Not-so-fun fact: “Kitten season,” when animal shelters usually have an overabundance of kittens, occurs in the late summer and early fall.
Is there truly such a thing as a bad cat? Yes, I think so. His name is Watson. And I think his mother might even agree.
I know thousands of cats on a very personal level — as personal as you can get, a cat might tell you. Sticking my fingers in their ears and their mouths and sometimes other places they won’t admit, I try to remember I am trespassing on the feline’s sense of dignity each time I examine a cat within the four walls of my veterinary exam room. But even there, where some lash out in fear, some climb the walls, and others will not be trespassed upon, I cannot say I’ve met a bad cat. Until Watson.
His wily mother had evaded capture for years and is responsible for thousands of cats being born, generations and generations of cats, all in the abandoned and crumbling barn of a patch of farmland, parceled into smaller and smaller lots until all that was left was her barn surrounded by a crop of red brick houses. I often wonder why she finally gave herself up. Whatever the reason, she surrendered quite easily in the end, with Watson squirming and dangling from her mouth. We celebrated the capture of this last feral female along with her last litter from that old, rotting barn. She seemed to make peace with it and was placed in a home, where she seemed to enjoy kibble and an indoor life sitting on a cushion by the window. The kittens, one by one, also found loving homes — all, that is, except Watson.
As kittenhood — where much is forgiven — became adulthood, what to do about Watson became the daily question. He was a bad seed, my staff said. But not in the hissy, scratching, bitey kind of way — though under certain circumstances, he would judge that sort of response to be appropriate. He was bad in the “I-know-it’s-bad-and-I’m-doing-it-anyway” sort of way.
“He could just live here forever…” I said tentatively, knowing that it was my turn to take the unadoptable cat home.
“Yes, but he’s so disrespectful.”
“He’s not disrespectful; he’s just young,” I countered. But it was true. Our other clinic cats, well into their teens and prized for their respectfulness, were tired of this now two-year-old pushing them out of their resting spots only to get up himself seconds later. They were tired of him attacking their tails, stealing their toys and kicking litter everywhere. And the office staff was tired of him hanging up on clients, deleting computer entries as they typed, taking their pens, breaking open bags of food and treats, knocking things on the floor, and ripping up books and paper. He ran full throttle to the sound of a printer in action, to the door at each tinkle of the bell, to the phone when it rang, and to the water running in the sink.
He seemed to be everywhere all at once, and so skilled as a climber and thief, it was impossible to completely Watson-proof the clinic, already proofed as it was for cats. And I will admit I was tired of tripping over him, which I did at least six times a day. I was tired of him clinging around my leg as I headed to my next appointment. I could not remember the last time I’d worn a skirt or dress to work.
“Did you know he’s fond of socks?” someone said.
“Yes, he tries to pull them off me when I sit at my desk,” I said.
“He steals them from my gym bag.”
“Oh. Is that your sports bra on the floor there?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, he likes those, too.”
“What else has he got there?” I asked.
“Never mind. Watson, give me that. Stop running. Give it up.”
I will not say we did not love Watson, just that he was far too involved for a clinic cat.
So Watson came home with me. And this opened up a whole new set of possibilities for Watson to hone his badness, and particularly his skill as a thief.
At first, there was a settling-in period when my two resident cats, Merry and Gus, and two large dogs, Penny and Dan, had to get used to Watson’s presence and wildness, his burgeoning and undeniable superiority.
They’d look at me one after the other as though to ask, “Mom, what are we going to do about Watson?”
Once all had agreed upon his top cat/dog status, which took surprisingly little time to establish, he began to systematically take over every prime resource available, and then he began to scout for items worth thieving.
Pens continue to be a favorite, and he especially loves the sound they make rolling down the hall in the middle of the night. Penny, our yellow Lab, loves to present us with a dishtowel tugged off the stove door or a shoe when we come home. And this may be how Watson became interested in towels, slippers and even the odd shoe. Why pull pink fiberglass out of the walls in the basement when all these other delectable items are scattered about a house full of kids?
The kids would ask me one after the other when they could not find a pair of socks or mitts between them: “What are we going to do about Watson?”
When the dolls and toys were put away for good, he began to steal jewelry and underclothing. And once again they asked, “What are we going to do about Watson?”
It’s been interesting living with a cat like Watson. The kids learned to keep their doors shut. Gus escaped and ran away. And then Louis, a gray Tabby, moved in, and Watson loves him, so they co-cat this house. He has taught Louis how to open doors and to thieve. Louis’s favorite find is a cloth doll with long black wool hair or any large, damp towel that he can drag down the stairs. Watson’s is, of course, any pair of socks. Over the years, these two partners in crime have grown old together and are more likely to be found curled up in a gray-and-white-spotted swirl than stealing pens, socks or earrings. And nobody asks, “What are we going to do about Watson?” They can usually be found in their spot on the couch, sleeping with Louis’s doll and Watson’s socks.
~Carol Teed
