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. 

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 . . .

         

         

        

         

          

The Case of the Missing Mouthguard

        We rely on Theo to keep order at home. He is the oldest of our three cats. In the beginning, Theo was not overly fond of Mico and Sienna. They arrived with some strong feral tendencies. Theo saw them as intruders on his space, his home.

      Theo was tutored by Chuck, the original rascal cat. But he had to establish his own identity. The title "gangster cat" is no accident. He proved he was more than capable of dealing with the two wild ones.

      

 

         Case in point--it is early, very early in the morning. Dan wakes up. It is still dark in our bedroom. Without thinking too much about it (and this is where he makes his BIG MISTAKE), he removes his professionally designed mouthguard and attempts to put it on the nightstand.

       He misses. The mouthguard falls to the floor. We hear it clatter on the hard wooden surface. 

       "Darn it." He reaches down to retrieve it. He feels around where he knows it fell. Gone. Vanished.

        Later we calculate that, perhaps, two seconds elapsed before he reached down for the mouthguard. Two seconds.

        We look everywhere. Lights are turned on. We're on our hands and knees looking under the bed, under the dresser, under the blankets even, doubting now whether we heard a clatter at all.

         An ugly thought pops into our collective consciousness. Michelangelo. Mico took it.

         But how is that possible?

         Slowly, we piece together what must have happened--Mico was under the bed (sleeping in the cat bed). He must have heard the clatter, immediately thought "I'm getting a new toy" and absconded with the mouthguard. 

         Eww. In his mouth. Geez.

         Now, the search expands--a full house search is initiated. First stop includes a thorough search of the guest room across the hall--under the bed--but no mouthguard.

         Time elapses. "We'll never find it," Dan mutters, clearly discouraged.

          We ask Sienna, Mico's sister, but she offers up no new information. 

         But, who wanders in--looking for breakfast. No, not Mico. Theo.

         "Hey, buddy. We need your help."

         A deal is offered--Theo will look for and hopefully find the mouthguard. We'll go downstairs immediately and make him a delicious breakfast.

        Theo hesitates.

        "And," I quickly add, "I'll give you a snack right this minute."

        Theo agrees. (I would have eventually offered the entire bag of Science Diet dried cat food if I had to.) 

        We start to tell Theo where we've already looked, but he's not interested. He eats his snack in one gulp and walks out into the hallway where he proceeds to groom. 

         "Look." I point at Theo with an accusatory finger. "The gangster cat is taking his own sweet time finding your mouthguard."

         "I think we've been scammed," Dan says. "He has no intention . . ."

         But we're wrong. Theo goes to the landing, looks down at the stairs that connect to the first floor, and starts going down. I'm about to call his name, when he stops, leans over and starts coming back up the stairs, carrying the gooey clear-colored mouthguard in his mouth. He drops it unceremoniously on the floor in front of us and saunters off. 

          We have two reactions. One--we're darned glad to have the mouthguard back. Two--we think Theo knew where that darned mouthguard was all the time.  

           But a deal is a deal. A magnificent breakfast is served. After all, he solved The Case of the Missing Mouthguard. And, of course, Mico is nowhere to be found.

Theo and the Devil's Bridge

     Call us crazy. Knowing what we now know, we would never take Theo with us. But . . . we figure Devil's Bridge in Antigua can't be that dangerous. After all, it's one of the recommended tourist attractions. If you hire a guide (like we do) for a tour of the island, you will almost certainly end up there. 

       It's famous. 

       All we know as we drive across the island is that Devil's Bridge is a natural formation. A sight to see. Our guide, an island native, assures us it is a sight not to be missed.

        "Theo, do you want to come with us?"

         Theo, with a wide eyed look on his face, shrugs. He doesn't seem all that interested, but he hops into the car, nevertheless.

          As we get closer and closer, we're treated to beautiful scenery. The water seems calm and peaceful. So far, so good. 

          Then we learn some interesting facts--that we shouldn't get too close because there is no jumping off the bridge located precariously near treacherous waves that beat against the rocks. There is no falling off the bridge. There is no slipping off the bridge. Because rescue is impossible.

          We learn that two Canadians disappeared--like totally gone and never seen again--at Devil's Bridge. We learn that people go there specifically if they don't want to come back. 

          We park some distance away and walk. We smell the sea. The sun is out. We feel the wind against our faces. But the water is no longer calm. It's angry. Aggressive even.

 

           "Keep an eye on Theo," I whisper to Dan.

           "Maybe we should have left him in the car."

