Animals in Danger

        We're on our way to the zoo. It's part of the payback for convincing Theo (our gangster cat) to help us during the missing Mico sink drainer incidents. Snacks were involved, of course. But a trip to the zoo to see the "special animals" is part of the deal, too. 

      The conversation went something like this:

      Theo: I want to see them, see. 

       Dan: Yes, of course. We'll take you to the zoo so you can see them face to face.  

       Theo: And save them.

       It's hard to know what's rolling around in the mind of a cat. Sometimes it's obvious--that plaintive meow usually means he wants a treat. Other times, his desire to save them makes no sense at the time. 

       We are within driving distance of the Philadelphia Zoo. It is one of my favorite places to go. I love animals. All kinds of animals--especially the big cats and the giraffes. And the monkeys.

        This time, however, we are going to see the "special animals." Or in adult speak, some of the endangered species. In danger of becoming non-existent. Whose habitat is threatened. 

         You have to go inside a building at the zoo to see them. You walk down a hallway which seems to me like you're walking down death's row. I am acutely aware of what these animals face. Their chances of survival. Theo is with us, but I'm not sure how much he understands. Dan has him in a special carrier so our curious and concerned cat can see these animals up close and personal. 

          We arrive at the first exhibit. The Pied Tamarin is described as being bald, beautiful and in trouble. They live in the forests of Brazil, in forests which are being destroyed. Species in Danger in red ink catches our attention. 

                   We try to explain to Theo that if the forest trees are knocked down, these little guys will have no place to live. He seems to understand. He's looking very intently.

             "Like the squirrels," I point out. He knows what squirrels are. 

          We move on. The Francois langur hails from China and Vietnam. A new baby Quy Bau was born in 2020 and has thrived. Baby Lei was born in 2021. Zoos help with breeding so endangered animals survive. We catch the family on video acting a lot like monkeys.

            Theo enjoys watching the langurs swing around in their cage, but as we move on, he gives me a soulful look. 

           The Rodrigues fruit bat is another species in danger. These bats roost together during the day, but during the night they disperse and seek out the juice of ripe fruit such as mangoes and figs. Contrary to popular folklore, they do not suck blood. They are also endangered, of course. 

           At first, they're difficult to spot, but I can tell the moment that Theo sees his first fruit bat. It is a sight to see as he slowly opens his large wings to stretch. 

           "Are bats like birds?" he asks.

           The easy answer is best. "Well, they can fly like birds."

 

       We figure one more "special animal," before we move on. All the White Faced Saki Monkeys don't have white faces, only the boy monkeys. They are usually calm and quiet until they aren't. They can puff up their fur and bounce up and down on branches when they're doing their territorial call. They live in South America.  

              

           It's time to go and we begin to head toward the door, but Theo squirms in Dan's arms and manages to drop to the floor.  

 

           "Theo, what is it?"

           Theo is a cat of few meows. He looks over at the White Faced Saki Monkeys. "We need to save them, see?"

           Now I get it. He thinks these Saki Monkeys are literally the last ones . . . I turn to Dan and squinch up my face. How do you explain to Theo that the problem of endangered species is much bigger than saving one family of White Faced Saki Monkeys? 

           As we ponder our dilemma, Theo moves over to their cage. He cases the joint, looking for a way to jump up. He sniffs every nook and cranny. 

           "These monkey are safe," we say. "But other Saki monkeys need some help."

  

           He shoots us that look, the kind that teenagers give their parents when they think they're full of it. I expect him to meow, "Whatever."

          "We can send food." (Make a donation.)

          Dan hoists Theo up so he can get closer, and he presses his face against the glass. 

          We leave the building with mixed feelings. On the one hand we're so proud that our furry boy cares. On the other hand, the three of us wish we could do more.

           Later, back at home, I wax philosophical at Theo. "We know what's going on. Now we can let other people know."

           "It's not fair, see?"

           And Theo is absolutely right.

           

             

Chuck or Mico--Be Still My Heart

     Okay. I'm not crazy. I know that my beloved Chuck, the official rascal cat of this blog, passed away a few months ago. He had an inoperable tumor. I was there when they put him to sleep. There are so many moments when I remember those final weeks and months. He wasn't his usual self. He had trouble climbing the stairs. He slept more than usual. He was eating less. All signs that he was slowly getting weaker. 

Chuck in his better days

     I've lived with a lot of cats. They each had a different personality. Like people, some are more lovable than others. When I adopted Chuck (and his sister Ella), he was my first orange and white cat. Big personality. Mischievous. Eternally curious. 

