Pride Week

For those that live in a box, it was PRIDE in Phoenix which means about 2/3 of the theatre community was out hoofing it in the parade downtown this weekend.

Yay for the gays!

But this post is actually about a totally different pride.

My pride.
My cats.

I have four cats.
Yes, I am the crazy cat-lady... except that I do have a family (and a decent sex life) so that's where the stereotype ends.

My cats are my babies. They are spoiled, talkative, coddled, over-indulged, hyper-inquisitive... and true to their nature, skilled stalkers.
Which has become a HUGE problem.
Epic.

Our firstborn, Benedick (he prefers 'Lord Benedick' as he insists the Bard intended) was adopted as a 3-month-old kitten in November 2001 from a shelter. He had Bordatella(sp?) and was undernourished and incredibly sick. For those who don't know the story, he had been on steroids and antibiotics ($250. worth) for two weeks and still wasn't eating. We hosted a cast party in which some questionable activities were taking place in the back room where our sickly kitten had claimed sanctuary. He emerged an hour later... with the munchies.

Since that day, 'Benny' has not had a problem eating. He is now a 16-pound Maine Coon who thinks he's still a 4lb. kitten. In his old age, he has grown a mostly lazy, sometimes downright surly disposition; but he still does tricks... when he feels like it.

In 2004, we had arranged to adopt a kitten from a friend of a friend who had just had a litter. When I went to pick up our little calico treasure, however, my bleeding heart couldn't leave her brother behind. He was a beautiful black furball with a severe umbilical hernia that would require costly surgery... and most likely would have been put down. I showed up at the door with not one kitten, but two. Thankfully, Jason is a softie and lovingly accepted our last-minute addition to the family. Having just been introduced to 'Lost' (which is a family-wide obsession) the kids opted to be involved in their naming. Our little female was named 'Claire' and our black bundle of issues was dubbed 'Sawyer'.
We couldn't know that Claire would do her best to live up to her namesake, but she vanished from the island one day and showed back up pregnant in our alternate universe. It was the summer of 2006 when she finally had a litter of four kittens.

Ozymandias was a carbon-copy of his father (who became a svelte, lean, fighting machine after a costly tummy-tuck to correct Sawyer's abnormality) and was the 'joker' of the group... and the bottom of the totem pole. And yes, he was named after the Shelley poem (his namesake quote later appeared in the movie 'The Watchmen'.) Shortly after we moved, Ozy ventured out and didn't return. We put up signs and actually got calls from people who had spotted him. Our best guess is that he ventured into the retirement community adjacent to ours and adopted some little old lady. Probably tired of being the bullied scapegoat.

Spartacus had the most eventful of the kitten births. Our little Claire had been a trouper through the first three and had been acting like she was done. I wasn't quite convinced, but changed my mind when she jumped out of the hamper-turned-whelping-box to lay the smackdown on the two boys (who had started to tussle in the corner).

She was walking back across the room to the hamper when she squatted in the middle of the tile and expelled something unlike anything I've ever seen before. Unlike the first three kittens who emerged wriggling, small and dark, this was a long, off-white blob that landed with a wet 'plop' on the ceramic and didn't move.

You know those white sausages you get in the grocery store? Imagine that... covered in mayonnaise... on your kitchen floor. Ew.

Jason was immediately concerned and jumped up from his chair, asking if she had just passed a lung. (Name Possibility #1: Jethro)

I rushed to inspect what had just happened and the quick movement spooked Claire, who took off running (blob still attached via umbilical cord) towards the hamper where she leapt and cleared the side of the hamper to land among her three babies. Blob, however, wasn't as lucky. As she bounded across the tile, he bounced... and bounced... I was following behind in some kind of half-crouch thinking that I'd be able to hold my hands out and either catch it or cushion its fall. As she made her grand leap into the basket, the blob hurled against the side of the hamper and rebounded in a huge arc before the umbilical-turned-bungee cord whipped him into the hamper alongside Claire in a loud 'thud'.

I was sure it was dead... whatever it was... or at very least severely brain damaged after the beating between ceramic tile, plastic hamper, and mom.