            That suggestion begins to haunt me. It is slowly dawning on me that this place is dangerous in a weird sort of way. Don't get me wrong. We're not the only people here. Other tourists are milling around looking. Some have even left the less dangerous rock perch (which we're standing on) and have ventured further out--closer to the bridge of death (as I now imagine it.)

            There are no other animals in sight. No cats. No dogs. Even the birds seem to be giving this place a wide berth. 

            But everyone is standing around, talking, taking photos, even videos of this remarkable sight. 

            Theo hasn't left our side. But he is looking. The crashing waves can't be some kind of siren's call, can they? Remember, Theo is an odd cat. He doesn't dislike water. But, so far, he's being a good kid. 

 

         Dan decides that he can't get a good enough photo of the bridge. It is a bit mesmerizing when you stand there and watch the waves coming in and out. He ventures closer to the bridge. I keep my distance. The wet rocks are slippery. 

           I wish he wouldn't go out there. Bad thoughts spiral through me head. What if Dan slips and falls? No rescue. "Be careful," I shout, but he doesn't hear me. 

           Then I see it. Theo, who one minute is casually observing this treacherous bridge, decides--without saying a word or giving me any kind of warning--to follow Dan. He is literally teetering from one rock to the other as he makes his way closer to the crashing waves. Rocks that resemble volcanic rocks, an uneven surface replete with pits and holes.

         "Theo." 

          He doesn't hear me either. 

          This is not good. I see now that this is what people call a window of opportunity. Act now before it's too late. I follow, slip sliding over rocks that feels like glass.  

          Dan stops to take his video. Theo is moving closer to the end of the rock, the cliff. Sniffing. I cup my hands and shout as loud as I can. "Theo. Get Theo."

          But I am shouting into the wind, and my voice sounds like a whisper. Ten feet way, I estimate, and it hits me I might not get there in time. What if Theo runs away from me? What if he misjudges where the rocks end and infinity begins? What if he slips . . .

          Dan finishes his video and turns around. He sees Theo. A look of surprise flashes across his face. He takes a few steps and scoops Theo into his arms. He looks up.

          "Hey, what are you doing out here? It's kind of slippery."

          I have no words to express how I feel. I push the panic down deeper. And smile. 

          "He's quite a little adventurer, isn't he?" Dan marvels.

           "A real gangster," I reply as I take Theo from Dan. His fur feels like a wet ermine coat. 

           "Come on, you," I coo, so happy to have him safe and sound. At least for one more day.

           

          

          

          

          

Antiguan Adventure #1:Theo and the Grackle

             This is my third time visiting Antigua, a small Caribbean island, and Dan's first. I love the warm climate, blue skies, beautiful vistas, palm trees, infinity pool and beaches. Dan does too, but his obsession is to play tennis. Theo, the gangster cat,  . . . well,  I promise him sunny days on the veranda and lots of snacks. And, of course, an adventure.

         We arrive. The scenery is stunning. The ocean is so close you can smell it. The houses are pink, yellow, green and all shades bright and cheery. 

          Dan, as usual, shares some history of this delicious island with Theo. "Antigua was originally a British colony. The island was dotted with sugar plantations. The British also made rum. The native Antiguans who lived here, mostly slaves, had a terrible standard of living."

          We're not sure if Theo is listening. He's gazing out the window of the taxi, seemingly lost in thought. Is he more impressed by the beautiful scenery and less by the history of Antigua? 

       

          "Antigua gained its independence in 1981."

           Still, no response from Theo.

           "There are  365 beaches. Mostly all public beaches. And the island is only 108 square miles."  

            "That's a lot of beaches," I add. 

            Still, Theo hasn't said a meow. 

            We arrive at our villa and immediately change into our bathing suits. From our veranda, the lovely pool awaits.  The sun is shining. 

           "Come on, Theo." I figure what harm can he get into hanging out by the pool? Sure enough, he spots a lounge chair and hops up. 

            "Time for a nap," I suggest.

            I often wonder what the world looks like from a cat's point of view. As Dan and I admire the scenery and the architecture of the houses AND long to jump into the water, what is Theo thinking? 

            I glance over and he's closing his eyes, about to drift off. Purrfect. 

            Well, best laid plans. You know what they say. In our defense we are lulled by the Caribbean breezes and, perhaps, dulled by the two glasses of Rum punch that we find in our suite. The water is so refreshing after the usual nonsense plane ride that we lose ourselves in the moment.  

            A bird lands on the tile surrounding the pool. From a distance it looks brown with some purple plumage.  Could it be the Carib Grackle? I've heard things about this bird. Highly aggressive. Smart. They're excellent at foraging for insects on the ground and not above flying into restaurants and stealing food right off the tables. 