     I remember one day when he disappeared for close to an hour. He was in the backyard one minute and gone the next. Ella waited for his return by the patio door. Patiently. I was about to send out the search party (ie. look for him myself) when he scampered back into the yard. 

     Before I could react, Ella marched up and smacked him across the face. She angrily meowed. Chuck hung his head in shame. Later I found out he'd discovered a catmint garden a few houses down. Let's just say he came back slightly buzzed. 

     But that was Chuck.

     All of this is a necessary or unnecessary preamble to what I'm about to report. Of course, losing Chuck hit me hard. He was a one of a kind cat. Or so I thought.

     Imagine a cool morning sunrise. I stumble out of bed and make my way downstairs to feed the cats. There, sleeping on a blue blanket on my sofa, is Chuck. He's curled up and looking so cute. For a moment I forget that Chuck is gone. I am in a blissful non aware state. Until his eyes open. Golden brown eyes stare at me.

      Reality hits me. They're not Chuck's eyes. 

       It's Michelangelo. Mico for short. Barely a year old. Sometimes it seems as if Chuck has been reincarnated into my orange and white Mico. He has so many of the same mannerisms--playful, big personality, curious, active, mischievous . . . 

Chuck 

      

Mico - Can you tell the difference?

       But there's a difference. I lived with Chuck for fourteen years. I could sweep him into my arms, hug him to death, kiss his face and he tolerated all of it. When he settled into my lap, it felt like heaven. 

My darling boy

       Mico has only lived here for a few months. Because he was once feral, he has a hard time trusting. I can hold him for, maybe, ten seconds before he squirms to get away. if I try to kiss his face, he reacts as if I'm about to smother him to death. 

       I can hear what you're thinking. Life moves on. Change happens. Chuck is gone but you're really lucky to have Mico. I know all of this. 

       But still, in the quiet of the morning, I'd love to wake up and find that nothing has changed. Chuck is still there--wandering in a circle, waiting for his breakfast, waiting to be let outside on the patio so he can hear the bluejays squawk and watch the squirrels take suicidal leaps from one branch to the next. 

       All I'm saying is that I'd love to have Chuck back again . . . if only for a day. 

Behind the Scenes - A Birthday Surprise

     I first spot them conniving (?) discussing something in hushed meow whispers on the landing outside our bedroom. There-huddled-they seem from a distance to be engaged in deep plotting. Theo is surrounded by Mico and Sienna. As I move closer, they disburse, immediately involved in other pursuits. Sienna stretches on one of the smaller cat trees in the hall. Mico wanders, devil may care, into the guest room. Theo is the only one who stands his ground.

      At that moment I don't know that Theo even knows how to read a calendar or even what a calendar was. He's a gangster cat of few words and the word calendar in English or Italian (yes, we speak a lot of Italian in our house) never springs from his lips.

       So, how does he know that a certain birthday is on the horizon? Is he pretending to be asleep but really eavesdropping on conversations?

        Birthdays are pretty special at our house. We plan an event. We go out to dinner. Sometimes we stretch the day to a weekend and call it a Birthday Weekend Celebration. 

        But, even so, I'm not particularly suspicious. Usually when the three of them gather on the landing, it's because they're hoping to crack us. Theo meows, a soft pitiful cry, that will convince anyone to do anything. SNACKS. That's what the cry is all about. Yeah, he may be a ruthless gangster cat who struts around on little cat feet with a swagger, but he can't live without his snacks. And the landing is directly outside the guest room, which the three of them have taken over and made the cat room. They know where the snacks are. They know three small glass bowls wait empty near the cat tree. 

        "It's only ten o'clock," I announce, "in the morning. You just had breakfast. You know the rule."

       But, honestly, there is no rule. The giving of snacks in our house is arbitrary. Dan is an easy target. He will cave to Theo's first meow. I'm tougher. Well, a little tougher.  So, I'm fooled initially. 

        Here is the video of that encounter. You tell me if they don't look oh so innocent.

       Only later do I notice something odd happening. On any given day the house is scattered with toys. Cat toys. Mice and anything else that even resembles cat prey are in every room, on every floor, in every doorway. They litter the stairs. They are on the master bed. They are even on bathroom counters. 

        Slowly, but surely, they start to disappear. Sure, I pick them up and return them to the cat basket. This disappearance of cat toys is different. It's done stealthily. If you blink, a toy will disappear. 

         You might think I'm exaggerating, but I'm a verified eye witness to the cat toy disappearance. Notice Sienna, the spy like way she's hiding herself under the drape, the tell-tale paw and the toy object before it disappears.

