13/06/2011 18:46:00
SMASHWORDS EDITION
PUBLISHED BY:
Bill Roberts on Smashwords
Katzenjammer Eins
Copyright © 2011 by Bill Roberts
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We were sitting beside the pool sipping iced Margaritas. The January sun laid golden sheets on our skin, the air shimmered. My sister Kate’s garden folded away towards the sea against which two giant flame trees boiled with Lorikeets. In the sandpit her two boys were loading their truck.
"Do you want one?" she asked. I turned. A child or a lorikeet? But Kate was pointing in the opposite direction. I followed the sweep of her arm and saw her hugely pregnant Siamese cat waddle out onto the patio. "My God!" I said. "When did that happen?"
"I let it happen," she said, "one dark and stormy caterwauling night. For the kids, you know."
"Hmmm."
"I repeat, do you want one? No late orders."
“I’m not ready for . . . a cat."
Kate looked at me over her sunglasses. It was a penetrating look that spoke volumes. She knew I was still not over Jackie. Not completely. Sometimes, not at all.
Now Kate is a wonderful person. She has boundless enthusiasm for everyone and everything and an optimism that will sail cheerfully into the jaws of disaster. If she had been Jonah, she would have said something like 'Well, at least it's nice and warm in here,' and set about tidying the place up. But she can be a bit careless about some things - sort of, let things happen, while she looks the other way. Also, she can be a bit of a bully.
Several weeks went by. I was in a deckchair in the back yard of my share house when I heard a familiar rattle of ancient machinery chugging up my driveway. A door skroinked open and was shut again with a good rattling bang. "God you're lazy!" Kate announced to the neighbours on both sides as she swept into view. "You're lucky," she said. "I moved you to the top of the cancellation list."
I stared at her blankly. Then I noticed the basket in her hand. Alarm bells rang.
“I don’t think so, Katie –“
“I said you were lucky," she cut in, "so now don't push your luck. Take your pick."
She swept the towel from the basket like a magician, revealing five multicoloured pompoms. "You can have any one you like," she said, "except this one. He’s taken.” She pointed to a beautiful tabby, the pick of the bunch. "Oh," she added, "and the neighbour wants this little chap." She touched a tiny black beauty, with pure white paws. My eyes moved on. Her hand curled round a pair that looked like zebra twins. "I nearly forgot," she said. "These two are also reserved."
I looked dubiously at my choice: a scrawny wretch finished mainly in black with whitish streaks and patches. An offset blob of pure white over the nose gave him a kind of crazy stare. The runt of the litter.
"Do you think he'll make it through the weekend?" I asked.
"Oh, he's as tough as nails. He's been dropped on his head twice already, trodden on a few times and even took a dip in the pool.”
“The pool!”
"Jeremy wanted to see if he could swim." She looked at me defensively. "Children are curious," she explained.
I looked at the tiny waif. Already I was beginning to feel protective. Dropped, crushed, half-drowned. He would need building up.
Two kittens had already climbed out onto the lawn. Kate scooped them up.
“They’ve just had their first needle,” she said. “Next one in three months, don’t forget.” And onto my bare midriff she dropped my tiny bundle.
“What, that’s it?”
“What do you want, an owner’s manual?” She strode to her car.
“What do I put him in?”
“Not the microwave.”
A tiny piebald face pushed out from below the towel as she opened the door, fixed its eye on me and mewed. And my little guy bared his needle fangs and let out a feeble response. A choking wave rose into my throat.
He would not drink milk. Instead he stepped on the edge of the saucer and sent the contents swirling over the carpet. I grabbed a wet cloth. As I was scrubbing at the carpet I realised it was gone three o’clock – the girls would be home soon. I had a acquired a cat without so much as letting them know.
I tried the kitten with a piece of raw steak, not interested. What did a kitten eat? And where did they sleep? I was feeling a little out of my depth.
