Occam's Razor

Six and a half years later our three-year-old rescue cat Arthur is now pushing ten years of age. His age is just an estimate, but the veterinarian that examined him estimated that he was born in late 2003. He came to live with us in September 2006. It took him a whole year to get fully housebroken. This was perhaps not too surprising given that he probably had been mostly living on his wits the first years of his life.

Arthur the cat (2012)

A video of Arthur

Picked up off the street in Lovettsville, Virginia, our domestic shorthair cat made his way to a no-kill cat shelter in Loudoun County, Virginia and eventually into our house and into our hearts. Affectionate with people by nature, he was not completely domesticated. He remains unusually skittish but after a year of occasional naughty episodes like peeing in our vents he fully settled in. He seemed finally completely at ease when the carpets were ripped up and replaced by hardwood floors. No more scents of deceased cats to torment him. We marveled at his relative youth when we got him, for we were used to aging cats that often threw up more than they digested and were more than a bit senile.

At around ten years old though, there are signs that Arthur will not live the nineteen and a half years his predecessor Sprite did. Arthur has become an expensive cat, attested to by $1400 in medical bills racked up in the last couple of weeks. His symptoms were perhaps not surprising to long term cat owners: vomiting, diarrhea and sneezing. Various veterinarians have puzzled over him. Pills were tried and special cat food was put in his dish but they did little. Eventually it seemed just part of his nature, something to endure. Because otherwise Arthur seemed happy, eager to sit on our laps, happy to be perched on a chair and looking outside the front window in the mornings and anxious for daily commutes in and out of our screened in deck via his special kitty door. He purred easily, never was the least bit malicious (unlike our late evil cat Squeaky), never considered escape and never shredded the furniture. He enjoyed being fussed over him and we fussed over him a lot.

It’s hard to know when a cat is really sick. One way is when their habits suddenly change. That was what triggered the start of $1400 in veterinarian bills to make Arthur whole again. Arthur was nothing if not habitual, and he did not come out to greet me when I came home. I called and called and he eventually showed himself, but wholly spurned the dinner he usually scarfs down. His water had hardly been touched, and he was losing weight again. Moreover, he was usually quiet and rarely purred. There was plenty of diarrhea, however. The truest sign of this sick cat was the moribund tail lying flat on the ground. It is usually extended behind his back and curled up toward his head. I scheduled a trip to the vet for the following morning and wondered if he might be dead before I got him there. Our wily cat that can usually sense a cat carrier a dozen feet away did not object when I gently put him in it and took him to the vet.

Shots for hydration. Shots to stimulate hunger. Shots to cool an enflamed butt, because his bowels were enflamed. Newer, blander cat food to try, plus a day in the cat hospital being monitored and getting blood work. He ate well at the vet, perhaps due to his shot. But mostly there was an urgent request from the vet to get him an ultrasound. It was likely one of three things: a tumor, a general lymphoma or irritable bowel disease.

He came home, survived another night while looking ever weaker and more dispirited. The following day he was seen at the local Southpaws where for $600 or so he had his belly shaved and an ultrasound performed on his GI tract. A tumor was thankfully ruled out. A thickening of the bowel walls was noted, but it was impossible to say if it was a lymphoma or the IBD that was causing the diarrhea, although a kitty colonoscopy for another $600 could probably rule out one of these. Another shot in the butt to calm things down was followed by more water injected under his fur. And there were pills. A pill developed for people with cancer to stimulate appetite. Another to get rid of his diarrhea. And one twice a day pill to calm his inflamed intestines: a steroid.

Lots of pills, lots of shots, lots of bills but his progress seemed marginal. He mostly didn’t want to eat, so it was hard to get pills into him, even when put in his food. As anyone who owns a cat knows, pilling a cat is generally not an option. Mostly Arthur was listless and out of our faces. His food and water seemed mostly untouched and he kept losing weight. So yet another trip to the vet was scheduled, this one for $200. More shots. More hydration. And suddenly we had a cat that was ravenous and would not stop eating. And one who purred again. And one who sat outside our door in the mornings again, and looked out the window after finishing his food, just like old times.

And so it went for a day or so, and there was great rejoicing, until his appetite ebbed again. Getting pills into him via his food on time became problematic. Arthur was in a better place, but still struggling. And there he remains today, a subject of considerable concern.

He is aging and he is struggling. He will probably need to be on pills the rest of his life. Right now we wrap them in cheese in hope they will get consumed. It works, for now, but history suggests it will not work for long, and cheese may not be good for him. The root of his problem is likely an allergy, but to what? We have no way to know. We try different prescription foods and see if it has an affect on his explosive sneezing. Or maybe it may be something environmental that we could not possibly know.

It seems crazy to spend $1400 on a cat, and we will likely spend a lot more than that over the course of his remaining life. He is such a plain and ordinary cat to look at, but such a total sweetheart in person. He is constantly sweet (or when he cannot be, at least inoffensive), constantly gentle, full of good heart, honest and naturally endearing. If this is the start of his decline, it will be a sad process to witness every day. Meanwhile we hope for the right combination of food, environment and medicine so that this ultra sweet cat can simply go on being his sweet, inoffensive and endearing self.

Arthur, we love you. It may not seem like it but we are doing our best for you. Stay with us. We will do our best to keep you safe, healthy, warm, hydrated and loved.

It was two years ago this September 9th that we adopted a homeless and rather ordinary looking black and brown three year old tabby. After two years of living with us, Arthur is settling in well. For a cat, he is living the good life. He has a home of his own. We provide him with shelter, food, water and plenty of attention. Arthur even has his own cat door to our screened in deck. There he can while away a day sleeping on a table or watching the birds, squirrels and bunnies that traverse across our back yard.

Whatever trauma was inflicted on him as a young cat still lingers. While he loves his adopted humans very much, he is still not comfortable being picked up or cuddled. He remains profoundly skittish and paranoid. When I can get him on my lap, just a slight shift in position is enough to make him bolt off my lap. He still requires an escape route before going into any room. Having too many people at close range makes him nervous.

At the same time, he dotes on attention and petting. He is an easy cat to please. Scratch him on gently on his head, or under his chin, or pull lightly on his tail and he purrs contentedly and looks at you with adoring eyes. He loves being brushed so much that if he were not so ordinary looking he might win a pet competition. With continual coaxing, I can get him to jump on my lap. Occasionally, he is in such need of attention that he will jump on my lap on his own initiative. He is discovering that being on my lap can be enormous fun. Yet, he has to weigh his fun against his intense feelings of paranoia.

