It's been a while since he has had the condition coined by my family as "a bug up [his] ass." There were a few times in the first months that I had Jack where he ran from room to room, chasing something invisible or getting a bit of exercise. Unlike my family's cat, Princess, Jack didn't like to fight/wrestle. Whereas Princess would pounce my arm and only half-bite at my palm or wrist, Jack took any kind of playful advances as serious, leaving deep scratches. It took only one or two times for me to get the point.
He still retains his energy, though it has gone from running from room to room into yelling, specifically yelling at me to give him food. No meal goes by without him exerting his curiosity over whether or not he would be interested in sampling whatever I'm eating. When I produce a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or a cup of tea for his inspection, it's clear to see his disappointment. I've gotten in the habit of sneaking glasses of milk when he's not looking. The poor boy's a dairy fiend, developing the addiction thanks to a prior roommate who would allow Jack to lap up the remaining milk from the morning's bowl of cereal.
In the six years that I've had him, Jack has lived in seven different places. During five of those, he had to share the livingspace with another cat. The first was with my parent's as I moved from New York to Connecticut and for two months, I had Jack stay up north while I looked for a new place. Jack was a charmer though his vocalizations didn't earn him any favors from my parents nor their fat tabby, Princess.
Princess has gotten old. Lately, she has a hard time climbing up the three steps from the sunken living room of my parents' home to the tiled walkway to the kitchen. My family got Princess in an odd way, which if she could register such thoughts, the story might traumatize the poor girl. Mom, while working a construction job in Port Douglas, found a kitten hightailing it down the side of a back road. She took him home and put him in the laundry room, named him Douglas and bought him some food. It was too late. Malnourishment and possible disease would claim the weak cat two days later. Though it was too late for Douglas, his death would lead to a cat being adopted from the local shelter.
I stayed at home with our dog, Busco, while the parents and my little sister went to pick out a cat. The first attempt didn't work, as this smoke grey, black striped kitten turned into a whirling ball of claws and teeth at the sight of our moderately sized dog. The second attempt at an adoption produced this white ball of fluff, marked with a gravel mixture of colors on her back. Though the first meeting wasn't a love fest, it wasn't the wrecking ball of hissing that the first cat produced. My parents figured that it was the best they can do. Since my sister was with them, she named the cat. Ergo, Princess.
Early pictures show this pint-sized kitten sitting on the shoulder of the teenage version of myself. It was one of her favorite places to sit or lay, upsetting my sister who protested with "It's MY cat!" Over the years, as she got fatter, Princess realized that she couldn't be the parrot to my pirate. She adjusted, and we started to play-fight. She never really hurt me but when I went to school with forearms and hands all covered in scratches, I'm sure some teachers thought I was cutting myself. It might have earned me some street cred with the goth/emo kids but I don't think there were that many in my high school. I blew the cred anyway when my physics project involved calculating the amount of force that Princess exerted in taking down my arm, a bullshit presentation that I came up with last minute due to my little interest in that field of science and my easy access to a video camera.
Princess got along with Busco, who would pass away while I was in Canada for a week in 2001. Outside of the occasional visit from our neighbor's Jack Russel terrier, our cat never really interacted with animals she didn't seek to kill, eat and/or leave the remains of which inside our house. When she was introduced to Jack shortly after I got him from the Menands Animal Shelter, she didn’t really know how to interact. There weren’t any fights, only a little bit of hissing. Jack was not aggressive and just followed me around during the visit. Subsequent trips produced the same results, with Princess being slightly displaced by this intruder but taking it in stride.
When he stayed for the two months in 2006, I guess they got along. My parents say they have pictures of the two of them sharing the couch, though there was a good amount of space in between the two of them. The real gem comes from one afternoon where Princess, who had started the habit of sleeping next to my Mom, was having a snooze when Jack came up and licked her nose. He walked away while she remained perplexed and possibly annoyed by this kiss-and-run.
Princess would be the only female cat Jack would share a living space with until recently, when my current roommate moved in with a small fluffball named Bianca. Grey from head to tail, Bianca was a small runt much like Princess was. Declawed in the front two paws, this timid feline was more afraid of Jack than Jack was of her. In fact, reserved to his old man persona, Jack didn’t pay Bianca any attention. It wasn’t until a few months of him just walking around and leaving her alone did she manage to work up the courage to leave the space underneath my bed. They seemed to be cats that lived in the same apartment but in different spots at all time. I think once they shared the same bed, though I was in it at the time (a mitigating factor, I assume.) She’s since moved out as the roommate has decided to spend most of her time at her boyfriend’s studio while continuing to pay for rent here.
