The Yellow Cat

The examination table was hard, black, and cold. The impersonal greenish-blue cast from the fluorescent lights overhead added to the uneasy feeling of what was to come. The vet entered the room, stuck a needle under the skin, and in moments, the Yellow Cat was gone. Just like that, it was over. The sedative, administered a few minutes earlier, made it easier for all of us. The cat grew quiet, the tension easing away, until he relaxed and lay down on the table where both the Missus and I stroked his fur one last time.


There was no question about doing the procedure, putting him down. He had contracted a virus called feline peritonitis; no cure, always fatal. A brochure explained that there were two varieties of the virus, one they referred to as “dry” and the other “wet”. The wet was what old Yellow Cat had. His belly was bloated with fluid as if he’d swallowed a balloon.

“We could drain it off,” the vet said, “but the fluid will return, probably in a couple weeks, maybe less. When it gets up in their chest and compresses the lungs, the animal starts to gasp for breath and panic sets in. Not good.”

There were other health problems as well. His right eyelid was cancerous, again no guarantee of success if treated, and then there was the weight loss. In the past couple months, the cat got skinnier and skinnier despite cleaning his bowl and always demanding more. Every rib stood out, his spine a ridge of bony bumps.

So, in the end, today, the options were few. But damn it, I liked ol’ Yella. Of all the cats, Yella was the best. He was perfectly happy to spend his days on the deck, curled up in whatever chair had some sun shining on it, taking cat naps, and peacefully watching the birds at the feeders. At night, he’d find a spot at the foot of the bed and not move until morning and time for breakfast. It was a far cry from his first few years here at the humble abode when Yella had the reputation of being the scourge of the neighborhood, terrorizing other cats on the block as well as the resident wildlife, earning him the nickname of the al-Qaida Cat.

He’d been a stray cat, one we brought from Tulsa when we moved to Sand Springs. He showed up on the porch one day, walked in like he owned the place, and eleven years later… he still did.

The Yellow Cat had a good life.

The Longest Day

In case you missed it, June 21st was the longest day of the year, the equinox, the beginning of summer. But when your wife has four cats, all days seem equally long. Take this morning for instance, a typical morning at the humble abode, when my day began at 5:30 a.m. No, it wasn’t the alarm, I no longer have to deal with alarm clocks at my age; it was the sound of a cat scratching on a door to be let out.

Brat Cat is the first one up in the mornings when its own internal alarm tells it wake up and annoy the guy in the bed. Time of day isn’t much of a factor, could be 4:00 a.m., could be 6:00, might even be 3:00. Things got out of hand when the Missus began to reward this ridiculous behavior by opening the door for the little wench. From then on it was scratch, scratch, scratch, each and every morning. I came up with a counteraction. Since the damaged door is within sight of my bed, I found that a well aimed pillow discourages this nonsense in a most satisfying manner. And, if I twist my wrist just so and apply a little English, the pillow will bounce off the wall in a ricochet fashion, tumble down the hall, and hopefully instill some negative feedback along with some serious physiological trauma.

Once the Brat Cat gives up and goes back to bed, Minnie Le Mew, announces the presence of her fat ass by jumping on the bed, simulating one of those minor Oklahoma earthquakes we hear about every now and then. Hearing the commotion at the door, Minnie is now awake and hungry. But Minnie is quick to realize the futility of it all and gives it up, taking a position at the foot of the bed to sleep and wait for the sun.

Problem is, this awakens the yellow cat. Yella takes a more direct approach with his demands to be fed and stands on my chest, stretches, claws extended, fangs inches from my throat. Most mornings I call his bluff and push him away, but not before he manages to leave a few more red marks on my hide to remember him by.

If that weren’t enough, from out of the darkness, another cat is heard from. Blue, the gray cat, begins to complain quite audibly from her confinement in the pantry room where she is kept in medical isolation ever since she began to “mark” her territory inside the freakin’ house. “Mark” being a nice word for pissing on the wall. The cries are continuous until I get out of bed and unceremoniously dump her kinky butt in the back yard to go out and play with the coyotes.

Remember the movie The Longest Day about the invasion at Normandy during World War II? It came out in 1962 starring John Wayne, Richard Burton, and Robert Ryan.  I think it’s time for a new film: All Days Are Long starring Brat, Yella, Minnie, and Blue about the feline invasion of Sand Springs. I would narrate from the losers perspective.

Birds and Cats, Like Oil and Water

Here at the present abode and for the last ten years, I have fed and photographed the birds, mostly common; Cardinals, Chickadees, Tufted Titmice, and Blue Jays. But sometimes a bird of note comes along. Such was the case this spring when a bird by the name of Painted Bunting appeared and honored me with its presence. With a kaleidoscope of color, the Painted Bunting is unmistakable and arguably the most striking bird to pass through the state of Oklahoma.

The bird is photo tolerant. About a week ago, one of them patiently perched on my feeder, content to dine on millet, while I set up a tripod and camera not twenty feet away. I had two, maybe three days of opportunity with this beauty before tragedy struck. A feathered body of red, green, blue, and gold lay cold and lifeless on my garage floor, intact but graveyard dead. The identity of the killer was not in question. Brat Cat, aka The Problem Child, had struck again. The other resident cats around here have neither the physical ability nor the inclination to perform such a dastardly deed.

