat's claws plucking at fibers.

(I don't like the smell of their food, or their poop either, but that doesn't have to be part of this story.)

A year later, Ella is very different from that shy, grungy, runny-eyed, bug-infested little mite she was last year -- the one who would fall asleep in a Kleenex box on the back of the toilet. She's minus most of her tail, which we have logically deduced must have been run over when she parked it in the middle of the road. (After we'd had her a few days, it atrophied and began losing its fur.) But her coat is like beautifully striped velvet.


She's the kind of cat you want to hold. But you can't. She'll lie on her back at your feet and wriggle around enticingly, but don't fall for it -- she only wants you to reach for her so she can take a swipe. It's all part of her game.

Guests rarely see Ella. She prefers to hang out in the office in a box of stationery whenever anyone besides family is present.

Oh -- And did I mention that she's relentless in tormenting poor Cinder?

Yes, I knew there would be a transition period as our "girls" got used to each other, but how delusional was I to have imagined that Cinder would one day be glad that we'd brought her a young companion? What was I thinking? It's gone from bad to worse, with Ella becoming fearless of Cinder's hissing and boxing. She lies in wait, ready to jump on the old girl every chance she gets. Poor Cinder now pauses in doorways, afraid to walk into a room for fear of being ambushed -- something she shouldn't have to endure in her golden years. Cinder, I am so sorry...

So I'm having difficulty finding things to love about Ella -- except for her striking good looks. But she's here to stay. Greg has plenty of room in his heart for a cat like Ella. Just like he did for Cinder. And probably as many more as he might be allowed to have, but we're not even going to go there.

I'm just glad he consented to her name (suggested by dear facebook friend, Patricia Thomas Blevins). You did you pick up on that, didn't you? Cinder...Ella? (Greg had wanted to call her R.K., short for Road Kill. Glad he let me win that one!)

Happy Birthday, Baby!

"Baby Dog" by Kate Fischer, 10/6/08 (MSN Paint)

For those of you who know that today is my birthday, do not be alarmed -- I am not going to ask that you read a sentimental tribute to myself! I shared my birthday (at least 14 of them) with a goofy-looking, pointy-headed, blue-eyed dalmatian named Baby Blue Fischer. She wasn't actually goofy-looking until her head got pointed when she was about a year old. Something (we never found out what, so I guess that makes it Idiopathic Pointy Head Syndrome) caused the muscle on the top of her head to atrophy, which meant that she would need to wear a hat if she didn't want other dalmatians -- ones with nicely rounded beans -- to laugh at her. Fortunately, vanity was never an issue for Baby, so we were never forced to look for a doggy millinery shop! Oh, but I'm digressing...So Baby ended up goofy-looking; but she did have the most beautiful blue eyes, which, if you're into bloodlines and things like that, is not a desirable trait in a dalmatian. (We are not into bloodlines.) It was those eyes which made her stand out from what seemed like dozens of brothers and sisters. We chose the puppy with the blue eyes.

Besides having a pointed head and blue eyes, Baby was set apart from ODs (other dalmatians) by her temperament. We had unwittingly chosen a dog that we later learned was, by nature, high strung and not very good around people. While Baby could seem a little tightly wired at times -- like whenever someone rang the doorbell, or when, as a puppy, she would pee all over the floor in excitement every time the Family returned from an outing -- she was, for the most part, a laid-back, happy-go-lucky people dog. She loved everyone -- especially kids. I tended to get a little high-strung myself when we had visitors with small children, but I never saw Baby show unease when little ones got in her space, wanting to pet her and touch her spots.

There were so many things about Baby that we loved -- and a few things that annoyed us, too (especially me, being the least tolerant person in our family when it comes to animals and their natural tendencies). Today I'm remembering Baby because it's our birthday. Mostly, I remember the good, fun, funny things about her. That's nice -- I'm glad the sadness (and the guilt for the times I was impatient with her) have gone.

Happy Birthday, Baby -- Have a good one!