For a while he let us trim his nails but he must have figured out that it reduced his ability to defend himself, so now that is out of the question. This makes bearing a cat on my lap challenging. Even when I wear heavy jeans, I often feel the sharp prick of a claw on my leg. When I wear shorts, I can see the scars I bear for the honor of being loved by a cat.

Arthur has every comfort a cat could want but does not know what luxury means. We bought him a nice clean kitty bed that he has never slept in. We have a cat condo used by our previous feline residents, but he has never ventured into it. His favorite place to sleep is in the basement on a couch, where he has ample warning of people coming and going.

In the morning, I typically find him in our TV room looking out through our blinds at the street. Occasionally he will greet me at the bedroom door in the morning, but since our daughter is a night owl, he tends to need his morning rest. Mostly in the morning, he is looking lethargically out the window. He may well be in a hypnotized state.

His cat door is actually inset into a window in our kitchen. It is hard to get in or outside of without something to rest on, so we have turned a kitchen chair into a cat stool. On the other side of the window is a table we use sporadically when we feel the desire to eat outside he uses as a platform. He makes a dozen trips a day or more outside. The sound of the cat door opening and shutting has become very familiar.

Arthur is a simple cat. He is neither particularly stupid nor brilliant. We have purchased various cat toys for his amusement. For the most part, they are ignored. It is likely that his kittenhood was too traumatic to have learned how to play. All he wants is positive attention at the times of his choosing. He seems to lack most common feline curiosity, although to my surprise I recently saw him looking at me from the other side of the bathroom door. Previous felines in our household delighted in hiding in closets or under furniture. They also enjoyed getting vertical. Arthur likes to always be in plain site and generally avoids sitting on furniture. In that sense, he is a remarkably respectful cat.

He does have one serious deficiency. Perhaps the litter boxes at the shelter were not changed as often as he would like. Despite having two litter boxes cleaned twice a week, he has been known to periodically urinate on the carpet, much to our consternation. He always picks the same spot. When this happens, out comes our oversized bottle of cat urine odor remover, although it never seems to quite do the trick. Worse were the occasions when he would pee down our air ducts. Then his odor would stink up the whole house. There were times that the smell was overwhelming. We have had our ducts professionally cleaned, covered one register completely and put a special vent over the other. His favorite spot on the rug for peeing is now covered with a rubber bath mat. Soon we expect to replace the carpet with a wood floor, which will make future episodes like this easier to deal with. (Yes, he has been to the vet on this issue. One incident showed he had a bladder infection. All other times he has been clean.)

He is learning to beg. Generally we avoid giving him table scraps, but I do keep a container of kitty treats on the kitchen table, and give him a few when he shows up. Fortunately, none of it seems to be going to his hips. Arthur has always been a big boned cat, but never a fat cat.

His least favorite thing is going to the veterinarian. This is to be expected, but with his advanced avoidance skills, it can range from difficult to impossible to get him into a cage. Unfortunately, Arthur has needed to see the vet on various occasions. Most recently, he had to suffer the indignity of having three rotted teeth extracted, which gives him the appearance of Bucky Katt. Now his face looks a bit offset.

His favorite activity is receiving lavish belly rubs from me. I give them to him when I am under the covers in bed shortly before retiring. He can get quite upset if I do not make the time for his belly rub. He knows exposing his tummy could be dangerous, so it must be exquisitely pleasurable to override his innate cautious sense.

I hope for the day when he is completely over his skittishness and I can hold him in my arms and cuddle him like I did with my late, lamented cat Sprite. Perhaps that day will come, but I am increasingly dubious that it will. Arthur is an affectionate kitty, but he has to get affection on his own terms.

Perhaps in another two years, if I post about him again he will be recovered from that early trauma. Perhaps I will be able to cuddle him in my arms someday without risk of being seriously scratched. Stay tuned.

In spite of what you are about to read, this is not “Let’s beat up on my wife day”. I love my wife. Obviously, there are things about her I wish I could change. I am sure she has a list of things about me that she would correct in me if I could somehow reprogram myself. We both are who we are. We are the people we were before we entered into marriage 22 years ago, plus the unique dynamics of those last 22 years. Our fundamental personalities are immutable.

Like many households, we have pets. Actually, we have a pet, one four-year-old male cat named Arthur that we picked up from a no-kill pet shelter about a year ago. Arthur too is a product of his conditioning. He was found on the streets of Lovettsville, Virginia where he probably lived a very scary and Spartan existence. At his core, Arthur is a sweet and affectionate cat, just incredibly skittish.

Arthur gets plenty of attention from us. The basement is his sanctuary. When he needs to escape, he retreats there and sleeps on the couch. When he is awake, he wants our attention, but he does not want to be picked up. When I am at my computer like now, he will often sit on the floor next to my chair. I have to reach down to pet him. This is not terribly convenient for me. It would be much more convenient to have him on my lap, like my last cat Sprite. Perhaps he will achieve this level of trust someday, although I doubt it.

When he deigns to pay us a visit, we greet him warmly. “Hello Arthur!” we generally say and we pet him and he purrs and he wraps himself around our legs. Even though we are confident that he does not understand English, we talk to him as if he understands us. I ask him how his day is going. I know his favorite spots. He likes scratches behind his ears, long belly rubs and to have his tail gently pulled. Generally, we try to keep him engaged but eventually one of us loses interest. He seems content to sit near us. Eventually he will find another human to greet, or will go back to the basement for more sleep. Should he ever feel bored, he has ready access to our screened in deck. Some months back I installed a pet door that insets into one of our kitchen windows. He traverses in and out of the deck dozens of times a day. In short, for a formerly homeless cat he has it made in the shade. The idea of escape does not occur to him.

I find myself more and more envious of Arthur, and particularly my wife’s reaction to him. I keep thinking to myself, why can I not get from her the level of attention that she gives the cat? I guess the same is true with me. I fuss over the cat probably a lot more than I do my wife. All I know is that if I got the same amount of attention from the people in my house that our cat gets, I would feel much more loved.