But the girls saved me. Both loved him. Karen found a box in the kitchen cupboard and told me where there was fine red sand at the end of the garden. Megan found a little tin of tuna and the kitten ate a little and then drank some milk.
‘What’s his name?” Megan asked. When I confessed I had no name she immediately suggested Crotchet. Karen wanted Minim. Music teachers. But I did not want a musical cat. Unless something better came to me, his name would be James Gatz. From zero to feline superhero.
So within a few days James was well settled in. He learned in one day how to use the sandbox, how to climb up the doona and get onto my bed, and fall asleep on my chest. The children who came for their piano lessons on the weekend loved him. They chased him, cuddled him and mauled him. And James tolerated it all with total dignity.
But the sandbox. A sandbox can become wearisome. It beats kitty-do on your carpet, certainly. But it demands a refill every evening. It will not tolerate even a single day’s delay. The nightly trip with the shovel began to wear me down. I looked at James. James looked at me, and blinked, and scratched, and chased his tail.
My window was the obvious solution. Getting James up to it was easy, I had only to move the bed close enough for James to hop onto the sill. But it was a meter down to the grass. And James was still very little.
The next afternoon saw my first attempt at animal training. I arranged several cardboard boxes in a spiral up to the sill. James could proceed by a series of small hops from the sill to the grass and back. So with little bits of steak as a lure, I tried to coax him from box to box.
He made a few steps quite willingly: claws in, pull and jump! Easy. But after a few pieces of steak he started to lose interest. He was more interested, when I moved a few boxes, in getting underneath them. Kittens, like young boys, like to hide in dark, confined spaces.
In the middle of this instruction, a little girl came for her piano lesson. She and her mother stopped and watched me. I felt a little stupid. After a while the little girl asked what I was doing.
“”I’m house training my cat,” I muttered.
“You should just use a sandbox,” she announced.
I turned my back on them, waiting for them to go away. Then I brought James back to the bottom box and started again. After some persistence he seemed to get the idea. I was greatly encouraged. He made it to the top box, then hopped onto the sill. Perfect.
Unfortunately, coming down was a different story. James proved very reluctant indeed to come down from the sill to the top box. But I felt sure he would get it in a day or two. I was a patient young man, and James was surely a highly intelligent feline.
That night a wind came up, followed by steady rain set in. In the morning my boxes were scattered around the garden and half of them had collapsed. The spiral staircase idea was a washout.
In the afternoon I found a timber plank in the shed. It was a little narrow, but I showed it to James who sniffed at it and signified his approval with a touch of the paw. I secured it at the base with some bricks, and at the top with old shoelaces and a spare towel, and James scampered all the way up on his first go. Magic!
But again, he would not come down. Going up, he clung to the sides of the plank with his razor claws, but going down, his paws slipped on the surface and he didn’t like it.
In the shed I dug out an old ball of rough twine. Perfect. This I wrapped tightly round the length of the plank, and James was much reassured. I succeeded in getting him to ascend and descend the plank several times in a row.
Now the sandbox. I fetched it and placed it at the bottom of the plank. James showed his approval by squatting in it then and there. Then I put him on the window sill and coaxed him down to the sandbox several times. He understood it all perfectly.
That night I slept soundly in the utter confidence that James would pass the test.
I woke a little late in the morning and had to rush. James, lying at the foot of the bed, lifted his head and looked around dreamily. I put down food for him and dashed off to work.
When I came home, the girls were sitting at the kitchen table. I sensed a certain tension in the air. The corners of Megan’s mouth were down. Karen fixed me with a cold stare.
“You’re bloody cat,” she said, “widdled on my xylophone.”
My heart sank.
“I’m sorry. I’ll clean it up.”
“Too late. Cat pee has to be cleaned up on the spot, and disinfected. That’s why people use sand-trays.”
“He also pooed under my piano,” said Megan.
“What!”
I was dashed. James had failed. I, too, had failed.
“Well,” I said lamely, “back to the drawing-board.”
