The last diary I wrote was about Duke, the abandoned Tomcat who
adopted me and became my partner in building a foundry in our
backyard. He got sick last December and died in my lap on the
fourth day of January. He’s buried in his favorite dreaming spot
under a stone almost too heavy for me to bear, and on his grave
grows Forget-Me-Nots and Milkweed. I remember him every day.
This diary is about another Tomcat - Max, the Great Lion, and how
we rescued each other.
Max was born in 2004 in a space a little bigger than a shoe box
between the square bales in my mother’s hay barn. She showed
me the spot, and when I lifted the bale covering their nest, the
four kittens, with just opened eyes, all acted surprised. But one little
Tabby in particular reminded me of a bundle of fire crackers as he
obeyed the fight / flight instincts both at the same time. I put the
bale back, but that furry little fireball stuck in my memory.
It was about two weeks later when I came back to Mama’s farm.
As we walked out of the hay barn she bent over and picked up what I
thought was a clod of dirt. She held it up to her face, looked at the
tiny grubby little ball of Tabby fur, and observed that it had come out
into the Sun to die and probably would by tomorrow. My mother
has a deep affection for her cattle and her plants, but there isn’t
much left for sentimentality concerning barn cats; they come and go
with little notice taken. As we walked back to the house she
explained that the kitten’s mother had been run over on the farm-to-
market road and two of the kittens had been taken by something,
probably a coyote, then one had drowned after it fell into a water
trough. The fierce little Tabby was the last of his litter and he was
starving while being eaten alive by fleas. After we said our goodbyes
and before I headed back to Friendswood, I went back to barn,
picked up that little hopeless soul, and changed the course of both
our lives. (Mrs. RR reminds me that it’s three lives changed, while
Pixel murmurs “mmmr four”).
It was a two hour drive, and he put up a little fight at first, then
crawled under the seat of my old pickup to hide and await his
destiny. After about an hour he climbed into my lap, stretched out
and seemed resigned to his fate, what ever that might be. When
we got home, I called my wife from the driveway and told her I had
a present for her. She replied with firmness that it better not be
anything that had to be fed. I said nothing and went inside. She was
standing in the kitchen and had that look known to all experienced
husbands as a storm warning. I placed the little orphan into her
hands; she instinctively put it against her cheek and he made a little
broken purr sound. Her face changed to the one I fell in love with
and the bond was formed then and there.
The first order of business was to kill the fleas. They were so thick
that a drastic and dangerous tactic was employed: Seven dust. The
stuff is toxic as hell, but it works, and at the time I didn’t know any
better than to put in on a small kitten. The fleas died, the kitten lived
and it was only much later that I learned what a dumb thing it was to
have done. For two days the kitten mostly just lay in my lap and
slept. We thought he might be perhaps a bit “backward.” About this
time, Max Faget (the dean of the NASA engineers and creative
genius behind Mercury, Gemini, Apollo, and the Shuttle) had just
passed away, so we decided to name the kitten after him. With a new
home and a name, after a two day rest, Max woke up one morning
and proceeded to become a tiny Tabby whirlwind. Nothing was safe
from ambush, direct attack or hit and run raid. He was a demon kitty
and both my wife and I soon developed small scratches on our hands
that we came to call ‘Tabby rash’. He would fit into a coffee cup when
he came to live with us, and never had any other felines around
to teach him how to be a cat (Princess Pixel came home with the son
from Virginia Tech in 2006 and was ‘placed on permanent loan’ with
us shortly thereafter). We did the best we knew, but Max was
destined to be … a bit irregular.
Based on sad previous experience, we decided Max would be an
indoor cat. He came home with me in late summer and never left the
house until I cuddled him my arms and walked outside with him on a
cold November night. Snuggled there under my old leather jacket,
he sniffed and peered out at the world he had so recently entered
and I said something to him I would repeat many times in the next
fifteen years: “I will always take care of you as good as I can.” He
looked up at me with eyes of pure trust and our deal was struck. I
didn’t know it then, but his little cat heart must have replied, “me too.”