Before Bianca, Jack went through a trio of roommates. When he first moved to Connecticut, he was the only cat in a two-level apartment. He had plenty of space to run, explore and sleep, which were his favorite things to do at the time outside of eating. It was a pleasant apartment and I haven’t stayed in anyplace as nice as the neighborhood it was in. But, such things are costly. When the four of us were scattered, I ended up on a one-way on a street that used to be populated with drug dealers and prostitutes. Used to, I stress.
It was another two-level apartment, though the overall space was much smaller. There was free laundry services and cheaper heating. But this was the first time that Jack would share an apartment with another cat.
Enter Puma. When I first met Puma, I was amazed that any cat would love getting its belly rubbed the way this cat did. Puma, like Jack, was all black but where Jack’s genetics have him naturally slim and angled, Puma was a pudge. He wasn’t terribly fat but this cat was the epitome of cuddly. Round, friendly and gentle, Puma made a strong impression during my visit that assuaged my concerns that Jack would enter a place and be miserable.
Of course, I was right but I was also wrong. Jack and Puma were introduced improperly, where Jack kind of chased Puma around. Maybe it was an aggression thing? Puma was never an instigator and I was worried that I had introduced a jerk to the peaceful home. Cats would be cats and after some getting used to each other, things settled out. Puma spent a lot of time upstairs, not bothering to come down to visit the first level. Jack roamed freely. Fortunately, my roommate who owned Puma wasn’t bothered by things, since she was either out of the apartment or enjoyed that Puma stayed with her in her room. Can’t be certain.
I spent a lot of time at the apartment, in between work and classes. Puma hung out with me in my room, sleeping a lot in the top of a cardboard box. This cat was also a hugger, climbing up a chair and mewling out for me to pick him up and give him a squeeze. He was a good cat and I do miss him. We bonded and during the Summer and Winter breaks, when his owner went back to Texas, Puma stayed with me in my room. Jack would sleep at the head of the bed curled up on a pillow or a corner of blanket, while Puma rested his head across my ankle. It worked out and things were good.
When the apartment was sold and our lease terminated, me and my two roommates were given notice that we would have to move. We found a place up the block that was more expensive but offered more room. Plus, it was a ground floor apartment, making it appealing to those of us with heavy furniture. When we moved into this new place, whatever aggression the cats had between them was left behind at the old apartment. Puma and Jack were suddenly calm around each other, eating from the same plate and having no problem rubbing up against each other. I was really glad. Finally, things would settle between these two cats. Puma continued to hang out in his boxtop in my room, while Jack rested on the bed. The two would change spots at the apartment’s many windows. It seemed things were working out.
Then came Baki.
The third roommate, feeling left out, decided to get a cat for himself. To me and the other roommate, this didn’t seem like a problem. The third roommate spent most of his time in his room, smoking pot, having sex and playing video games. He would be around to take care of the cat. We gave our blessing. What we got in return was a raw deal.
The cat I called “Medium” (because Jack was “Small” and Puma was “Large”) would ultimately be called “Habakkuk,” from the 8th book of the 12 Minor Prophets of the Hebrew Bible. My roommate was a Divinity Student, though a committed atheist. I named Jack because it was a simpler name than what the shelter had given him, “Joey.” Puma came with his name from the owner that my roommate got him from. These are simple, if not plain, names, offset by their larger personalities.
I called him Haba. His owner called him Baki. He would be more known as “Little fucker” or “You bastard.” Haba came to our apartment not from a friend of the third roommate, but a friend of a friend. This friend of a friend had noticed Haba was walking around with a gash on his hind-quarters. Yes, Haba was a street cat and it was directly from the street that he came to us, with only a visit to the vet to clean up the gash in between.
Haba fucked shit up. He was aggressive towards Puma and Jack and did what any stray cat would do. He asserted himself across the apartment. Haba sought out to pick on Puma, which caused Puma to urinate out of stress in my clothes hamper twice, ruining a good deal of my clothing. Ultimately, we had Puma sequestered to his owner’s room. But whenever someone walked in, they had to be careful because Haba was always trying to get in to pick a fight with Puma.
Jack wasn’t as timid but he didn’t enjoy the situation any more than Puma. Haba would try to provoke a fight or a game with Jack, who wouldn’t have any of it. Often, I heard Jack’s long droning whine in another room, where I would walk in to see Haba sitting a foot away from an irritated Jack.
The house was pretty miserable for a lot of things during that period. I had lost my job and my part of the bills became delinquent. I owed money and it ultimately ruined my relationship with the other roommates. There were some creative highs but it was a lengthy period of lows. The situation with the cats didn’t help.
With the living relationship over, I said good-bye to Puma and to Haba and moved on. I miss Puma to this day and I’ve come to see Haba as being a troubled cat that needed a lot more work than what his owner could offer. Haba was a cat of the streets that needed some attention, and while his owner WAS around, it seemed that he was less around than usual when Haba showed up. It seemed that shortly after Haba arrived, his owner developed a social life outside of the apartment. It’s a shame but it’s all a case of bad timing.