“Back to the sandbox ,” said Megan tartly.
I looked around.
“Where is he?” I asked.
“God knows,” said Megan.
“Who cares?” said Karen.
I found him in the loungeroom, upside-down on the beanbag, cat-napping. His back legs, splayed like coathangers, pointed at the cieiling. His front paws, crossed over his chest, twitched as he dreamed.
“James Gatz!” I said sternly. “What have you done!”
He ceased twitching, and slowly his eyes slid open. He regarded me for a second, dreamily, then slowly rolled over and stood up. He reached out, splayed his claws, then arched himself into a black hoop as he yawned and stretched gloriously. I scooped him up.
“Lesson time!” I said, and carried him outside. That night, I resolved, I would shut my bedroom door. And if he failed again, I would throw science to the winds and try more traditional methods: rub nose and smack.
But in the morning I could see nothing. A hands-and-knees sniff test confirmed: James Gatz had graduated. I looked out of the window: to my delight I could see a half-hidden deposit in the sandbox. I took the news to the girls.
“Good” said Megan, without looking at me.
“We’ll see,” said Karen.
But I knew, and James knew, that he had passed the test. Nonetheless I decided to maintain the sandbox at the bottom of the ladder for a few days more, just in case.
That night I gave him tuna for dinner. He ate it all and licked his lips and mewed for more. I decided he was turning into quite a handsome fellow. His coat was sleek, he was losing some of his mottled look, and was it my imagination or was he starting to acquire a certain swagger? My heart swelled with pride.
There was no repeat of the xylophone episode. James was declared fully independent.
One afternoon I was watching him exploring the back garden, investigating all he found with nose and paw, when a movement in the hydrangeas caught my eye: the neighbour’s large grey cat advancing on him slowly. James stopped dead. His back curved slowly into a question mark and his hair stood on end. His face flattened into a mask of fear and hate.
I thought such a display a little uncalled for. So did the grey, who continued advancing with no expression at all. I walked over to the two of them. I reached out and stroked the grey. He made no objection, but his eyes were fixed on James. Perhaps they just needed an introduction. I scooped James up, but just as a precaution I also picked up a piece of kindling from the woodpile. Then, slowly, I held James out to the grey.
James must have felt like a sacrificial lamb. He wriggled in my hand and mewed pitifully.
“Don’t worry, I said, “I won’t let him get too close.”
But the grey, faster than a striking snake, flashed out and banged his teeth into James’ shoulder, then slid back. Then he turned on his heel and began walking off. At which point my block of wood slammed squarely into his flank. But he only jumped, hissed, broke into a trot and disappeared over the fence.
The cheek of it! My cat right in my own hand, and he does that!
I took James inside and made a careful examination, but could find no mark. He licked furiously at the spot, but seemed otherwise undamaged. And at dinnertime he ate a very healthy plateful.
It was around this time that Ginger made his appearance. A flat face, great square head and squat, heavy body. His face was covered with scars and his short tail had more than one kink in it. A street fighter.
The first time I saw him he was loping up our drive. I was taking no chances – I hurled a floorbrush at him and he bolted, with an amazing turn of speed for such a bulky beast. A few days later I was working at my desk when there was a fearful screeching outside my window. I dashed outside just in time to see Ginger flying over the front wall.
When I got back to my room James was on the carpet, again licking himself like crazy. And again, I could find no mark. And after a few minutes James was swaggering around as if nothing had happened.
I regarded him for a minute. He was getting bigger all the time. In fact he was almost an adolescent. I wondered whether he might turn out a tiger of a cat, a fearless feline who would tackle intrepidly the most terrifying toms in town. I fetched him a piece of cold crayfish from the fridge.
After that first encounter, Ginger became a regular visitor. Sometimes I found him first, and chased him off. But sometimes James found him first, and got a hiding. But perhaps that was just part of growing up. Had I not endured the same thing myself, more or less?