As an experiment the other day, I bounded down the stairs into the kitchen where my wife was preparing something and I said, “How are you? How is you day so far?” Of course, we had just talked about things a few minutes earlier, so she looked at me puzzled. I told her that I wondered what would happen if I started to give her the kind of focused attention that I gave the cat.

If I got that kind of focused attention from her, I suspect my marital satisfaction level would skyrocket. Oh, we do regularly trade the news of the day. I tell her what is going on in my life. (I leave a lot out actually, knowing that the intricacies of office politics would bore her). She keeps me up on what is going on in her life too. Yet I often suspect that her mind wanders when I tell her what my day is like. Moreover, truth be told, my mind often wanders too. Her boss is a voice I have only heard on the phone. Yet there are all sorts of details about her relationship with her boss and coworkers that she is willing to share. Therefore, some part of me is faking my interest in her non-home life, and I suspect the same is true when she asks me about my day. The reality is we do not care that much because these are separate areas of our lives largely walled off. This interaction may be more about giving the appearance of caring than actual caring.

However, we are both intensely interested in Arthur’s life. Every coming and going in and out of the deck is reported. If Arthur is in a playful mood, we will enjoy his antics. We pay attention to the sheen on his coat and monitor his urinary and bowel habits. We are fascinated with his reaction to bugs. (He plays with them more than tries to kill them.) Particularly as our daughter transitions into adulthood, the cat is becoming our new surrogate child, ever fresh and wide-eyed, recipient of enormously amounts of interest and love.

Perhaps it speaks to a relative paucity of engagement in our own relationship. There are times when after 22 years it feels like we are more like strangers living together than a married couple. Both of us are quite introverted. Our activities in common seem to be diminishing over time. She has little interest in most of my activities. If I can drag her to the Unitarian church I attend, it will not be more than once a year. The church thing does not interest her probably because it was not a product of her childhood. She believes in worshipping God by sleeping in late on Sundays. On the other hand, her fascination for adult fan fiction and in particular slash leaves me cold. I took the time last year though to attend a slash convention in Las Vegas with her. Her friends were all quite interesting people in their own right, but the slash thing bored me to tears. Perhaps in response I infuse more of my spare time in blogging. She has little interest in exercise, and certainly does not want to join my gym, so I exercise alone. Her knees do not allow her to go biking with me so my twenty-plus mile biking journeys tend to be a solitary experience.

Perhaps it does not matter. Perhaps this is the natural state of marriage between two introverted people after more than twenty years. Still, something must be missing because I observe our cat and the love he receives from all of us. I wonder, what would it mean to our marriage if we invested the time and attention in each other that we invest in our feline? Would it be healthy or counterproductive?

Scarier still, is the main purpose of our cat to allow us to express feelings that we find it hard to express with each other? Is it the simplicity of the cat’s life that we find so appealing?

All I know is that I have a new vision of heaven. It does not include God or the choir invisible. It involves in my next life being a spoiled and pampered housecat where human affection is always readily available, I never have to worry about food, water or a dirty litter box. I can bask in the joy of a sunbeam or spend enrapt hours looking out the window as life passes by. Perhaps one such life as a cat would suffice and I would want to go back to the complexity that is human life. I do know there is something very appealing about being this kind of cat. I could deal with hairballs and the occasional urinary tract infection. All I know is I would feel so loved and I would be so happy.

I strongly suspect that this kind of love is simply not available in human experience, at least not for very long. Human life is too complex and our pathways through life are too stressful to allow this kind of love. Still, I want it even though I know it will never happen.

Our current cat Arthur is sweet, a bit dumb but quite lovable. He was obviously traumatized at an early age. Brought home from a shelter, even after having been with us more than a year, he remains skittish. If we rise from our chair, he moves immediately toward safety. He would make a good military planner; he always has an exit strategy. I have been working to coax him into be a lap kitty like my late lamented cat Sprite. Perhaps he will chill out in time. I occasionally put him on my lap but he quakes with nervousness. If I scratch him lightly while he is on my lap, he will hang around for a few minutes. Eventually his panic button takes over and he jumps off my lap. Only once has he actually sat on my lap and only very nervously.

My wife knew I missed having a lap kitty since Sprite went to his well-deserved feline reward. Since she has friends into animal rescue, she pitched the idea of another cat to me. I was amenable to the right cat. Through her friends, she learned of Tuxi, a 4-year-old female cat who is very much the lap kitty type. If you have a lap, she will be there. Tuxi is a large cat, with short charcoal black fur and white paws. Her markings make her look like she is wearing a tuxedo. From her modest girth, she obviously eats too much. She apparently spent many of her early years outside. This might explain her attraction to laps: they are warm and frequently the outdoors is cold.

Things looked promising at first. We kept Tuxi confined to the TV room with a litter box, water and plenty of food. We lavished attention on her. Tuxi though quickly wanted out of the room and that was a problem. She whined and complained when we were not there. When finally given the opportunity to get outside the room she bounded around our rooms putting her nose literally into places where they did not belong, like the blinds. She was not intimidated by our nearness or heights.

Arthur watched her curiously and looked desperately like he wanted her to be his friend. However, Tuxi wanted nothing to do with him. She hissed whenever he came near. One evening she mysteriously escaped from her room. She spent the night and the subsequent day under the living room couch howling, often at ear piercing volumes, refusing to go use her litter box or even be moved. From the smell, we knew she had peed on the carpet under the couch. When Arthur plaintively approached she would hiss some more and growl until we could feel tremors in the floorboards. Her yowls reached all corners of the house. She refused to shut up until 4 a.m.

She has scratched me once when I needed to get up. However, when I sit down, she is on my lap in an instant. If I need to get up before she has received her quota of lap time, she can hiss and bite. Her bite though does not leave an impression.

What to do with a desperately affectionate kitty obviously carrying the baggage of a less than stellar kittenhood? It is hard to say no, but she is just not working out. Her loud yowls are even louder than our former cat Squeaky’s. Yet I realize Tuxi is just being herself. She is a product of her environment. She would work out right in the right home, just not here.

Maybe we need to leave well enough alone. Arthur may not be much of a lap kitty and he often seems bored, since he does not quite understand the concept of play. Nevertheless, he is generally quiet, friendly and predictable. The most evil thing he has done was pee in our vents after we first got him. That cost several hundred dollars in duct cleaning, which we needed to do anyhow. Since then he has been amazingly sweet and innocent. He may never get over his skittishness but that is okay. Our bonding time will be on the bed when I am under the covers. There he languidly stretches out on his back and allows me to scratch his tummy. He purrs obscenely as I (generally unsuccessfully) read a book.