         

          What's going on? 

          Days slip by and more and more cat toys disappear. I'll catch Mico posed next to one of his favorite toys, and then nothing. Mico poses alone.

          I ask Dan, "What do you think is going on?"

          He looks at me as if I'm the crazy one. "Going on?"

          "Where are all the cat toys?"

          But he's busy reading his article for Italian class or practicing Bach on the piano. "Do we even have cat toys?" he finally asks.

          I resort to desperate measures. Interrogation of the third degree. I use the flashlight on my iPhone and shine it directly into the eyes of the gang of three. "Where are the toys?" 

          The three fur babies stand firm.

          Finally, in a gush of desperation, I peer under the guest bed with my flashlight. There carefully piled into an old basket, like some offering to the gods, are all the toys that no longer litter our house. 

         "Hey, what's this?" I ask Theo. Then Sienna. Then Mico. 

          My three rapscallions circle around, but no one says a meow. I'm on my stomach with the light from my cell phone. Gosh, now I see it. A bow drapes triumphantly across the basket of toys reading Celebration.

          A birthday surprise gift of all the fake mice they carry around and pretend to annihilate? Or are they just cleaning up the house to make mom happy? 

          I'll never know.

           

Theo versus the Rooster

       How do I even begin to tell this story?

     Gangster cat versus Rooster. Theo, our adorable gangster cat is king of the household. His meow is final. And that was even before he met up with Bad Boy JoJo at the baby shower. Although Mico and Sienna can be terrors at times, they know that when Theo meows, the fun is over. He can't be ignored. They stop what they're doing. 

       But out in the real world, would Theo continue to reign supreme?

       A few weeks ago, when Theo came with me and my three sisters to visit my other sister--who lives in a former Amish home that she's been renovating for the past year in Virginia--Theo had two goals. To meet JoJo (which he did) and to meet a rooster face to face.

       This was totally my fault. I happened to mention that my sister Caroline had chickens and a rooster. 

       The inside house tour came first. We oohed and ahhed as we walked through her house, marveling that she and her husband had installed walls, added electricity and water, heating and cooling, and literally transformed the space into a work of art.  My sister Caroline loves plants, and they lined the windows. She had clippings in a specially designed wall hanging.

       

          Theo ho-hummed his way through the first and second floors. He exchanged pleasantries with his two cat cousins, but he seemed unusually interested in her small sitting area. The pillows had the imprint of roosters. That's all Theo needed to see. 

         He was eager to get outside. He wanted to meet the Rooster. 

         I continue to marvel at how Theo knows so much about things he's never before encountered. Where we live in New Jersey, not too many people have chickens in their back yard. Few have a rooster. So why was he so determined to meet a Rooster? Was this destined to be an all out struggle for species dominance?

         So I did my research. Modern Farmer did a wonderful expose on the difference between a hen and a rooster. 

        A hen lays eggs. A rooster doesn't. A rooster has a larger wattle, that elongated fleshy skin that hangs under the beak. A rooster also has a more pronounced comb, that fleshy red crest on top of a chicken's head. A rooster has larger and pointier neck feathers called hackle feathers. So far I'm not concerned, but the contrast soon becomes alarming.

       Roosters are stronger and have more stamina than hens. They are more assertive. Bossy. Their legs are thicker. Some roosters develop pointed sharp spurs on their legs which they can use to defend themselves.

       "Where is this rooster anyway?" I ask my sister Caroline.

       "What do you mean? He's with the hens."

        "In a fenced in area?" I ask. I hope.

        She laughs. "Oh, yeah. If he wasn't fenced in, he'd probably run away."

        I glance over at Theo. He's swaggering with us across her gigantic yard (she has acres and acres of land). Is this a good idea? Should I give in to this crazy idea that he has to meet a Rooster?

        Suddenly, Theo spots a groundhog running along the edge of my sister's property. The little guy is running around 100 miles an hour. I half pray that Theo takes off after him. Theo is fast, but not that fast. Maybe then he'll lose interest in the rooster.

        But no such luck. Theo is interested, but he's no fool. He shrugs his shoulders and turns his sights to one thing and one thing only--the chicken coop. The rooster.

        I feel like we're at the OK Corral and this is going to be a showdown. 

        As we move closer, we hear the tell-tale cock-a doodle-do. And he's loud. All riled up about something. His rooster call is deafening.

         Finally, we're there. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see the fence. But then I see the Rooster . . .