            I grab my iPhone and figure, if this bird is up to no good, I'm going to catch him in the act. 

            The problem is I'm so intent on capturing the video, I miss the possibilities. Theo. He sees the bird, too. His mouth opens, and I hear Theo making those sounds that cats make when they're envisioning a full course meal--ch, ch, ch. Suddenly he's sitting upright. His tail has fattened, and it's waving like mad. He's crouching. NO . . .

           Theo jumping off the lounge chair and lunging for the bird plays like a scene in a disaster movie. 

           "Stop," I scream.

            The bird doesn't even turn its head. But I suspect the so far innocent bird can sense danger coming its way. 

             Theo, our little gangster cat, is in mid air when the bird moves, an elegant side step that catches Theo unaware. Theo crash lands onto the very wet deserted tile and with so much momentum pushing him forward, begins to slide toward the edge of the pool. 

            I can see it all clearly. Theo careening into the waiting water. Splashing about. I can't think. Can cats swim? There's the doggy paddle, but what about cats? Theo actually likes water, but swimming?  

             "Get Theo."

             But, no, he doesn't slide into the pool. Later, when we discuss the incident, I ask Theo pointblank. "What were you planning to do?"

             Theo shrugs. "I only wanted to sniff him."

              I narrow my eyes. "You can not commit murder near the infinity pool."

              Theo shrugs. "I do what I have to do. See?"

               That is not the answer I'm hoping for. "I mean it, Theo."

               Dan interrupts, "You know the bird we saw near the pool--it  wasn't a Grackle. I think it was a pigeon."

               "What?"

              Little do I know, this eternal struggle between cat and bird will continue. See you next week for Part 2.

               

             

               

Cats--Only Kids in Disguise?

      It used to be so easy to go on vacation. It used to be so easy to leave them behind. Hire a cat sitter. Clean the liters. Leave detailed instructions. Arrange their food on the counter.  There were days when I left five furry cat babies behind. 

       Then, when Chuck traveled with us, we left three cats behind . . . and therein lies the problem. Not with Theo who knows the drill. 

        But . . . that we're planning to leave Mico and Sienna behind. 

        Because something strange has happened in the last few weeks. They have become less like cats and more like kids. It is as if they are reincarnated small kids who have somehow found their way into our cat's bodies. 

         Is it me? I don't think so. After all, I see plenty of evidence of this phenomena on Facebook: Cats dressed up in outfits (it used to be only dogs but now cats are wearing little jackets, booties and hats). Cats treated to spa days--wearing robes, getting massages, and having cucumbers placed on their eyes. Cats talking or they seem to have some kind of human voice that is projected onto the video as if the owner feels sorry for them and feels the need to turn their meows into words. 

          I can identify with treating your cats like kids, but I'm talking about when your cats actually start acting/looking like kids. 

         Here's my evidence:

         Sienna sleeps on our bed now and puts her head on our pillow. Just like a kid would. She hangs out by the stairs, listening into conversations just like we used to do--as kids. And she's always looking out the window to see if her friends are outside playing.

   

      Theo, the little gangster cat, pitifully moans or whines (like a kid in pain) when he wants more snacks. He's already put his toys on top of my suitcase for the trip. And his paws look more like fingers--kid's fingers.

        

          Mico uses his golden eyes. He trains them on you whenever he feels like he's not being treated with respect. He eats the plants as if they were candy, like a kid. And he sulks like a kid, sometimes hiding under the guest bed for hours. 

           Dan said, "Are you sure you really want to go?"

          "Are you kidding me?" (But I was thinking the same thing.)

          "I'm going to miss them."

          "Shsh. They'll hear you." I pause, wondering if this could be some elaborate plan on their part, orchestrated to make us feel guilty. Did Theo watch some program--how to act like a kid to get what you want?

          "Do you think they're acting this way on purpose?"

           "You mean like kids?"

            We stare at each other.  He gulps or I gulp. Why are they so darned cute? We both look back at the suitcases. Soon, we'll begin packing. 

            Then it happens. We walk into the guest room and find Sienna, all curled up and fast asleep--no, not on our master bed but on top of Dan's suitcase. 

             "Maybe we can take all three with us," Dan says as a solution. 

              For a minute, we both smile. Yes. But then reality reasserts itself. They're only cats. Not kids. Repeat after me. Cats. Not kids. Cats.

              Who are we kidding? These cats are our kids!!

             In honor of Chucky, the rascal cat. Gone but never forgotten. We miss him everyday.