I hope Tuxi finds a home worthy of her. It will need to be a place where she is the only cat. She will want access to the great outdoors. She will want plentiful access to laps. She will need a home where her loud yowls will go unnoticed. I think she will find such a place in time. It breaks my heart that our home is not the place.

If you can offer her such a place, never abuse a cat and live in Northern Virginia, send me some email. (Please put Occam’s Razor in the subject line to bypass my spam filter.) She may still be up for adoption. She has had all her shots, is neutered and has tested negative for feline leukemia. She is a delight to have on your lap. In the right home, she would be a terrific cat.

Language is a wonderful invention. If only we could talk to the animals like Doctor Doolittle, perhaps life’s little adventures with our pets, like trying to pill a cat, would be much less stressful on all concerned.

Our three year old cat Arthur has been with us almost two months. Whereas he used to spend 90% of his time hiding in fear behind the couch, now he spends about 25% of his time there. He can come out when coaxed a bit, and sometimes when not coaxed. When he comes out we lavish him with attention, which mainly consists of petting and belly rubs. He purrs outrageously.

But he is a cat from a shelter. He spent a year in a cattery with thirty plus other cats. So it is not surprising that he is skittish. He is used to being vigilant 24/7. He is constantly watching for threats. In short, he has not learned to trust us, probably because he was abused by a previous owner. If we approach him he generally backs away toward a safe distance. We usually have to get on the floor or assume a non threatening posture before he will move toward us. Our approaching steps give him plenty of warning. He assumes the worst: that there is some evildoer out to kill him. He figures it is better to be safe than sorry. So behind the couch he goes.

Arthur must have lived a Spartan life. He does not know how to enjoy life. We bought him a nice, comfortable cat bed and even tried placing him in it, and he runs away from it. We also have gotten him a scratching post. He will not go near it. Instead of a nice cushy cat bed, he chooses to sleep behind the couch. There he feels relatively safe, but he is always facing with his eyes looking outward so he can react to potential threats. Our last cats liked nothing more than to rest in the sunbeam in the middle of the living room floor. He either doesn’t understand its allure or sees being out in the open like that to be too much of a threat.

He likes the safety of our screened in deck. When weather allows we send him out there. He vigilantly looks down upon the lawn in search of other animals. A cat wandered into our yard once. That got him very excited. The days are now shorter and cooler now, so it is harder to send him outside. However, he must petition us endlessly even if after going outside in 40 degree weather he quickly decides maybe inside is better. He is very polite about petitioning though. He will sit a few feet from the door and stare at it. Surely, he must think, if I stare at it long enough it will open. Of course if the weather permits we let him out. We do not have a pet door.

He has also discovered the basement. Aside from the deck, it is his favorite place. He traipses down the stairs and sits on the old couch in the family room, facing the door. This way, of course, he has plenty of warning if predators are approaching. I think this is where he finds the most peace. He has at least thirty seconds to hide, if necessary. It is quiet and cool in the basement. I come down in the evenings to say hello. I often bring a kitty treat or two. He is a bit reluctant to let me sit next to him, but eventually accommodates. Getting a tummy rub is too much of a temptation.

Arthur is also an oral cat. Thankfully he is not particularly aural. His meows are more like high pitched squeaks, which makes him rather enduring. He would just as soon lick you as have you pet him. His sandpaper tongue is a bit annoying, but it is his way of saying he loves you. He would be thrilled to lick your finger or, better yet, gently gnaw on a digit or two. Arthur is amazingly respectful for a cat. He has never scratched us or bit us out of malice. In fact, his one game with us is to gently push our hands away with his paws when he is lying on his back. He is inured to typical cat toys. Even a peacock feather failed to elicit a playful reaction from him.

For a homeless and likely previously abused cat, Arthur is adopting rather well. Still, earning his full trust will require many more months, at least. On occasion he can be coaxed on to our laps, but only for a moment. Like virtually all cats he has the ability to jump on couches and countertops. However, he prefers the floor. Maybe he figures they are forbidden territory.

So earning his trust is a long term project. This is why his recent bladder infection was particularly unwelcome. A few weeks ago we noticed the pungent smell of urine when the heat went on. In fact, it was so bad I nearly had to leave the house. We investigated the heating grates and sure enough, there was evidence that he left his markings. We have had enough cats to suspect what the issue was: a urinary tract infection.

Off to the vet he went. He did better getting into the cat carrier than I expected. Still he whined all the way to the vet, but calmed down once he was in the office. They had to keep him all day in order to get a urine sample. Sure enough, the UTI was confirmed. We were given a two week supply of pills. But they also wanted us to put drops into his ears and eyes. Uh oh.

At first, getting the pills into him turned out to be rather easy. They have these Pill Pocket thingies now for pets. You place the pill inside and generally the cat or dog just gulps it down. They think they are eating chicken or fish or whatever. As for the ear and eye drops, they quickly became impossible to administer. Arthur simply did not trust us enough. Both my wife and I have scars on our arms from valiant attempts to keep him restrained while the other person put them in. In fact, medicating him made the situation worse. He spent more time behind the couch, not less. Eventually we decided the trauma we were inflicting was counterproductive. We gave up on the drops for now.

Then a few days ago Arthur figured out that there was something funny tasting inside those pill pockets. He became reluctant to eat them. We could have picked him up and tried to shove them down his throat, but we knew that would exacerbate his trust problem. So we were reduced to coaxing. And if you know cats you know how well that worked. I was reduced to putting it in his food dish and waiting until he got hungry enough to eat it.

A return trip to the vet yesterday gave ambiguous results on whether the infection had cleared up. Fortunately we returned with a different flavor of pill pocket, this one salmon flavored. Arthur decided this one was okay to eat. With less than two days of pills left, we may get through the UTI problem. Still, our house still smells somewhat of cat urine. I have cleaned the heating grates with a professional cat spray odor remover. I did the same thing to the wood floors. I sprayed parts of the carpet. The odor still lingers from time to time. I hate it.

Hopefully the UTI and spraying problems are now behind us. He hasn’t been digging at his ears as much so we are hopeful there too. Perhaps we can now regain his trust. Perhaps eventually we will reach the point where he will realize we are there to help him, not to hurt him. We are looking forward to it because while he is a skittish cat, he has a fundamentally sweet nature.

