Betsy: 2007: The Year of The Cat

I have long been a cat lover. I have also suffered the stigma of living alone with a cat. My friends teasingly have called me "The Crazy Cat Lady" for a long time. I always thought that was an unfair stigma. If I had a dog, no one would comment. I also only had ONE cat, hardly warranting a label of "crazy." During the summer of 2007, I decided to take on that name with pride, if only temporarily. 2007 will forever be known as THE YEAR OF THE CAT. Here is my story.

One lovely afternoon in May my dear mother called me. "Oh, Bets. There is this wonderful kitty who is homeless that is hanging around the house. She is orange and white and has long fluffy hair. She's tiny and sweet as pie. You should totally take her." At this point in the conversation, I was pondering both how Kashmir would react, and also how my friends would react. Could I handle two cats in 1187 square feet of living space? I would have to meet the kitty cat to decide. I headed home that weekend. So despite years of personal development, I have still turned into my mother (this is on a magnet on my fridge). Jane was right. The cat was stinkin' precious. She was lovey dovey, a purrer, and loved to be held. She was the antithesis of aloof puss Kashmir. "This cat must be mine, " I proclaimed. I stuffed that kitty cat right into a pet taxi, and we headed home.

Now I wish I could say Kashmir welcomed her with open paws. Such was not the case. There was hissing, there was swatting and there was some serious catterwalling. Kashmir was pissed. Tufts of feline fur rolled like tumbleweeds along my hardwood floors as they romped and rolled through the house. At 3 a.m. Things were not fun. However, I was determined to keep Mimosa, as she had been named. They would be friends, dammit. I was certain of it. Weeks went by, and the brawls continued, interspersed with bouts of silence and stand offs. I kept thinking I had to get that cat to the vet, but it was summer and I had a lot going on, what with not working and having standing pilates appointments and dates with InStyle magazines. Let's just say I was busy.

Fast forward a few more weeks. Was Mimosa getting fat? Her hips look wider, I thought. She's like twice the size that she was when I brought her home. I see her up at night, eating things like pickles and ice cream, and damn, she seems a bit irritable. WHAT??????? Oh, dear lord, my cat is knocked up! The realization hit me like a ton of bricks. CRAP! I thought of "taking care of the problem." Perhaps Johnny knows a doctor who will be in town for just a few days, and he has a folding table and a dirty knife. NO, NO, NO. This wasn't Dirty Dancing, and being Catholic and all, kitten disposal was not really an option. No, we were going to have these kittens. Mimosa may be unemployed and unwed, but she does have the support of her mother (me). We can do this, we don't need no stinkin' men. That's what I told her, even though I was crying inside. I had to be strong for my cat, you see.

Mim's next few weeks were cake. Once I knew she was preggers, and I called her a loose skank a few times, proclaiming my disappointment in her lack of self-control, I started treating her like a queen. She got lots of meow treats and didn't have to do any heavy lifting. She slept about 23 hours a day, up from her usual 22. I looked up information via the interweb, and prepared a whelping box, for birthing. I had no idea how far along she was, so I just watched her each day, and waited. As I waited, my fears grew and grew. What if Mim is not having kittens? What if she was victimized by a band of mad raccoons? My fears became irrational, and my patience waned.

On the day of delivery, I was actually not home. My brother was staying at my house with his girlfriend, and he called me in a panic. "Betsy, my god, get home quick. Mim's in labor!!!!!" When I got home, Rob's account was simple: "Damn cat jumped up on the bed, made a horrible noise, bit me, then ran off." This clearly meant she was in labor, yet she was not in her perfectly Martha Stewart-prepared whelping box. Where the f was the cat? Rob and I split up and scoured my enormous home. We eventually located the cat UNDER THE KITCHEN SINK, WRITHING AND HISSING AMIDST BOTTLE OF CLOROX AND PALMOLIVE. We cleared out the toxic chemicals and made more room for the birthing queen. Now remember, neither one of us had any formal cat delivery training. I couldn't afford Lamaze for Mim, due to my InStyle subscription and love of Starbucks. Yes, we would have to do this on our own.

"Boil some water and tear up some sheets, "I commanded to Rob. "Put a knife under her, it cuts the pain in two." All my birthing knowledge came from Gone with the Wind and Little House on the Prairie. It turns out cats can give birth on their own. Humans don't really have to do anything. As soon as one popped out, she would lick it clean and then it would lay there like a dead rat. Rob and I would scoot it up next to her for warmth. The whole process took about 2 hours. 2 hours later, I was the owner of 6, count 'em, 6 cats. Mimosa was the proud mother of 4 kittens. It could have been worse. She could have had 12. I was actually a bit relieved.

The next 8 weeks were busy. Kashmir was even more annoyed. I became that weird woman asking random people if they wanted a free kitten. That was awkward. I'm proud to say that the Betsy Adoption Agency placed all 4 of those kittens in good homes. I knew everyone personally who adopted, so I knew they weren't going to be fed to snakes. By the time I returned to school that fall, I was back to 1 cat. Mimosa headed back to my parents' to be an outdoor kitty, since she really never adjusted to indoor life. Louie, Bella, Mulligan and Indy are all leading happy lives, and now I'm back to being the Crazy Cat Lady, with a great story to tell.

*this blog entry is endorsed by the Bob Barker Society for Spaying/Neutering your pets