We hadn’t had a cat for ten years and young Max had much to
teach us about what he expected. First was hands to bite and string
toys to leap for. Max was a world class leaper with NBA level ‘hang
time,’ He could perform a perfect ‘Immelmann’ half loop and roll,
snag the toy, and stick the landing. He only lacked goggles and a silk
scarf to be the image of a flying ace. Since we were new empty
nesters with a son in a far away college, we proceeded to spoil and
pamper the Little Lion, resulting in a condition we called ‘spampered.’
Max never lacked for scrunchy balls, catnip mice, or feathers from
the yard tied to a stick, but his favorite was a ball of brown shredded
packing paper. We called it Maxie’s paper, and hiding under it to
attack scrunchy balls that were rolled near it became his greatest
joy. I had a lot of fun too, just rollin’ the balls.
Maxie’s first Christmas was
our last one with a Christmas
tree. When I returned from the
store with a nice six footer and
carried it through the front door
the Little Lion absolutely
freaked out. It was as if he had
realized “so this is how they’re
gonna murder me.” Until it was
gone Max remained in his
‘fortress of solitude‘ under the
bed. We‘ve never had another
tree. The ceiling fans were another matter; he was terrified of them,
on or off. We kept them and after about five years he came to
accept them ... with reservations.
It was about this time, when he was still in his adolescence, that he
came to possess his greatest treasure. We got him a curious cat toy
in the form of a glove made of orange cloth with black tiger stripes.
The fingers were about eight inches long with plastic rods
for stiffeners and little black fuzzy balls with jingle bells in them on
each finger tip. We called it the ‘tabby hand.’ He loved it from the
moment he saw it. It was shear delight to attack those long floppy /
jingly fingers, and from the wearer’s point of view those extended
digits kept the Tabby rash to a minimum. Kids and cats outgrow old
toys and move on to newer ones as they develop, but that never
happened to what is now known as just ‘Tabby.’ Over the years, it
has lost all of the plastic stiffeners and all but one of the bells. It’s
too tattered to wear anymore, but if Max is hiding somewhere,
shaking the remaining bell will always bring him out. He uses Tabby
to signal when he is in desperate need of attention by taking it in his
teeth and walking slowly into the room as he moans out a dirge-like
roar. He sleeps on it or beside it most nights (he’s sleeping with it as I
write this). Sometimes there will be the loudest, most impassioned
yowls coming from the bedroom and when I check on it, Max will be
there on the bed with Tabby held under his paws and gripped in his
teeth as he stands with His back arched, yowling, with a faraway
look on his face. Unless I speak he is unaware of my presence, and if
I do, he gets an embarrassed look on his face that reminds me of a
teenage boy confronted with the Playboy magazine found in his sock
drawer. I know this old Tomcat purty well after fifteen years, but I
still don’t understand the Tabby.
In the Spring of his second
year we began to let Max roam
our suburban backyard at will.
He still patrols the place with
the air of a laird; a cat of
property, with all of the
accompanying responsibilities
and privileges. We began to call
him ‘The Great Lion of the Serengeti’ — it just seemed to fit. Nine
squirrels and about two dozen doves now serve as his subjects and
over the years they have become loyal and trusting. A few years ago
a dove, spooked by a hawk, flew into the back door window and was
stunned for a while. The Great Lion sat beside it and placed his paw
on its back in sympathy and support until, comforted and
encouraged, the dove flew away with an entirely false understanding
of cats. The squirrel clan considers him to be curious looking non-
climbing cousin. The young ones use touching his tail as a right of
passage.
When you raise a youngster,
whether human or feline, you
gain a collection of memories:
some scary, some sad, and
some that’ll makeyour heart
smile for the rest of your life.
When Max was a young cat
and just learning the art of
exploring the world with His claws, I
found claw marks on my saddle. I went looking for Max and found
the little vandal relaxing in his Meowm’s lap getting his chin rubbed
(Meowm is name chosen by both cats for Mrs. RR, the food giver).
I had her carry him to the crime scene, pointed to his work and asked
sternly “Who did this ?” In all of my years of dealing with men and
beasts, I have never seen a such a look of pure guilt. At that moment
Max found a conscience. He never scratched anything again, except
for a boi de arc post I set for him in the Serengeti.