I keep hoping that one of these days he will nestle into my lap like my last cat Sprite so enjoyed. He may not be a lap cat at heart. I have coaxed him up on our bed a few times, and he enjoyed the attention he got. But the road to winning his full trust will likely be a long one. Perhaps if he has a long enough respite from further medical issues, he will feel like a full member of the family.

It took about a week, but Arthur Dent (our newly adopted cat) has emerged from hiding. He still likes to spend much of his day trying not to be seen by hiding under the sofa. Increasingly though, we find him in less hidden spots, such as on a dining room chair. He is waiting, waiting silently and patiently for something or someone. Maybe his is waiting for the other long dead cats that he smells to emerge. On the other hand, maybe he is just waiting to feel sufficiently safe to release a restless spirit that so far he has not chosen to manifest. Since he chooses to wait then we will wait too.

When he wants attention, it helps to listen. Unlike our evil cat Squeaky, he is not a shouter of a cat. He lets out plaintive and short duration high-pitched squeaks. We understand that means, “Does anyone want to pet me?” Mostly though he prefers silence and stealthiness. Having spent a year with thirty or so cats in a room the size of our living room, perhaps he is just enjoying the luxury of being alone.

He remains something of a peculiar cat. We are used to cats that are in your face. It is likely that over time, as trust is established, he will become one of these cats too. Right now, he remains skittish. He wants to be approached gently and quietly. If I lumber down the steps, he will go hide. If I sit down on the floor, call him in a soft tone, look him in the eye and then gently offer him my hand, he will approach me tentatively. Once I give him a quick pet and he turns into my love slave.

He loves to be gently scratched under his chin. He also likes me to use both hands and gently scratch both sides of his face at once. Like most cats, he demonstrates pleasure by kneading the carpet with his paws, licking me with his sandpaper like tongue and, when he is feeling very comfortable, flopping on his back and exposing his belly. I can rub his belly up near his chest, but not much further. In that sense, at least so far, he is a different sort of cat for us. My last cat Sprite was totally fearless in my arms. I could touch him anywhere, carry him anywhere, and put him in any position. The more outrageous the move, the louder he purred.

Perhaps in time Arthur will become this way. Right now, he seems to be in no hurry to sit on our laps. This seems to be something he does not do. He has not established enough trust with us to allow us to pick him up either. Nevertheless, when stimulated he certainly can be very affectionate, purring strongly and rubbing his soft fur against our hands and legs.

He is not much of a vertical cat. We are also used to cats for whom ascending vertically is as natural and walking. Thus far, he has not gotten above chair height. I am thinking that perhaps a previous owner trained him not to get up on the furniture. This is not necessarily a bad thing. We never liked our cats to think they could jump onto tables and countertops, and would shoo them off. Otherwise, we gave them free reign to ascend as high vertically as they wanted.

Nor has Arthur yet expressed an interest in the outside. Darkness and quiet are mainly where he finds comfort right now. We have tried to entice him to play with a number of toys. No dice. His one game is the paw game. He will reach out and pat your hand or finger with his paw. He does it very nicely and does not scratch you at all.

We have learned a few things about Arthur from his medical record. He is about three years old. He spent the last year in the Friends of Homeless Animals cattery. He has been to the veterinarian twice while he was homeless, once for an upper respiratory infection. He is current on all his shots and is neutered. He also once had mild conjunctivitis. He has an appetite and generally eats all the food I lay out for him. He is fastidious for a cat. He keeps himself well groomed, which I take as a sign that he is reasonably happy. Mostly he is a gentle cat. This is fine with me. I just wish he would come out more often. Every time he does, he gets plenty of positive attention. The good news is that we can usually coax him out now.

For myself, I am satisfied at present. Now that he is out, I am content to let him become adjusted to his new home at his own pace. If I can pet him once or twice a day, that suffices. If I can eventually coax him to jump on my lap, I will be happier. If he turns into a cuddle cat, I will be ecstatic. I think in time all these things are possible as trust is slowly extended and replied to in kind.

One thing for sure: our house now feels like a home again. Thanks and welcome home at last, Arthur.

Allegedly, we are cat owners again. I say “allegedly” because we have not seen much of our cat since he arrived last Saturday. If Lord Voldemort is “he who shall not be named”, our new feline is “he who shall not be seen”. Well, at least not very much.

These are some of the hazards of adopting a cat who was likely abused earlier in life. If instead we had adopted kittens, it is unlikely they would be so reticent about showing themselves. So far, our new cat, which came to us by the name of Papa, has spent daylight hours studiously in hiding under our couch.

After we unfortunately had to evict him from under our bed the first night, he spent the first couple of days and nights under the loveseat in our entertainment room. We slipped a litter box behind it, which he quickly found. We could hear him use it occasionally. Now he prefers to spend the day under our living room sofa. This is a bit of a problem since there is no way to put a litter box behind it. He eats, drinks, and defecates at night. In the morning, there are signs that a feline has been around. There are little clumps of grey dander on the floor and carpet. Generally, his food is gone too.

We know it is important to be patient. This new cat will eventually fully emerge from his shell. He is already making small steps. Sometime after eleven o’clock at night when my wife is the only one still awake, he quietly emerges. She may hear the litter box in use. After two nights, she looked down the stairwell to see the cat looking up at her, fear in his eyes. The next night, he made it up a couple more steps and waited there for a while before returning to under the couch. Three nights ago was a breakthrough. He came into the computer room where my wife spends most of her free hours and sat warily under the desk. My wife avoided any major movements, but slowly put her hand down by her side. It took about ten minutes, but he warily approached her. She gently scratched his head. He stood up on his rear legs, put his front paws on her legs, and purred outrageously. This went off and on for half an hour before he slowly ambled downstairs and returned to his spot under the couch.

Since that time, he has visited my wife every evening, when it is quiet, around eleven o’clock. I dutifully fill his food bowl and change his water dish in the morning, but otherwise I do not see him. It is not easy for me to give him space. I want to peek under the couch, as my daughter does when she comes home from school, and say hello. However, he does not seem to like this attention right now. Eventually he turns around so he is not facing her. He will fully emerge in time, but on his own terms, and only when he feels it is safe.