        

       who has puffed himself up, as if ready for a life and death encounter. Theo oh so casually moves closer to the fence. 

         Is Theo safe? "Don't get any closer," I almost cry out. But I don't. Theo goes nose to beak with the rooster and begins to sniff. The rooster stops squawking. 

         Then Theo walks away. 

         That's it? No life and death struggle? 

         Don't tell me that this is another example of inter-species communication. Cats and Roosters? 

         "I had to do it, see?" Theo explains when we're safely back in New Jersey. No chickens. No roosters. But seriously, who is this cat anyway?

  

Three Rapscallions And the Partial Eclipse

    I'm a big fan of eclipses. I've never yet seen a total eclipse--where the world around you turns totally dark--but I never miss the chance to see what I can see when the fateful moon lands in front of the heavenly sun. The area you're standing in darkens. You look up and that usually round sun is no longer round--now it has taken on the properties of a partial moon--that tiny sliver that sits so confidently in the sky.

     It's exciting. It's magical. Even though I know it's science, pure and simple. Back in the day my dad, an electrical engineer, ran a company to market his products, his inventions. Some of those electrical trancells and diodes ended up on NASA rocket ships. I have a fond memory of sitting in our living room, staring at the tiny television screen, when Neil Armstrong, an American astronaut, landed on the moon. I felt proud. My dad was helping make that possible.

     So I've always been infatuated with the planets, the moon and those things we strive to understand more about. And, yeah, I guess I did my fair share of talking about the eclipse.

     The three rapscallions, who usually only seem to be listening when there is talk of a snack, must have been tuned in. Because . . . just as the eclipse was launching a show, the three of them lined up at the patio door to look outside. Theo, Mico, and Sienna, the three rapscallions.

      I'd warned them they weren't going to see a full eclipse. I told them that New Jersey was not in the pathway that ran from Texas to Maine.  Still . . .

      Was it pure coincidence that they were lined up as if I were giving out snacks, patiently waiting, looking out over our patio and then up . . . 

       Clouds rolled in, but they didn't obscure the beauty of the moment. You could see the sun--that unusual sliver of the sun--as it fought to maintain its presence in the sky. The moon continued to move in front of it, but the sun fought valiantly to shine through. And then it faded from sight.

        

       Later, when the sun reappeared, I asked Theo why they wanted to see a partial eclipse. He's a pure tabby of few words. First, he jumped onto a table and glanced out the window. "I had to do it, see?"

        I understood exactly what he meant. 

Bad Boy JoJo and the Play Gym

      T he news thrills us! My niece Leah is having a baby. We can't wait (my sisters and I) to drive down to North Carolina to go to her baby shower. 

     Baby showers are the best! All those cute outfits--miniature golf attire or baseball caps--yes, she's having a boy--inspire a room full of ooohs and aaahhs. 

     At first, I don't even think of bringing Theo along. After all--baby shower? And truth be told, he has no interest in miniature outfits or ooohing and aaahhing anyone. But he knew that besides Leah and Michael (and the baby), there are three other meows that live there--Vera, Plum and JoJo. Theo has no interest in the girls. But he desperately wanted to meet JoJo face to face.

    He'd heard things. JoJo is what we call a bad boy. Always into trouble. The day of the shower was no exception--knocking things over, disappearing with whatever was put out for company. Finally, my sister Caroline had to put JoJo under lock and key. A time out. 

    "Are you sure you want Theo to meet JoJo?" Leah asked. "He's a real handful and who knows what could happen."

    I considered. Could one meeting with a bad boy cat change Theo's personality? Yeah, we call Theo the gangster cat, but he's as sweet as pie. 

     Be positive. So there we are arriving at my niece's house. The three of us. Oh, excuse me. The four of us. Three humans and a cat.

      The food is delicious. Games are designed--guess how many M&Ms are in the baby bottle and design a block for the baby to play with. 

       

And while I keep busy, Theo sulks. He keeps giving me the stink eye. He wants to meet JoJo. He marches up and down their  stairs, then finally settles down. (This is Theo's version of the events later relayed to Mico and Sienna.) 

       

 

      Finally, JoJo is let out. Theo has just come down the stairs for a snack when JoJo appears in all his glory at the top of the stairs. 

          I could tell you that the room gasps. But that wouldn't be true. Everyone is so into the shower, no one notices JoJo being let out. 

       Except Theo, of course.

       

           And there they are--sniffing and eyeing each other up. They disappear up the stairs for a moment, and I can't help but think they are hatching some kind of plot to overthrow the baby shower. Now, I feel partially responsible and rush up the stairs. The two of them are huddled together in the nursery. The new baby play gym  is turned completely upside down.