But that didn’t make me like Ginger and better. What right did he have to come into my yard and assault my cat? And he was so hideously ugly. Who could own such a brute? Who could love such a monster? Certainly he had not been reared properly. Most likely love-starved as a kitten, beaten and abused, traumatic toilet training, the whole caboodle. Result: cat full of hate, social misfit and menace to society at large.
So far I only resented Ginger. But soon I learned to hate him. I arrived home from shopping one Saturday, burdened with bags, and stepped over James, who was lying on the front doormat. I noticed that he did not move, which was unusual. So when I had put the shopping away I went back out and knelt down to stroke him. But as my hand touched his neck his head whipped round and he squalled. His coat was wet through. I slipped my hand under him and he howled. I pulled my hand away and he got up and tried to walk away. But he seemed to be dragging a leg, and his back looked crooked. What on earth was this!
He moved a short way, then sat. He moved to lick himself, but seemed unable even to do that.
The vet very gently felt all his limbs, then gave James an injection.
“He’s badly bruised,” he told me, “but no bones broken.”
“Why is his back so crooked?”
“That’s stiffness and swelling. It should clear up in a few days. If it doesn’t, bring him back and we’ll take some X-rays.”
“What do you think happened to him?”
“Cat fight,” he answered promptly.
“Couldn’t it have been a dog?”
“No,”
he said. “Big dogs break bones, tear cats open. Small dogs usually
keep clear of cats. And look here.”
He parted the fur on James’
side, showing scratches and small red holes.
“Those are claw marks. And these here – “ he showed larger red holes around his back “these are teeth marks. Usually,” he added, “it’s the dominant tom in the neighbourhood.”
“I know exactly which tom it was,” I said, “and his days are numbered.”
He chuckled.
“You shouldn’t blame him,” he said. “An adult tom can have a territory of a hectare or more. Best thing you can do is have your cat neutred.”
“That’ll be the day. If there’s going to be any neutering, it’ll be me neutering that ginger bastard with my garden shears.”
The vet smiled again and gave me a friendly pat on the back as he ushered me out, to get me ready for the bill.
I took James home and laid him on the bed. He fell asleep almost at once.
He woke late in the afternoon, and moved slowly and stiffly to the kitchen. He sat down beside his bowl and gave a meow. I stared in wonderment: nearly recovered already!
The next morning he was still walking stiffly, but his tail was high and some of his swagger was returning. By the time I got home from work he was himself again: he hid under the kitchen table as I walked in, then danced out on his hind legs, swinging wild combinations with both paws. Then he tore off down the passage. That night he tormented my toes under the blankets, every time they dared to move.
The weeks passed. James grew taller, longer, sleeker. He became a better hunter, catching lizards with ease and eating them, guts and all. And if he caught a mouse or a bird he was sure to keep it whole until I had seen his trophy. He learned to leap from the kitchen table to the fridge to the top of the highest cupboard so he could survey the world from his lofty perch just below the ceiling. He learned to leap from the top of the fridge onto the shoulders of unsuspecting visitors, and to bite their feet if they wore thongs. His voice grew deeper again, and his appetite grew exponentially. I calculated he was eating, gram for gram, about eight times what I ate. I remarked on this to the girls.
“Have you wormed him?” said Megan.
“Twice,” I said firmly.
“An animal will eat as much as you put in front of it,” said Karen.
The girls’ enthusiasm for James had waned, no question of that. They were also trying to persuade me to have him neutered. Sacrilege! And James was not an animal, he was a feline prince!
Ginger had not put in an appearance for several weeks. I persuaded myself his owners must have left the neighbourhood, or, better still, that he had been cat-napped and euthanased. But barely had this thought been born, when a terrible cat-squalling shattered the sleepy autumn afternoon, so loud and close that Megan spilled her coffee. I dashed outside to find Ginger right outside the kitchen door, tearing into James. I aimed a kick at Ginger’s flank which, had it landed, would have put him on the neighbour’s roof. But my shoe caught him only a glancing blow on the shoulder, sending him spinning across the lawn. Then he was up and off, with me in pursuit.
