Deck the Hall With Kitties

All my furry friends and a Christmas tale

I’ve had at least one cat from the time I was 28 and working as an Assistant District Attorney in Georgia. When you’re never sure what time you’re coming home - depending on witness interviews or going to crime scenes - it seems kinder to have a pet that doesn’t require frequent walks outside.

I lived in a third floor walk up in the Historic District with an enclosed stairwell so I kept my eyes open, and asked local vets to do the same, for a cat or kitten who would need to stay inside. I’ve always loved long haired gray cats, and sure enough, that’s what I got.

The veterinarian called to let me know he’d just had to take a back leg off of a cat. A beautiful Maine Coon cat, long gray hair and solemn yellow eyes. The owner said that the leg had been caught in a trap outside, but the vet could tell the leg had been shot off and suspected the boyfriend who’d come in with the owner. He made no bones about hating cats. The vet said he’d report them to the police or they could leave the cat with him, their choice. Yay for heroic vets, right?

I named her Maudie. She was terrified of men and would run through the apartment - she was speedy, even with three legs - into the kitchen, where she’d claw open the door to the cabinet under the sink and sit inside until the company left. Her nickname, of course, was Tripod.

She flew with me to Germany and lived in my two BOQs in Berlin - Bachelor Officer Quarters, a two bedroom apartment - then my little house in Schopp outside of Kaiserslautern, and finally in my third of a converted old three story school in Belgium. She was pretty mellow by this point, so I’d let her go into the backyard to look around while I was at home.

She managed to track and kill a mouse, and was SO PROUD. At least, I think she was. She brought it inside and laid it on the middle of the tiled hallway, where I stepped on it while wandering to the bathroom at Oh Dark Thirty and screamed my head off then scolded her. I should have said, Maudie, THANK YOU for bringing me your mouse, you great hunter, you.

After we returned back to the US, I was in another apartment on the second floor. Not as large as my place in Belgium, but it was only for a year until my seven year Army obligation ended. We planned to move to New Zealand after that. Then I found out NZ required a six month quarantine for my baby and I couldn’t do that to her. She was still shy and skittish around other people.

Another Captain who’d just lost a cat to feline AIDS kindly agreed to give Maudie a great home. I could barely leave her apartment, my husband had to pull me out of the door. My friend thought I was kidding about Maudie’s favorite place to sleep - then e-mailed me to say “You’re right. She really does like to sleep on my dirty military uniforms.” But of course. Dirty, soft clothes with a BDU pattern - perfect for a military cat.

Maudie, wherever you are now, I hope you know how much I loved you and how much I regret that I didn’t give you your moment with the mouse.

Yes, I am going to have quite a congregation of cats at the Rainbow Bridge, I hope.

While in New Zealand, we bought a Burmese kitten and then a beautiful calico stray I named Lovey found me. We flew both of them to Germany when I moved back for work. One night around Christmas our second year Lovey fell over on her side and died. I was inconsolable. My sweet husband went out under cover of darkness to dig a grave for her in the frozen ground under a shrub in our backyard.. You aren’t allowed to bury your pets in your yard in Germany, but I could barely stand it when the vet’s tech told me that they’d keep ‘it’ with the rest of them in the freezer, then burn them all in the Spring. Not my Lovey, she deserved better.

We lost another cat, Sumner, a Norwegian Forest cat we found in Germany after Lovey died, to kidney disease. We flew Dixie and Sumner back to the US with us. Sumner was a sweet, adorable cat with very fine fur that matted badly. We had to shave her every other year and she loved it. So much cooler in Georgia in the summer. The vet left her ruff and little go-go boots on her legs and I swear that cat PRANCED, she felt so beautiful when naked.

Then we lost Dixie, our Burmese, affectionately known as the Brown Bomber to old age. She made it to 19. A sad day indeed, we’d gotten her in New Zealand one year after we married, so losing her was a real blow. She’d completely bonded with my husband in New Zealand, even though we’d gotten her to keep me from being so lonely while he was at work. You could put her on the floor and spin her like a top, and he taught her to fetch. Throw a balled up piece of paper anywhere, and she’d track it and do geometry in her smart head to figure out how to get to the thing. She’d also leap up and stand on the ledge top of the doors.

ANYWAY - I am leading up to my Christmas cat. Bear with me, we’re getting there. Just didn’t want the others to feel left out or like I’d forgotten them. As if.

After Sumner died, we got our first Siberian, Alfred. Our (at the time) 17 year old Dixie had trouble adjusting to a clumsy tom kitten, but they managed. Dixie had excellent manners - and also whipped the little guy into shape fairly quickly.

After Dixie died, we went back to the same breeder. She had two little Siberian girl kittens, from different litters, but totally bonded. The one she’d saved for us was Newt - we named her for the little girl in Aliens, she had very suspicious eyes - and she asked us to take the other little girl for no extra charge. She couldn’t bear to separate them.

Huh. We’d never had THREE cats before. That’s one beyond let’s-have-two- so-they -won’t-be-lonely and rapidly approaching cat lady territory. Nevertheless, we took them both. And named the second one Frankie.

Frankie bonded with Alfred immediately. She still played with Newt, but Alfred was her King. She ran him crazy, and stood up to him even as a tiny kitten.

LIke peas and carrots, Alfred and Frankie. And Newt also got in on the action, especially in the winter when they piled together to keep warm. The last picture has all three, you might have to enlarge it and count heads.