I have to respect that. Still, I find it hard. After six months without a cat on my lap, the absence of a feline has made their lure that much stronger. Now, I am practically aching for a feline on my lap. I am not sure this cat will even be a lap sitter. Nevertheless, it would be nice just to pet him. I would like to give him a scratch under his chin, as I did with my last cat Sprite. I must be patient.

I did see him briefly this morning when I stumbled out of bed around 6:15 a.m. I usually elect to wake up our daughter and send her to school. I am now careful to open our bedroom door slowly in case he is out there; I do not want to startle him. So far, that has not been a problem because he is elsewhere. This morning though when I did glance down into our living room, I saw him on the carpet, just next to the living room couch. He looked up at me warily. I doubt cats are schooled in reading human emotions, but I smiled and said nice things to him. “There you are,” I said. “There is no reason to hide. We love cats around here.” That was enough for him: fifteen seconds or so of cautious staring, then a quick dash back under the couch. That is where he had remained utterly silent all day. I sent a toy ball under the couch this evening in the hopes that he might play with it. However, it must make too much noise for him. Right now, he is still anxious not to be seen.

It is human nature to anthropomorphosize pets. It takes deliberate effort to remember that he is a cat, not a human being. Animal scientists assert that the emotional part of animal brains is much larger than their rational parts. They are believed to live mostly in the present, but to carry powerful emotional impressions of their past. Found outside a gas station in Lovettsville, Virginia and rescued by Friends of Homeless Animals, this three-year-old cat has likely been abused before. Trust will have to be earned slowly, on his terms, in small paw steps.

Meanwhile, I avoid upsetting his delicate balance. I want him to heal and to trust. It is probably not a good idea to run the vacuum cleaner today. Since his cat box is in the entertainment room and he may need to use it, I have avoided television. Fortunately, this is no sacrifice, since I have largely given up television anyhow.

Perhaps tonight will be the night we become a little better acquainted. Since I do not have to go to work tomorrow, I plan to stay up late. I am hoping that if I sit quietly here on the computer he will gently head up the stairs around eleven o’clock, as he has the last several nights. The question is whether he will keep coming up the stairs when he sees me, or will head back under the couch. Maybe, just maybe, I will get to pet him.

This is of course quite a change from the cat we met in the cattery. There you simply sat down and he was one of a half dozen cats all over you. There were cuter cats than him, but arguably, he was one of the most affectionate. The message to us seemed clear: he liked us and he wanted a new home. The reality of a new home though will take some getting used to. He may smell evidence of cats past, wonder where they are, and whether they are going to attack him. Therefore, he remains very wary and very cautious. Cats for the most part do not deal well with change. Relocation is one of their biggest traumatic events. Yet he must settle down eventually. In time this new world with us will becomes routine and the old memory of the cattery where he spent about a year will fade. He will understand he is in a place where he will be loved and doted on. It will be a special place that will be all his and we will be his special humans with whom he has chosen to spend the rest of his life. When the weather is temperate, he can sit out on the screened porch and enjoy nature. Otherwise, he can roam the house as he pleases, watch birds, humans and automobiles pass by on the street through the window, sleep in his new bed that he has not tried out yet, and generally be spoiled rotten with as much attention as he can hold.

For now, we just wait for him to emerge. It must be done on his terms though, not ours.

The Friends of Homeless Animals shelter is out somewhere in Loudoun County, Virginia. I will not say exactly where it is. Their web site does not tell you. Considering that many of the animals at their shelter were found abandoned or abused, there is no point inviting more trouble. However, if you gently inquire and you do not sound like a dog or cat abuser, they will provide directions to the shelter.

You will have to visit them on the weekends when they have adoption hours. However, if you fall in love with one of their homeless cats or dogs, plan to wait a week. The adoption committee will first check out you out. If you had animals before they will inquire with your veterinarian. Expect a home visit. No “cat stays in the garage” types need apply. In fact, you have to promise that your adopted cat will stay indoors, will never be declawed, or will be taken to the animal shelter. In other words, you have to not just say that you love your cat or dog; you should be able to demonstrate that you can follow through.

If an animal at FOHA has to wait for years to find the right owners, so be it. Any cat or dog that ends up at FOHA is a fortunate animal. First, in many cases they have been rescued from neglect. Second, if they have not been spayed, the veterinarian will take care of it. Third, they will be fed a healthy diet, be brushed and cleaned regularly, and, if they are a dog, exercised regularly too. Fourth, unlike many animal shelters, they will not be euthanized because there is no room at the inn. Fifth, most animals will be adopted in time. They will then have the quality love and attention they might not have received from their last owners.

It takes a constant stream of devoted volunteers and doubtless a heap of money to run this kind of animal shelter. Much of the work is not glamorous. Dogs need to go for regular walks. Cages must be cleaned. There are many cat boxes to be changed, and cat gorp to be removed from the floors. They need volunteers during adoption hours. Then there is the work involved in maintaining the substantial infrastructure: hauling food and supplies, managing the property, fixing kennels, and showing off pets periodically at local events.

As you wind your way through the one lane gravel road toward their property, you are likely to see volunteers walking dogs on a path in the woods. As you park your car, you are likely to hear the sometime deafening roar of dogs barking. Most cannot wait to be your friend. Our particular destination was the cattery. A cattery is a house for felines. This particular cattery held about thirty cats. As a rule cats prefer to have their own space. I suspect some of these cats were a bit stressed from having so little personal space. Still they made do, and could often be found going through a cat door to a protected outside space. One room in the cattery was devoted to kittens. It is currently kitten season, and there were plenty of kittens needing adoption.

We were looking to replace the irreplaceable. Sprite, my cat companion of more than 19 years, was put to sleep in March. Since that time, something has been deeply wrong in our house. To put it plainly: it lacked a cat. A trip to FOHA made us realize just how much we missed having a feline in our lives. It also made me sad to see so many wonderful animals without homes of their own. I wanted to bring them all home, but I knew it could be only one cat.

Only which one? This was a source of some consternation in our house. For we each had different requirements from a cat. My wife wanted one that minimally impacted her allergies. Domestic short hairs were preferred over longhaired cats. My daughter wanted one that was young, playful and affectionate. However, she was nearly 17 and would be out of the house soon. Since we would be responsible in the long term for the pet, my wife and I had to be mindful of our limits. I wanted Sprite back. Since that could never happen, I could settle for a generally quiet and affectionate adult cat, preferably the type who would rest happily on my lap while I worked on the computer. At least none of us wanted kittens. Having done it once we knew that while they were awfully cute, they could also be amazingly destructive.