At the gate I was just in time to see him clear a fence three houses down. I slipped off a shoe and crept down the footpath.
Through the pickets and the hedge I could make out a patch of red, not two metres away. I took a firm grip of my shoe, jumped up and let fly. The shoe hit him in the back leg, and he tore off into the back of the yard.
As quickly as a sigh, my anger faded. I was satisfied. I had got the bastard for the first time. I probably hadn’t hurt him much, but I had chased him back to the heart of his territory.
Or was it? I wondered, as I retrieved my shoe. Maybe these people hated him as much as I did.
I found James licking himself in the kitchen. Shaken, but unhurt. After a while he left off licking and padded around the kitchen. He found a dry leaf on the floor which he patted, poked, and pushed around before grabbing it in both paws and throwing it over his head behind him.
But as I watched him, I wondered: was James Gatz really a happy cat? He was sleek and well-fed and cared for, but was that enough? Shouldn’t he have friends of his own? What about a girlfriend?
The next afternoon I arrived home just as Megan was about to get into her car. Shd stopped when she saw me, and folded her arms. Not a good sign.
“Is that cat here permanently,” she demanded, “or just visiting?”
I thought for a second. The question made no sense, James was obviously permanent. But I could see what kind of answer was required.
“Just visiting,” I replied.
“I hope so,” she said tartly and got into her car.
In the kitchen, sitting close to James’ nosh bow, I found a cat. Black, like James, only with two front paws white. I bent down for a closer look. It raised its head and looked at me, then let out a thin, querulous mew. I felt a little knot in my throat: the poor thing was hungry. I took out a tin of Katz Ekstasy and gave him a dollop. He attacked it with vigour.
Karen walked in and looked on for a while.
“When that’s finished, “ she said, “he’ll have eaten a whole tinful in ten minutes.”
:”Oh,” I said. “Poor blighter must have been hungry. How long’s he been here?”
She looked at me in puzzlement.
“How long? Didn’t you bring him home last night?”
“No, I’ve never set eyes on him.”
“Well,” she said, “then he’s a stray. No wonder he was so hungry.”
I bent down and scractched his head. He purred like a jack-hammer. I scooped him up turned him over.
“Hey,” I said to Karen. “This him is a her.”
She stepped closer.
“So he is.”
I lowered the cat in wonderment. It was all a bit spooky. Think of a partner for your cat, and one walks in the next day. Spooky. Hey, what a good name for a cat! James Gatz and Spooky. Maybe not. Daisy it would have to be.
I looked at her. Winsome and demure. No crazy-eyed look like James. I wondered whether he would approve. I walked out to find him.
He showed what he thought by doing his black question-mark thing and emitting blood-curdling snarls. Then he moved towards her slowly on stiff legs, travelling sideways. Then he spat like a pistol and whacked her on the nose. It was an impressive display. Since when had he learned to snarl like that, let alone spit like a whipcrack?
This pantomime continued for some time. She sat in the corner, her legs folded beneath her and her tail curled around. Her cool yellow eyes were fixed on him with a kind of patient resistance, designed to overcome, the sure elastic power of her kind.
Over the next few days he attacked her repeatedly, forcing her to run from him again and again. Sometime she would fall on her back and fight back, but it was never active fighting, only enough to resist. And at first, she was banished from my room. That was his domain.
I checked her out after the more vigorous attacks, but could find no damage. And she seemed unfazed.
But lately all that has changed. They still hare up and down the corridor, of course, and fight from time to time. But now and again, I see her on top. And sometimes it is she who chases him all over the place.
And right now they’re sitting on my bed, licking each other’s necks. Having to lick your own paw to wash the top of your neck is a tiresome business. Much better to get someone else to do it for you.