While a certain amount of predation is to be expected when cats are allowed to roam free (not my choice), the demise of the Painted Bunting, a fairly rare and beautiful bird, was more than I could easily digest. Something had to be done.

The first and obvious move—as painful as it was—was to remove the feeders. Despite the pleasure I get from watching the feathered creatures, I felt it was necessary, as I did not want to be responsible for luring the little creatures to certain death. Other options had their own consequences. I could shoot the cat but the repercussions would be most serious. The Missus looks at her cats as children for the senior citizen. She fusses and clucks over them like a barnyard hen. In her eyes, it’s a case of my birds versus her cats. No contest.

Deterrents in the past were of mixed success. A water gun known as a Super Soaker was semi-effective but only if applied during the act of stalking. Loud noises from banging on a garbage can or angry shouts accompanied by the throwing of heavy objects such as a patio broom were likewise without lasting result. A friend suggested bells, those that you attach to a collar. Not the little ringy-ding bells from PetsSmart but a clang-clanger such as you might find in a parakeet cage. However, a Google search revealed that such bells do not work and in fact, studies show that the cats learn how to become even stealthier in their approach. As I saw it, there were two other possible solutions.

One, build a wire fence beneath the feeders or two; attach a shock collar such as the ones used to train dogs. I must admit that option number two held great appeal, not only for the revenge factor, but for entertainment value as well. I could think of nothing more satisfying that melting her little feline ass to the ground just as she made her closing charge. But there was the cost factor, eighty dollars as compared to eighteen or so for the fence. That and knowing full well that the cat would somehow rid herself of the collar, losing it in a vast field of weeds and brush, leaving me holding a remote shocker control with nothing to shock.

The fence was installed today and already I’ve seen the return of a Cardinal, an Indigo Bunting, and yes, believe it or not, another Painted Bunting, probably the last of its kind. I will observe the success of this setup in the coming days. But not without a glass of whisky at my side and a 20 gauge shotgun across my lap, cocked and loaded.

This could get interesting.

Cat Care (or lack of)

This Missus is out of town for a few days, actually an unknown number of days, on another mission of mercy, caring for a relative with recent surgery.  We don't call her Saint Ruth for nothin'.  Naturally, the entire household is out of sorts, our precious routines shot to hell. The cats, all of them, are walking around with glazed eyes, knowing full well that things just aren't right. The dog spends his every waking moment staring at the front door, ears pricked for the sound of a Honda coming up the driveway.

It's not that I don't know what to do with all this livestock.  After all, I have a list of instructions, carefully thought out, typed in an easy-to- read font with large black letters, to show exactly what I should do from day to day, including any animal emergencies that might pop up.  An example of such an emergency would be the disappearance of a cat for more than oh, 30 minutes.  In such a case, my instructions read:  Go to both the front and back doors, and in a loud voice, yell "KITTY, KITTY, KITTY.  Thank God, that crisis hasn't happened yet.

There's the medications of course, the eye drops for the yellow cat and the Rymadil for the dog. Did you know that cats hate having someone stick gook in their eyes? I do now.

Naturally, the whole crew is off their feed; nobody's eating like they normally do. Bowls of uneaten pet food sit everywhere. There's Friskies Seafood Dinner in the kitchen and bathroom (each cat  has it's own private dining area you see) while the shredded tuna and turkey and giblets await in the laundry room and on the patio.  Maybe the Missus throws that perfectly good food away after a day or two, but I'm thinking along the lines of "eat it or die".

I'm also told to supply fresh water every day. I did that. Well, every other day maybe.

 But then you have the dirtiest duty of all, the litter box or in our case, boxes, as in plural.  Morning AND night, twice a day, (and in between if the need arises say the instructions) that's the cleaning schedule. What a way to start a day, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the stench of a litter box.  There's nothing quite like the smell of cat shit in the morning.

At this point I'm more than ready to join the dog in his vigil at the front door and listen for that Honda coming up the drive.

They're Baaaccckkkk

The raccoons are back, raccoons as in plural, as in baby raccoons, a whole damn family of them, maybe more than one family. All I know is that of the five bird feeders that I have strung across the back yard, four of them were empty, bare, not one seed in them this morning. The thieves were spotted around midnight last night when the Missus opened the door to check on her cats. She said there were so many coons out there, it sounded like a stampede when the light came on.

Do you think the cats lifted a paw to defend their territory or to sound the alarm? NOOOO. Would you like to know why the fifth feeder remained untouched? Well, I'll tell you why. Because that feeder had the distinction of being wired with an electric fence charger that's why. Now the charger hasn't been plugged in for a month, but nary a seed was touched. Obviously, a lesson was learned and remembered for that particular dispenser.

The live trap doesn't work anymore. They remember that too.

Tonight, I'm calling the cats together for a meeting to remind them where their groceries are coming from and how a little cooperation will keep that tuna coming.

Stay tuned for results of that.