Catastrophe

I’ve always been a cat person. I like dogs –I’m a big fan of Cesar Millan – as well as just about all other mammals and birds but when it comes to sharing living space cats are ideal. They’re sweet and loving and you don’t have to worry about them barking in the night and biting the neighbors.

On the down-side, cats are not really trainable. Or controllable. In fact, they seemed convinced that they are the Masters of the Universe and we humble humans were born to serve them. There may be something to this: cats can change their mass at will which you know if you’ve ever tried to lift an unwilling one.

I bring this all up because of the current tribulations of my poor Chloe. After having disappeared for 3 days she dragged herself home and through the cat flap with a hind leg so broken that even I could tell the bone wasn’t attached to anything. The vet thinks she was hit by a car. I am simply amazed she survived that, got herself home and then also survived the surgery to repair the damage because this cat is 21 years old. How old is that in cat years? I don’t know, but it’s ancient.

I hope our relationship also survives this. Chloe already thinks I’m trying to poison her. The liquid antibiotic I have to force down her throat is pineapple flavored – utterly vomiticious to any self-respecting cat. So I’m not her favorite servant at the moment. But I am full of admiration for her. What a survivor, what a worthy cat!

Serafine, In Memorium

She was the smartest cat I ever knew. She was the first to figure out how to use the cat flap and she would burst through it, mewing and trotting over to wherever the action was. Serafine was smaller than most cats, but was nevertheless an accomplished hunter. In the first few months in the new house she brought me presents of a dead rat, a live mouse and she killed a snake before my eyes.

Serafine was about 4 months old when I first met her. She was sitting in the basket of my late husband’s bicycle. I didn’t want any more cats so I didn’t let her in. But she persisted in her determination to get adopted, and of course I relented pretty quickly because she was such a sweetie. That was 14 years ago. This past Wednesday I found her dead in the parking lot next to the house. She didn’t show obvious signs of having been run over, but I can’t think what else could have happened to her. I buried her, shrouded in a dark blue towel, in the garden next to the lavender.

I am heart-broken. Her favorite place in the house was, naturally, the kitchen. She would weave around my legs, meowing the whole time, whenever I wanted to cook even though I assured her it wasn’t for her. It drove me mad. Now I miss it and wish she would do it again just once more. She meowed a lot. I used to tell her that there were too many meows and that someday she would run out of them. I guess she has.

At Last a Palm

I’ve always had a soft spot for neathebella palms. It was the first houseplant I ever bought way back when I was in college. I cared for it tenderly year after year as it grew from a little thing to a quite reasonable size. Then my heart was broken when it was stolen from my front porch back in hometown America. I never got over it and I never replaced it, until this New Year’s Day.

For months I had noticed a palm in the kibbutz store stuck against a wall far from any light source. It was in the place where they put orders that will be picked up later so I always assumed that a) someone was coming to get it or b) it was part of the décor – I don’t know what I was thinking here, the place has no décor. On New Year’s Day I was buying provisions for the weekend and I could not get my mind off this plant. It was bone dry and begging to be rescued so I asked if it was for sale. There were two staffers on hand, one said yes, the other no.

Then as luck would have it the manager happened to call for reasons of her own and said I could have the palm for 35 shekels. I bundled up my prize and flew home without the faintest idea where I was going to put it. But as soon as I walked in the front door the answer was obvious: by the back door where the cats have their water bowl. It’s a place just crying out for a point of interest. All I had to do was move the bowl forward a few inches.

Cats can be difficult to live with – very demanding – and as it happens, they don’t like to drink where they eat. So to accommodate this idiosyncrasy their water is on the opposite side of the kitchen. I moved it into its new position, carefully leaving enough clearance for bowl, cats and plant. I innocently believed there would be no problem. Wrong!

Usually when a new object comes into the house the cats sniff it thoroughly and maybe insert a claw or two to gauge the reaction. But this time all three just sat in a row and stared at the invader that was menacing their water bowl. This showdown was not going to be pretty. The cats were mean and thirsty, and the palm was not giving an inch. I put one cat by the bowl, defusing the situation when they all saw he could drink without interference. But it was touch and go for a while there.