          "What happened here?" I demand.

           JoJo doesn't say a meow.

           Theo meows very softly, "I had to do it, see?"

           "Had to do what, Theo?"

           The plot slowly unravels. JoJo has talked Theo into climbing into the new baby play gym. JoJo figures if Theo (all ten pounds of him) can fit into the gym, the baby can too. 

           "That's when it tipped over?"

           I quickly upright it. 

           "Is everything okay up here?" Leah has suddenly appeared like magic in the doorway.

          I can turn the both of them in, but why spoil my lovely niece's baby shower. 

          "Oh, yeah. The boys are bonding. And JoJo is telling Theo all about the baby."

          Leah smiles. "Good boy, JoJo."

          When she's gone, I rush over and wipe the gym clean of all Theo's cat hair. "Stay out of that baby gym. I'm surprised at you. You could have been the hero here."

          Theo rolls his big eyes. "Mom, you don't understand. I had to do it, see? JoJo pressure."

           

          

           

Mico and The Drain Stoppers

      We've never lived with a cat like Mico. He's cute as a button, faster than a speeding bullet as he careens around corners, and as wily as a fox. He looks like an angel when he's sleeping. When he's awake, this perky one year old rapscallion is always hatching a plot--to secure more snacks or more toys.

       Well, the truth is everything Mico sees or smells is a toy. 

        After Theo solves the missing mouthguard case, Dan and I put ourselves on high alert. 

        "We can't leave anything out."

         "Absolutely nothing."

         "Agreed."

        We think we're smart. We have the immediate situation under control. But then the unthinkable happens. Two drain stoppers in two different sinks upstairs disappear. Drain stoppers? To explain how mysterious this is (by this time we have a sinking feeling in the pit of our stomach--no pun intended--that Mico, that dextrous nymph is somehow involved) you must realize that Mico must have taken his two front paws, brought them together and lifted the stopper out of the hole that it sits while balancing himself in the sink.  

        We canvas the entire house. All the usual haunts--under beds and behind dressers. We check, of course, the stairs where Theo found the mouthguard.

       No drain stoppers. Nothing is ever easy.

        Every time I use the upstairs bathrooms, I feel sick inside. It's an eyesore. The sink drain sits there, totally exposed. 

       Finally, in desperation, we discuss in whispers how to solve the problem. 

       "What can we offer Theo to get him to help?" Dan asks.

       "Maybe we can sit him down and just ask him."

        Dan laughs. But it works. Theo, within a matter of seconds, finds the missing drain stopper for the hall bathroom. I feel so grateful I let him eat a Tuna and Scallop Churo all by himself. 

         Practically on hands and knees, we beseech Theo to find the other drain stopper. The one for the master bathroom. Theo shrugs. 

         Days go by. No drain stopper. We imagine that Theo is engaged in intense negotiations with Mico, trying to discover where he's hidden it. 

         Three mornings later I'm in the kitchen putting out three bowls of food, but only Theo is pacing back and forth, slipping between my legs, impatient for his food. 

         Where are Sienna and Mico? We check all the rooms, under all the beds, in the closets . . . and finally turn to Theo, who by this time has eaten his breakfast.

         "We give up. Where are they?"

         His eyes get bigger than usual.

         "With the drain stopper," I guess, half kidding.

         Theo leads us up the stairs, down the hallway and stops at the hall bathroom. He nods. "I had to do it, see?"

        We look in. The room is totally empty. Except . . .

         "You don't think . . ." We whisk the shower curtain aside. Two guilty kittens stare back at us. Sienna and Mico. 

          And behind Mico--the drain stopper.

          Theo explains, "I told them it was today. See? When I was going to turn them in."

          I grab the drain stopper. Sienna is watching me. Mico is pouting in the bathtub, refusing to come out.

 

        Then it hits me--I've got the stopper, but I can't put it back in the drain where it belongs--Mico will take it again. So, in the drawer it goes. And the sink drain sits there, STILL totally exposed. 

         But we relent. Days later we reinsert the drain stopper with a new plan. Push the button to make sure it is lying flat in the sink. Then pour water over it so Mico will have to wet his paws to even get near it.

         Self satisfied that we've solved the problem, we relax. But . . . one day someone forgets to push down the stopper and put the water on top of it. 

          Yeah, Mico strikes again. This time Theo says, "Mom . . ." So now we have one drain stopper in the drawer and one drain stopper who knows where . . . 

           If Mico wasn't so cute . . .