He emerged from his mayo balloon with a mighty open mouth as if to yell, "I am Spartacus!" And thus, he was named. As he grew, however, we knew that something wasn't the same about him. He was completely white, with blonde rings around the tip of his tail and blonde lowlights on his ears and face. His eyes... are the most sparkling blue you've ever seen. He confessed to me (at a very young age) that he's so pretty because he's gay. (And I hope he doesn't mind me sharing that in this blog, but it IS pride week, so I say he should unite and be proud.) So while his given name is 'Spartacus', he prefers 'Sparky'. Or when he's particularly adorable, 'Sparkleberry Brown'.

He was actually supposed to be adopted, but his potential family fell through and he ended up being my shadow.

They all have their favorite spots in the house to chill. Ben prefers doorways and heavy traffic areas. Claire prefers nooks, corners, hampers or any place at waist level. Sawyer and Sparky most often have to be within touching distance or at least in eyesight of Jason or myself. If we shut the door to go to the bathroom, they will meow outside the door and stick their paws underneath. Sometimes we play 'get the toilet paper roll'. It's an awesome game. I'm undefeated.

Anyhow... we moved into a new house in June of last year. It is in a beautiful neighborhood. It's quiet here, our neighbors (with one exception) are incredibly nice and the house itself is very low-maintenance. I really do love it here. And so does the pride.

Which brings me to my current conundrum.

One of the struggles I've had with being the cat-lady is litter boxes. I hate the smell. I hate the maintenance. And with four cats... it's just kinda ridiculous. So, we had decided to get a pet door and train the cats to go to the bathroom outside. I wasn't crazy about this decision because I grew up with indoor-outdoor cats and watched them get hurt often from other animals, cars, kids, etc. Though they are fixed and we've been diligent about their shots, that can't help them in the path of a vehicle or a nasty person. But... we decided to give it a try and I couldn't be happier about that aspect. No more litter boxes. The cats don't roam far (Benny doesn't leave the back yard) and I love watching them outside. They love the patio and have plenty of comfy places to perch (including an old loveseat) and to watch them roll and jump and eat grass and chase lizards makes me feel like I'm giving them a chance to experience life outside of complete captivity and more in their natural habitat.

It was entertaining to Jason and I to watch our babies experience nature for the first time. They used to sit at the window and chatter at the birds outside. Now we were watching them as they ogled the winged creatures that actually seemed to tease them as they landed and took off from the fence mere feet away. They were slow and awkward, having never chased anything more than a jingle-ball, a catnip mouse, or a lazer pointer.

Were. Slow and awkward.

10 months of ninja training.

That's my only explanation.

For the last month, my house has been home to horrors unspeakable. The carnage that greets me every morning is not for the faint of heart. It is... epic.

Lizards are a daily occurrence. We often find them alive, but missing their tails. Jason and I established a rapid-response catch-and-release program that includes distraction techniques, scene clearance, and stealth relocation.

It is when we are asleep, however, that the most heinous murders are carried out.

If God has his eye on the sparrow, why isn't he watching out for the finches and morning doves? I wake up to feathers... everywhere.
My home becomes a veritable crime scene. Blood on the floors, on the walls... spatters, puddles. I don't know what to do!!

It is now routine that I get out of bed, pee, and head straight for the vacuum, the swiffer, and the disinfectant.

We know that the culprit is Sawyer. Claire, Sparky, and Benny stay inside at night and have more fun playing with their prey; hence they are partial to lizards and resilient bugs.

Sawyer is our master hunter. Our uber-ninja cat. The alpha male, bread-winner, bringer of offerings, killer of precious little birdies.

It's really messing with my attempts to start the day in a 'zen' and centered place. I feel like a co-conspirator... as if I'm hiding his dirty little secret as I scrub away the blood stains with my ready-mixed Clorox.

I hang my head in shame as the birds outside sing gaily. I don't want to be the one to tell them that Uncle Jerome and li'l Annie Mae aren't coming back.

I try to explain to Sawyer that karma will catch up and see to it that his eyes are pecked out by an unusually large crow or that we all get the Avian flu, but it has had no effect so far. He feigns surprise as if to say, "What bird?" And of course, since we are asleep, we have no actual proof.

It has happened every night for the last straight week.

I can't win with these creatures. They have taken over my life!

I'm hoping it's just a 'pride week' thing and that he'll settle down and maybe give up his violent tendencies for 'Earth Day' or something.

I don't want to start locking them all in at night.

Last time I did that, one of them pissed in my sink.

And I don't want to bring back the litter boxes.


But I do want to save the birdies. Do I declaw? Stage an intervention and suggest counseling first?

I just can't win.