Unbeknownst to the breeder, the borrowed Russian sire for Frankie’s litter infected all of the kittens with Feline Infectious Peritonitis, FIP. We had to put Frankie down at 3 and a half years old to avoid further suffering. First she developed dry ocular problems that we’d hoped weren’t connected, then it progressed to ‘wet’ FIP, which affected her internally. We called the breeder to tell her, but she already knew. She’d forgotten that she’d given Frankie to us when we got Newt, so she hadn’t notified us when the other cats started dying.

I was SO ANGRY. I whined to my husband, if we’d known earlier maybe we could have started her on an experimental treatment or started medicine earlier to prolong her life. My husband had a better handle on things - he said he was glad we DIDN’T know so that we could enjoy Frankie and she could live her life without being poked and overprotected when there’s no cure for the damn thing. Frankie got to be Frankie and he’d rather have had her for three years than not at all.

Color me ashamed. And impressed. My anxiety sometimes means I don’t want to try things that might go badly, or take a chance when I don’t know the outcome. Worry does weird things to your brain. I’ve never gone skydiving - the plane might lose an engine, we might crash, my chute might not open, I might break an ankle when I land, I might need to use the bathroom on the plane after I’m all zipped up, yada, yada, yada. Most people would think these things briefly, then figure the odds and go for it. I don’t play the odds. And I missed out on a lot, I think.

But upon reflection, he’s right. I’m glad we had her, even if it wasn’t as long as I would have liked. And I’m glad I didn’t know up front when the breeder offered her - because I would never have taken her on and so never gotten to love and enjoy Frankie for those three years. She had a GREAT life with us, no doubt. Or should that be a great life with Uncle Alfred?

I am not sure I believe in reincarnation - I’m not sure what I believe about a LOT of things these days - but I asked Frankie to come back if she could, or to help me find another cat who would comfort me and help fill the gap in our human and cat family.

So we’ve finally arrived at our Christmas cat story. I cried a lot that first month, then my husband said he missed having three cats. Two cats gave us one each - although Alfred and Newt made no secret they preferred him to me - but three cats felt like a family. I started to look, but my heart wasn’t in it.

Then I spotted a tiny, bodacious kitten, all eyes, legs and attitude. She leapt straight into my heart, I couldn’t believe it. I called my husband in to see, and he was doubtful we’d found another family member that quickly - but had to admit she had moxie. We found her photo on the Cashiers-Highlands Humane Society website - a five and a half hour drive from our home.

I called, filled out the questionnaire then sent a donation so they’d hold her for me. Her name at the shelter was Nyx, she’d been found next to a dumpster in Cashiers with her brother, Knox, abandoned by a feral mother. The shelter worker kindly told me that they could hold her one week. When I couldn’t get away the first week, I made a donation again to be SURE she’d be there, even though the same worker told me that most black cats don’t get adopted.

She’s not black, she’s a tuxedo with a heart shaped spot of white on her forehead, and a little white mark over her mouth like lipstick. Or as my neighbor says, buck teeth or a moustache. I couldn’t believe that dozens of people weren’t beating down the shelter door for this adorable kitten, so we loaded up two days later to drive to my parents’ house. They lived an hour from Cashiers. We spent the night with them, then headed to Cashiers early the next day.

December 18 was cold, crisp and clear. The sun rose over the NC mountains, pink with tendrils of clouds. Finally, we arrived at the most perfect shelter I’ve ever seen - two clean buildings out in the pristine woods and about 15 outside dog shelters with runs. As we drove up the driveway, the hounds bayed and ran excitedly next to the fence.

When we arrived at the cat house - literally - the parking lot was full of people dressed in Christmas costumes - elves, candy canes, Mrs. Claus - with leashes and a float. We’d managed to hit the day of the Christmas parade and all the volunteers were there to walk with the dogs down the main street of town. We were in a Hallmark movie with the nicest, cheeriest people you’d ever want to meet. They directed us inside and said the worker left behind to meet us would take care of everything.

When we walked in the door, we were in a dark green waiting room with a HUGE framed photograph of a striped yellow tabby. The lady saw me looking, and said that’s Ernie. His mistress left us a ton of money in her Will, so we built this shelter building and he has pride of place. Wait right here, I’ll bring Nyx out so you can see if you get along.

She opened a door and I could hear lots of little mews and comforting human voices. It was feeding time, and more importantly, socialization time to get them used to humans. Back she came with a tiny little ball of fur with sharp claws and little teeth. Nyx was a firecracker, she didn’t want to be held and petted. She wanted to climb up my shoulder and down my back. I caught her again as she was laddering my Christmas plaid turtleneck and said, Yes, we’re taking her.

The lady gifted us with a large light cage for the car, and some bowls of food and water. I put a fleecy from home in the bottom, then made her comfortable as we started off, first stopping at my parents to say our goodbyes. And show her off a little. ;)

When we were almost home, I looked back to see her leaning against the bars and making little noises of distress. We stopped and I got in the back seat and put my fingers through the cage so she could smell them. She looked SO SAD. I asked my husband if I could take her out if I was very careful not to lose her - you don’t want a little kitten running under the brakes or gas pedal. I gingerly took her out, but she was so tired she just folded herself under my chin, purred heavily and went to sleep. She didn’t leave my side for three days, I slept in the spare room with her while the other two cats prowled outside.

We’re completely bonded. She sits in my lap every morning while I have my tea, and sleeps at the foot of the bed on her fleecy. She likes for me to stroke her stomach while she’s eating. Whoever socialized her as a foster did a fabulous job. She thinks the Christmas tree is her personal cat toy. She’s perfect.

Best. Christmas. Present. EVER!

Thank you, Frankie.