I worked offshore for a few years, and one night stepping off a
boat in Port Fourchon, Louisiana, I saw a small rubber lizard lying on
the dock. On a whim l pocketed it and when l got home gave it to
Max. The look on his face that evening I had seen before; on
Ralphie’s face in the movie “A Christmas Story” when he got the Red
Ryder BB gun. Max had seen lizards before, but never dreamed he
would have one of his very own. He gently swatted it with his paws
and pushed it with his nose. He played with it all evening but never
bit it (Max never got taught how to kill things, because neither
Meowm or I were willing to show him). That night, completely
tuckered out, Max slept beside the rubber lizard with his paw resting
on it — just like a boy and his BB gun. It’s a snapshot my heart took,
and like the one of his guilty little face, it’s printed there for keeps.
In 2006, Maxie’s life as a spampered “only” pootie came to an end
when we reluctantly welcomed our just matriculated son’s college
cat. He had found her on campus in Virginia as a scrawny little grey
waif. She had been spayed, but the staples hadn’t been removed. I
suspect she had run away after the first visit to the vet, and hung
around the dorm parking lot until a soft heart found her. She also
had an undiagnosed gum issue that made eating painful, so she
never thrived. When we took her into the pride she had lost all her
teeth except the two big ones in front (it doesn’t seem proper in this
case to call them ‘canines’). Our son had named her Pixel, but after
a few experiences with those two teeth, I began to refer to her as
The Little Stapler.
All cats have personalities, and
I’ve come to define them as old
movie stars. The late Duke was
Aldo Ray; a big uncomplicated
friendly Swede like Andy
Hookans in “Battle Cry.” Pixel is
Betty Davis, a sweet little kitty
exterior wrapped around a
tiger. Max is Buster Keaton, “the
great stone face.” He only smiles
when he’s sleeping. Pixel is a
cat, Maxie is a pootie. Pixel has
slain seven mice even though her
remaining two teeth had to be removed a few years ago.
Meowm and I still cry out when she bites us so her self confidence
doesn’t suffer. Maxie’s favorite prey is dehydrated chicken. He will
gnaw on my hand in a conversational manner and only bites to
respond to excessive tail touching, and then bites gently. Pixel will
bite hell out of you for one substandard pet. Max likes back rubs,
chin rubs, and is a fool for face scritchies. He will tolerate belly
pats, something Pixel would send you to the hospital for. Like Betty
Davis, Pixel looks like a little sweet lap kitty, until you notice those
fiery eyes. Max, like Buster Keaton, looks so unshakably serious in all
situations that it makes you smile, and sometimes laugh out loud.
When she arrived, Max was both fascinated and perplexed by this
little grey creature, so similar yet so different from himself. He tried
to be friendly, but came across as just weird. He would slowly
approach her, crouched down with tail low, and attempt to introduce
himself, only to get a swift and accurate triple slap (one of Pixel’s
specialties). She took title to both his litter boxes, forcing him to
take up using the Serengeti, and would lay down on his food dish
out of plain, pure spite (see Miss Davis in “The Little Foxes” to get the
idea). Over the years, their relationship has evolved into that of a
university educated Great Lady from the East (think of Miss Davis in
“The Corn is Green”) and an ignorant barn cat from North Zulch. She
still slaps him, but gently now, and she reserves triple slaps for
instances of extreme exasperation. She also learned to look after
him and tattle when he would climb the fence to go exploring. His
fence climbing days are past, but she still keeps track of where he is
and alerts us when she can’t find him; he does the same with her.
In August of 2017, Hurricane Harvey came to visit for four long
days and nights. Friendswood got a little over 250” of rain. Our
house was one of only a few near Clear Creek that didn’t flood, but
we were cut off on all sides for several days. I was able to kayak all
over town. A Texas Parks and Wildlife airboat tied up to the tree in
our yard. Pix took all of this in stride, but Max quickly made the trip
from concerned,to worried, to scared, to panicked, to just lying on
the life jacket from my kayak, resigned to his impending watery
demise. When sunshine came back to his favorite window, he lay in
it all day, as if trying to let it recharge his faith in the good, dry Earth. I
imagine the Tomcat on Noah’s ark did the same thing.
