Fun fact: Adult cats have thirty teeth. Kittens have twenty-six baby teeth, which they lose when they’re about six months old.
Brush my cat’s teeth? I’d do better poking hot needles into my eyes. We’d just returned from a health-and-wellness checkup, and the veterinarian said my cat had tartar and redness along the gum line. She recommended a dental-food diet and encouraged me to brush his teeth. The items on my kitchen counter seemed innocent enough — salmon-flavored paste and a nubby rubber thimble.
The vet’s advice was correct, but I knew my cat. Taking out extra life insurance seemed like a really good plan before venturing forth. Don’t get me wrong, I love my boy, and I’d do anything for him, but this seemed like a recipe for disaster.
* * *
It was Mother’s Day, and cats were on sale at the Humane Society. George had been found outdoors by a concerned cat lover who’d kept him a few days before turning him in. The sign on the cage said, “Approximately one year old. George doesn’t like to be picked up.” That should have been my first clue.
He prowled and howled, scratching at the door as if to say, “Get me out of here.” There was nothing about his attitude that said, “Please take me home. I’ll be a nice little kitty.”
I knew George was different, but then again so was I. This cat strummed my heartstrings like a well-tuned banjo. Huge, staring green eyes and the most gorgeous face you could imagine. It didn’t matter that he was a black cat. I didn’t believe the superstition.
After I answered a million questions to prove I would be a responsible owner, I was handed George in a cardboard box. Fortunately, I’d brought a friend and cat lover with me. Tammy was a foster mom for the SPCA when she worked in Texas, and was an expert when it came to cats. Thank God, she was with me.
On the expressway, George burst out of the cardboard box and found his way under the clutch. Shifting gears was out of the question. With the car in neutral in the centre lane, cars passed and honked on both sides. I would have raised my middle finger at them, my own brand of instant messaging, but my hands had a death grip on the steering wheel.
My friend managed to get George into the back seat, and I was relieved to get the little black bundle home. We showed him his litter box, he did some scratching, and then proceeded to explore. For the most part, he seemed docile. George had a new home!
The honeymoon was soon over. Three days after his adoption, I had a call from Public Health indicating he’d bitten the person who rescued him. A representative would follow up. Yikes, my cat had a criminal record!
By then, I knew George was prone to scratching and biting. His demeanor in the cage was manifesting itself. He’d sometimes follow me down the hallway and nip at the back of my legs. I presumed it was all about power and control and adjusting to his new surroundings. As a registered nurse, I’d worked in psychiatry for ten out of the last forty years. I understood behavior and took the time to look at cause and effect. I could forgive his actions. When the investigator from Public Health arrived, she said, “I’m not really a cat lover.” It was a brief visit, and fortunately George refrained from biting her.
* * *
George continued to be a bit of a nasty boy. Never a lap cat, he only wanted affection when it suited him. I understood and respected his wishes. He’d still nip and sometimes let me know when enough was enough. A cat just acts the way it feels!
The second year I had him, he escaped through my daughter’s bedroom window, two floors up in a condo. She’d taken the panels out to clean them, not thinking he’d see it as an escape route. She was in tears, and so was I.
My heart was broken, and that’s when I realized how attached I’d become to him, even though he mostly behaved badly. I posted pictures and notices on all the local signposts, knocked on neighbors’ doors, searched relentlessly, prowled the neighborhood late at night and walked around shaking a treat bag. I didn’t care if I looked like an idiot. I just wanted him back.
After seventy-two hours, I was devastated. It was time for one final look around. At 11:00 p.m., I ran into my neighbor walking her dog. By then, I was resigned to the fact that George was gone. The neighbor gave me a hug, and I walked across the street to my condo entrance. As I approached the front door, a little black devil rushed toward me from under the shrubs. I’d like to think he jumped into my arms, but that’s not his style. He did, however, allow me to pick him up and take him inside. There was only a slight “nip” in the elevator. I presumed it meant he was happy to see me.
* * *
George is now seven years old and a tad more complacent. It took three years for him to lie beside me on the couch for a whole fifteen minutes, and another two years before I could actually pick him up for three minutes without him biting me. This was progress.
But that whole brushing the cat’s teeth thing had me stymied. I knew the vet was right, but I also understood my cat. Just getting George into a cage to visit the vet was a challenge. Usually, it involved a bit of hissing, retrieval from under the bed and a chase down the hallway.
At the vet’s, he always makes a liar out of me. “He’s not necessarily a friendly cat,” I say, but when they open the carrier door, out pops a docile black cat. He explores the counter and waits patiently for shots. They open his mouth, check his teeth and gums, and even trim his nails, with no bloodshed.
George and I have a peaceful co-existence and I love him dearly, but that toothbrush and paste seemed akin to raising a red flag in front of a bull. I looked at him and shook my head.
I left the sample toothbrush and paste in the community laundry room. It was safer there, and so was I.
His favorite diversion at the moment is a long piece of thick red string. He plays with it, takes it in his mouth and bites down while I pull it through. At my next veterinarian’s visit, I will assure her I’m flossing my cat’s teeth. That’s almost like brushing, isn’t it?
~Connie Cook