Our daughter fell in love with a cat named Stephanie. She had tested positive to exposure to Feline Infectious Peritonitis, and had a number of teeth removed. She was sweet and snuggly, but after talking it over with our vet she looked like she might turn into more of a special needs cat than we could handle. I was directed to a cat called Spike, a lovely yellow tabby, who was very quiet and docile. I felt sorry for Spike. Mabel looked like a good compromise choice: small, short haired and affectionate like Stephanie, but without the potential FIP problem. She might have come home with us had she not scratched our daughter unexpectedly.

We settled on a cat called Papa, a very affectionate brown and black haired tabby who was also docile enough to let us pick him up and cuddle him. Papa had been found on the side of the road in Lovettsville, Virginia. A sister of a FOHA worker took him home, but he volunteered to hide in her basement. She thought for sure he was going to be a hostile cat, but she was surprised to find that in time he turned into one the most affectionate cats she had ever met. Thus he came to FOHA, where he stayed for a few months until we adopted him today. He was named Papa because in the shelter he was both affectionate and looked after all the younger cats.

Thus far, he has yet to come out from under our bed. While we hope he will not hide there too long, we can certainly understand how this kind of transition would be hard on any cat. Meanwhile, we are pondering new names for Papa. Papa may turn out to be like our cat Squeaky, who named herself. Originally, she was named Pixel. However, because she could not stop talking and made a sound like a door on a rusty hinge, Squeaky became her name. Papa’s meows are small and rather plaintive. I doubt, now that he is away from other cats, that he will turn into a loud cat.

Loud or quiet, we are glad to have a feline in the house again, even if he chooses to hide under our bed for now. Whether a good or evil cat, we will love him regardless and do our best as pet owners.

We have lived in our house thirteen years. Since Sprite died, it has felt more like a house than a home. When the couches are covered in cat dander again, when I automatically empty the litter box on Sunday and Wednesday nights, when I find myself lounging around and find that a cat has appeared on my lap, when I have to watch where I walk lest I trip over a cat, then it will likely feel like a home once again.

One thing I have noticed: our house stays cleaner now. It is amazing. Whereas I used to spend part of each week wiping cat gorp off the carpet or the floors, or vacuuming the cat dander off the sofa, now we can go for months without needing to vacuum the living room. Of course, it helps if you rarely use your living room. There is no television or computer there to draw people. It is there mostly for show. Consequently, I can still see on the living room carpet the imprints from the wheels of our vacuum cleaner weeks after I vacuumed.

Our kitchen floor also requires half the cleaning it used to. We kept the cat food and water in one corner of the kitchen. Cats may be finicky about what they eat, but they are careless about how they eat it. When we had our cats Squeaky and Sprite, they lived on The Science Diet. I could count on cat food pellets scattered for several feet around their food dish every day. Usually I could not tolerate this disorder for more than a few days before I had to sweep it into the trash. I am a bit anal that way. The absence of cat food in the kitchen may explain why we did not suffer our usual invasion of ants this spring.

As regular readers know, Squeaky and Sprite have gone to meet their makers. Squeaky went first, in 2004, at age 17. Old age only made her louder, more annoying and more crotchety. My beloved cat Sprite passed away in March at age 18 and a half. They are still with us though. Their cremated remains hold a place of honor on our mantelpiece. Had they tried to walk on the mantelpiece when they were alive we would have chased them off. Now they rest there with our blessings. They earned the right to such an elevated place in our house.

We have been dealing with too much death these last few years. Losing cherished family pets is traumatic enough. Losing my mother last year added to our sense of loss. Our family unit is still trying to get its bearings. We are still in the boat together, but the waters have become quite turbulent. We realize life is about change, but it seemed easier to pretend change was not happening to us. As if I needed more evidence, my daughter starts her senior year in high school in about a week. She could potentially be off to college in a year, although I suspect she will opt for community college and commute from home. It still hurts to visit my father and know my Mom is not puttering around the kitchen. It seems very strange that, at nearly 80, he is dating other women. In addition, I turn 50 next February. My wife and I are also eyeing our financial portfolios with retirement no longer an abstract concern.

Our six months without a pet have not been entirely bad. I found other things to do with my time than feed the cats in the morning and take their used litter out with the trash twice a week. With no cat serenading me outside my door, I sleep better. I have rather gotten used to not having a cat on my lap while on the computer. I notice it is a lot easier to type without a furry, purring behemoth stretched across my lap.

Still, I think my family is ready to take on another pet. My wife has been pushing a rabbit as our ideal next family pet. Like a cat, they are certainly soft and cuddly. They can be cute like cats too. Most importantly, she is not allergic to rabbits. So with my encouragement she learned about the House Rabbit Society. They put us in touch with a local woman who keeps rabbits in her house. She had four when we visited her a few weeks back. Her house often acts as a way station for rabbit in transition, since rabbits like other pets are often turned in or abandoned.

One of her rabbits was a Hurricane Katrina survivor. We sat on her floor and let the rabbits scamper around us. This survivor rabbit had recovered nicely. Once deeply antisocial, she was now the most curious rabbit in the house. She repeatedly came around to sniff my foot and rub up against it. They are rabbit loves signs. She would let me pet her a little bit too, although she was skittish. I enjoyed my time with the rabbits, but I was not quite sure we could make it work in our house. There was no place for a rabbit hutch. In addition, it is quite a pain keeping them safe from live electrical cords. Rabbits have teeth that can slice through an electrical cord without any difficulty. I also noticed that while they used litter boxes, it was only to urinate. They were quite content to poop wherever and whenever they needed to. I did not particularly like the idea of having to daily vacuum the rabbit poop off the carpets and floors. Rabbits also require a watchful eye. When they are out of their cages, you needed to know where they are at all times. We agreed that rabbits were probably impractical in our household.