Max is growing old. He seldom
seeks adventure these days and
is most contented when
sleeping in paw touch range of
his Meowm or slowly padding
about the Serengeti in search of
“phantalope.” He gets a lullaby
every night, and as he drifts off his stone face melts into the truest
smile I’ve ever seen. He is a happy Tom Cat and his life is good. There
are a few clouds, though; about a year ago we noticed
he was drinking and eating far more often than usual while losing
weight. The memory of Duke’s last days filled us with a deep fear.
Doctor Murphee, the best vet in the world, diagnosed him a diabetic,
and a change of diet, along with twice a day injections, was
prescribed. Max still misses his carbs but the shots he takes in stride
— a stride that now has a bit of a hitch in it. We sometimes call him
Hopalong now, but not to his face. One symptom of diabetes in cats
is abnormal thirst. This one went unnoticed because Max has always
been an enthusiastic drinker. One of his nightly rituals is to sit by
Meowm’s bathroom sink and drink from her hands while water from
the faucet streams into her cupped palms. Sometimes he drinks “top
water“ from pool in held her hands and other time “bottom water”
as it dribbles away beneath them. Of the two, bottom water is the
more precious since it each sip into Max entails around a quart down
the drain. Always willing to cautiously innovate, in the past few year
he has learned to sit in the bathtub and let a trickle of water from
that faucet fall on his head to be licked a few drops at a time into
his mouth. This is not as rare a refreshment as bottom water from
his Meowm but will do when she’s not available.
North Zulch is a real place
and I grew up a few miles out of
town on A little cow farm (no
one ever referred to their farms
as a ranch, but instead as “my
place”). There were no close
neighbors, so I made friends
with calves and had spirited head butting tournaments with
them. I won some and lost some, and sometimes wonder if that
explains how I wound up with the non-standard brain I’ve got. When
I was around seven I was adopted by a Tabby barn cat in the curious
way cats sometimes do with little children. He never had a name and
was referred to simply as ‘the boy’s cat.’ He followed me everywhere
like a dog. At night he scratched on my screen to be let in to sleep
with me. He climbed trees to sit with me, and once gingerly waded
into to the stock pond and swam out to the skiff I was fishing from. I
think that long ago Tomcat saw a lonely fellow creature and decided
to help. Many a morning I woke to find a mouse, a rabbit, and once a
snake, freshly killed and placed on my window sill. I had to make a
little cemetery in the garden for them. That Tomcat was my first
friend; he helped raise me and his paw prints are still there in my
heart. He was killed on the farm-to-market road when I was eleven;
they didn’t tell me and I’ve never really forgiven my family for that. I
was holding Max when we were both a bit younger and the question
occurred to me — could my old cat have found me again after all
these years, to help me grow old the way he had helped me grow up?
I looked into Maxie’s eyes and asked him; he looked back and for the
first time he winked at me. This Is why, in my years at Dkos,
whenever I comment in a diary about a lost pootie, I try to remind
the aggrieved to look for their lost friend in the eyes of all the cats
they meet — sometimes they find you again. Love doesn’t die; if you
don’t believe that, there’s nothing else worth believing.
Max doesn’t do Immelmanns anymore. He has a hard time
climbing the steps made for him by the bed. He walks slowly, sleeps
long and often, and as he sleeps the “Great Stone Face” melts into
the smile of a happy, secure, loved soul at peace with all creation.
Like anyone else I’ve had a few failures and few successes. Among
the latter I count that carefree, contented smile as my best… and
Maxie’s. Because we were lucky enough to find each other, the world
is better by two completed hearts.
Max, Pix, Meowm, and I are
all living in a blessed time
with,hopefully far off, clouds
gathering. At our ages, the
future becomes a thing to hold
at arm, and paws, length, and
not to rush into; it’s coming fast
enough. Our little pride is
together, held by love loyalty,and long-shared lives. So long as we
have each other, we need little else.
(The first diary I posted on Dkos was written by Max; you can find it here)