Puma, as I know of, went to live with his owner’s parents while she went off to Germany for a prestigious scholarship. In contrast, Haba was given to a foster home while his owner also went to Germany for scholastic purposes. I think both are stateside, but I don’t know. We haven’t talked. I wouldn’t be surprised if Haba was given to a person who had the patience and expertise to train him.
I hope both cats are happy, wherever they are, in the care of someone who loves them.
Jack was grateful to be rid of Haba but I have to feel for the old man. He went out of the frying pan and into the fire when I moved from my apartment to a subletting situation. A graduating student had two more months on her lease and I took up the slack. When I moved in, I was introduced to Willie.
My friend Jenn would steal Willie if she didn’t already have a cat named Clio. Clio is pretty awesome, a tortoise shelled cat with attitude. Though Clio prefers men over women, she has developed a lovey-dovey side for Jenn over the last couple of years. If only Clio knew how Jenn was cheating on her with Willie, Clio might not be so lovey-dovey.
Willie is a one-eyed, orange and white cat who was rescued from a barn. A bad sinus infection got into his eye and it had to be removed. I think he was named Willie afterwards, either for the Goonies reference or perhaps for the penis innuendo. Considering how much Willie could be a dick, either is appropriate.
Willie was more of a wildcat than any of the ones mentioned so far. I met Willie before I met his owner. I started moving in during the evenings when Miles was off at work. Willie checked me out and started to bite and scratch, but in a playful ways. It wasn’t until Willie wrapped his back legs around my arm that I realized he was trying to make my hand his new girlfriend. Thankfully, he was neutered shortly after that.
Willie is a cute cat and he is a charmer. When Jenn, horrified by the state of my bathroom, decided to clean it (It was payment for something I had done for her, I can’t recall), Willie hung out with her and watched. Maybe it was the first time anyone had cleaned the bathroom? Willie was indeed a curious one. He only gnawed on her once, a time when she visited afterward. Maybe Willie likes the ladies more than the dudes? Or maybe he figured my arm was enough of a chewtoy that he only gnawed on Jenn half-heartedly? Can’t be certain.
He was a jerk to Jack, though. I can’t blame Willie. As a barn cat, he was used to fighting against other cats. When he first saw Jack, Willie freaked out, huffing like how a tiger might. He didn’t meow as he whined. And from there, the fights happened. There were tuffs of orange and black hair all around the apartment during the day. At night, I kept Jack in my room because I figured we both could use eight to ten hours without a fight happening. It was stressful for the old boy and I think he was grateful to finally move out of that house into the current apartment.
When I started writing this, Jack has gotten up from his sunspot to climb into my lap for a brief period before leaping down to get some dry food to eat before settling down on the foam mat that rests in front of a heating grate. When I got up to get something to drink, I noticed it was time to feed him. Or, truthfully, Jack noticed it was close to when he gets fed in the afternoon and came to remind me. He’s an old cat. His kidneys are failing and his thyroid puts his metabolism at a bad rate. He can’t keep any weight on. I always think “this year is going to be it,” but his energy levels are high and he’s always hungry. He aims to prove me wrong.
When I first walked into the Animal Shelter, I turned to the right and the row of cages full of cats. I ended up on the left side, where there was a wall of black cats. I wanted to adopt an older cat. There was a fat one, like Puma, resting that I was thinking of until I turned. This one cat, sitting up, gave a now familiar meow and boom. That was it. They called him Joey and after paying the fees for the kitty leukemia tests, this black cat was now in my life. He continues to sleep on my bed with me and if I sit down for more than two minutes, he makes sure to claim his space on my lap (or on the spot reserved for him on my desk.)
When I started out, I wanted to talk about Socks, the cat who has a Twitter feed with 1.5 million followers and his growing duty. His is not the only cat-based-twitter account on the site, and whenever one of those numerous cats pass away, Socks sends off a salute. It’s always sincere (for what 140 characters can afford) and it’s peculiar to me. When Jason Scott started the twitter account for his cat, I don’t think he planned on being this defacto Representative of Cats. It’s a strange thing to be responsible for a cat or a dog or any other pet; I think it often happens by accident or without much ceremony. Jack’s adoption wasn’t so much on a whim but I didn’t really plan it. A redhead I loved came down to visit me one weekend and there we went. Busco came into our family’s lives when Dad came across a family offering puppies. Princess was because of Mom’s random luck of finding Douglas. These events aren’t special. I imagine they happen all the time. Life with pets isn’t planned and it’s a bit of randomness that people can afford themselves. There isn’t much point to pets as there isn’t as much of a point to this writing. It’s a record. Jack has finished his food for now and has gone back to his spot in the living room. The sun is shining and he’s sleeping off a full stomach.
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