We discussed other pet options. We never owned a dog. A few breeds are hypoallergenic. Nonetheless, there are some significant drawbacks to dogs. First, they require much more attention than cats. None of us is the type who likes to take walks with the dog 5-6 times a day, particularly in the early mornings. In addition, many dogs are yippers. Cats can be loud too, but dogs tend to be much louder and more persistent. When I arrive home in the evening, I need solace. I could not see getting much with a dog in the house. In addition, I have found dogs to be a bit too devoted for my taste. I do not mind adoration from a pet, but 24×7 in your face adoration is too much for me. Therefore, we scratched dogs from our list.

We were hopeful in our cat free environment that my wife’s allergies would subside. That has not proven to be the case. She takes multiple pills and sprays for her allergies. After Sprite died and the dander receded, she went off her Flonase nasal spray. Yet she soon developed sinus infections anyhow. The doctor put her back on the Flonase. So while cat dander would remain an irritant for her, it would be just one of many. Since she would have to treat her allergies anyhow, getting another cat is no longer out of the question.

We are considering cat breeds that have less dander. Bengals and Abyssinian cats reputedly have less, but they are harder to find. (There are also hairless breeds of cats, like Sphynx cats, but I find them personally revolting.) Having had Squeaky and Sprite as kittens, I am not particularly anxious to go through that furniture-shredding phase again. Instead, I would prefer a gentle indoor adult house cat, preferably one amenable to lap sitting. Perhaps a new cat would restore some sense of balance to our out of kilter lives.

Our daughter seems more anxious than I am to have another house cat. She spends much of her free time surfing web sites looking at cats for adoption. Through my covenant group, I know a woman who works for a local animal rescue shelter. She sent me a flyer of cats available for adoption. Since this week will find me in Shepherdstown, West Virginia attending leadership training, this weekend is not a good one to adopt a cat.

My wife seems happily resigned at this point to another cat. She too prefers cats, just not their dander. Perhaps next weekend we will start our search for a new feline friend in earnest. With another cat, we know that our house will be louder, messier and dirtier. However, I think our house will feel more like a home again. Perhaps when I retire in the evening, I will once again find a faithful companion on my bed, his nose pressed into my face. Like our last cats, he will probably want to sleep with us on the bed. Like them, he will be disappointed. We will cuddle him (if he will let us) then gentle drop him outside our door before we drop off to sleep.

Poor Fred is dead.

This is no April Fools joke. Fred the Ferocious Fish is dead.

Fred was our one remaining pet. They have been dropping like flies lately. My beloved cat and soul mate Sprite was put to sleep on Sunday evening. Now this. I come back from taking my father to the Udvar-Hazy Air and Space Museum Annex only to find Fred careened over at the bottom of his tank.

Fred you see was our pet betta. Originally, she was my daughter’s pet fish. However, taking care of Fred was not one of her priorities. Eventually my wife took over most of the fishy duties, which involved changing his water and cleaning his small tank every other week or so. I did my small part. I added Fred to my morning chores by putting a pinch of Betta Bites food in his tank. I’d also give him a cheery “Yo, Fred” too.

I thought Fred was a happy fish. My wife though was convinced he wanted to be a piranha. At two inches long though he was likely not going to bite off our fingers. I thought he was just intensely interested in us. When we were in the room, he was often at the side of the tank staring at us with those big beady eyes of his. However, if you did anything to his space, Fred was going to be on your case.

Bettas are beautiful fish. They are also very single minded. If Sprite was about love, Fred was about vigilance. We tried to explain to him that it was unlikely that any predator fish were going to attack him. However, we could not convince him. We put a few plastic plants in his tank. Most of the day he “hid” in the plants, ready to leap out at a moment’s notice to guard his turf. Otherwise, he liked playing sentry by guarding the perimeter of his hexagonal tank with great care.

For his amusement, my wife placed the underside of a CD next to his tank. It was shiny enough to act as something like a mirror. At first, it freaked out Fred – who was this predator and why couldn’t he kill him? He would puff out his gills; if fish had blood, you knew his blood pressure had to have risen. Nevertheless, eventually even his tiny fish brain must have figured out there was nothing to fear. Over the last year or so, Fred seemed to enjoy preening himself in his “mirror”.

We were surprised by how long Fred survived. We know we have had him at least two years, but it is likely closer to three years. This was not bad value for a fish about two inches long and who only cost a couple bucks. When the computer was not engaging our attention, we could turn around and spend some time watching him. He could be amusing. He liked to spit by blowing bubbles on the surface of his tank. He preferred to sleep at the bottom of the tank. Lately his vigilance slipped, and it would take a tap or two on his fish tank to get his attention. It was clear that Fred’s best days were behind him.

And now he is gone. Perhaps I am bereft of tears for his passing because I shed all I had with Sprite’s passing. More likely, I was not too attached to Fred. He was neither cuddly nor wanted to sit on my lap. I was not sure what sort of funeral he would want. I asked my daughter, who claims to be a Wiccan, what was an appropriate funeral for a fish. She had no idea. So Fred was laid to his aquatic rest by being flushed down the toilet. I figured wherever fish heaven is, it must be in the water, and not in the heavens, so the toilet seemed the most expeditious way to get him there.

Now for the first time in nearly twenty years we are wholly bereft of pets. I do not think we will be without one for long. My wife is already talking about getting another Betta. They are certainly pretty to look at. I doubt though that we will get as much amusement from another betta as we got from Fred. However, if you have to have one fish as a pet, a betta is an excellent kind to get. They are extremely low maintenance fish. They are happy in a small tank with a couple inches of distilled water and a few artificial plants. They can go for a week without changing their water. They do not need either a heater or an aerator.

I have a feeling another warm-blooded pet will have to wait until after we get back from our trip to Paris in July. I know my wife wants a rabbit. She says they are soft and purr like cats, but she is not allergic to them. For me, it is hard to imagine a replacement for my lap cat Sprite. On the other hand, there is a certain liberation being petless. There is no more regularly changing of the litter box. There is no more refreshing the cat food and changing the drinking water. I get to work fifteen minutes earlier in the morning because I do not need to shove pills and yogurt down a feline’s throat. There are no hairballs on the carpet to continually clean up either. On Monday, I vacuumed and cleaned the carpets, which had been heavily abused by our felines these last twenty years. Amazingly, they are still clean. Alas, there is no warm fuzzy and purring thing on my lap looking up at me with big, loving eyes either. Moreover, there is no feline resting between our pillows on our bed, or cuddling up next to me in bed before retiring either. Those familiar and comfortable patterns are gone with the wind.

Read the rest of this entry »