Anyone who knows me knows I have a rather eclectic mix of animals; cows who love cookies, goats, chickens, a turkey, a duck and a donkey; and three very spoiled dogs. Add to this mix four cats, each with a unique personality that only adds to the craziness.
The oldest of the cats is Callie, and she is by far the crankiest. She kind of reminds me of the poor cat out of the old Pepe LePew cartoons right after she falls into the barrel - all mangy, drippy and wheezy. She spends most of her days curled up in a ball sleeping, unless she wakes up long enough to eat or hiss at one of the others, all of whom have learned to steer clear of the old bitch. If I had any sense, I'd do the humane thing and have her put down, but she came to me via an old friend who is no longer part of this world; so instead, I just leave her alone and let her sleep away whatever life she has left.
Tinker, on the other hand, is probably the most "normal" of the cats. She was part of a pair given to me, but unfortunately, her sister didn't survive kittenhood. She is the most loving of the kitties; always willing to cuddle and purr for anyone offering an ear-scratch, and she loves to perch on your lap, your belly, your chest, or your keyboard...especially when you are right in the middle of something. She is often the first thing I see in the morning, because she likes to wake me up by sitting on my chest and putting her nose right on mine. Tinker is also the girls' favorite go to kitty when they have had a bad day, or gotten in trouble, or had their little egos bruised; she is constantly packed around and hugged on...and she doesn't mind a bit.
Squeegee is, by far, the most neurotic of the cats, and after what she's been through, why shouldn't she be? A couple summers ago, my irrigation pump decided to croak, which meant I had to hand irrigate my pasture while waiting for the replacement. Since I hadn't had to do this for a while, it required cleaning the ditch between the pond and the pasture, and this was accomplished via a DR Trimmer. We have a lot of feral cats at my other place, and feral cats always mean feral kittens; well, as my friend was running the trimmer while I dammed up the water to go down the ditch, I happened to look up and see some movement in the grass right where he was at. Sure enough, it was one of these kittens. I knew it was going to die, so I found a nice soft spot in some grass where it could go in peace and left it alone.
A few days later, I was up at the place with my girls. I was out in the pasture changing my corrugates when I hear: "Mom! Guess what we found!" Now I'm thinking an egg, or a snake, or a really weird bug. They come booking out to where I'm at holding something, and when they get to me, they proudly show me...a kitten. The same kitten I thought was going to die. Well, of course, I couldn't leave anything with that much spirit, so it came home. I gave it a few drops of penicillin, nursed it with a syringe, and put it to bed in a shoebox. I told the girls not to get too attached to it, because it had been hurt pretty bad...and I told them that every day for two weeks, while the kitten, in turn, did just fine.
Two years later, this bipolar cat is as much a part of the family as any, and has even been named a class mascot. She is definitely in her own little world; one minute she wants you to love on her, and the next, she gone like a bat out of hell. She never stays out very long, preferring instead to hide under my bed...and for some reason, she hates the sound of the lawnmower...
Now Tick...he's the shit, and the shithead. Tick is another casualty of having a ranch. Every year ditch banks have to be burned, and that's what we were doing. I had seen the cat run, but didn't think anything of it, until I heard this sound, and I thought...Oh, shit. I climbed up to the edge of the burn, and found this little singed ball of orange fur. He looked horrible and smelled worse, and when I picked him up, I could see he was maybe two weeks old; his eyes were just barely opened and his ears were still closed. The fire had toasted the tip of his tail (which eventually fell off), and the tips of his ears. There was an offer to put the baby out of his misery, but Isella started bawling, and guess what...
We had tried several names for him - Fuego, Smoky, Singe - but none really fit. While the name game was going on, this little baby still have to be fed...every two hours...and he was a little pig. After I'd get done feeding him, I'd put him down on his stomach, and his little belly would be so full his feet would barely touch the ground; he looked like a little tick.
And the name just kind of stuck.
What was so funny about this baby, other than his penchant for climbing my pant leg when he was hungry, was his attachment to my weenie dog, Polly. From the day we brought him home, she mothered the hell out of this kitten. She bathed him, cuddled him and moved him around. For weeks, if any of the other cats got near him, she'd get very protective, growling and biting at them; Tick was her baby. Eventually, she even began to nurse him, which made quite an interesting sight, to say the least. Even now, a year later, she is still his "Mommy"; at night when she's curled up by my feet, I will feel him sneaking down under the covers to cuddle up by her. Unfortunately, he also still tries to nurse, and that is one sound I don't want to hear at 2 a.m., so with one swift motion of my foot, I kick them both out of the bed. He will then sit there, one ear laid over, with this look of total indignation, before he goes thumping off to another part of the house, while Polly makes her way back down to her spot by my feet.
As I've said, he is not a quiet cat; in fact, it is a good thing I feed him, because there is no way in hell he could sneak up on anything not totally blind and/or deaf. Because of the damage to his tail, he doesn't walk like a normal cat; instead he "thunks" everywhere...even on carpet. You can hear him all over the house..."thunk thunk thunk"...and when he jumps up on anything, there is no sense of grace involved. His tail is stuck in this permanently deformed question mark; no matter how hard he tries, he can't hold it up straight.
Despite it all, though, he loves to go play outside (so does Tinker; Squeegee runs and hides the minute you open the door). It is hilarious to watch him beg to go out; he stands up on his back legs as tall as he can pawing repeatedly at window, and it sounds like a little fan; bapbapbapbapbap; and he will not quit until you let him out. Now when he wants back in, he does the same thing. He will stand there, tail cocked off to one side, and just beat at the window until you let him in. Then he thunks off, usually to go see if there's something in his food dish. To say he is a character would be a gross understatement.
Each of my cats, just like every one of my animals, brings something special to my existence (and not just fur). Even on my worst days, I can count on one of my cats to do something to make things a little better, just as I can can always count on my cows to dig in my pocket for a cookie. It is these little things done by my animals, and my kids, that make my life incredible. So here's to my crazy cats and all they give me...even if I do have to clean up an occasional hairball.
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