Basil Does Hard Time

Yesterday there was much rejoicing in the land: Basil was returned to the bosom of his family after spending the weekend in Kitty Jail. He brought back a dirty nose and a sneeze, but we welcomed him home with much feasting and an orgy of head rubbing. We hope he learned his lesson like Peter Rabbit and doesn't go back to "Mr. McGregor's" garden.

Friday afternoon we thought it was strange when he didn't take his normally scheduled nap in the guest room and Friday night he didn't show up to harass me while I was cooking dinner. When Saturday morning came and he wasn't there to demand a treat while I poured my coffee, it was clear something was very wrong. My husband and I felt horrible. Missing cats usually stay missing and we were depressed at the thought of losing such a valued member of the family.

A conversation with my neighbors across the street gave me some dismay and some hope: several of their cats had gone missing as well and it was rumored that one of the neighbors was trapping cats. I walked over to see for myself if it was true. The Grumpy Old Man who came to the door launched into a spiel about how "It isn't me, it is the city. There are leash laws, you know." I assured him he didn't have to justify his actions, I just wanted to know if a little gray and white cat had been trapped on Friday. He said no cats had been trapped for weeks and he would keep a look out for Basil.

The S.P.C.A. nearest us was closed on the weekend but there were two other animal shelters open on Sunday, so we toured them both. No Basil. Monday afternoon when the shelter opened at 3:00, we were there, chafing at the wait. First, though, we had to watch two families hand over their one-year-old dogs to be jailed for the crime of no longer being cute and puppy-like. It was with a heavy heart I watched my husband being escorted into the depths of animal hell. I was ready to go home empty handed, there to slowly mourn the loss with each passing day.

So I was stunned with the news our boy had been found. He had, in fact, been trapped at G.O.M.'s house and turned over to the city for disposal. Dirty and yowling for all he was worth, Basil was ready to bust out of the joint and return home to his ten square meals a day and his down comforter. In prison, apparently, no one sings songs to you about the joys of chicken, or tells you what a brilliant hunter you are, or rubs your head on demand. When Basil got home he screeched and yowled for a good two hours. It is just as well that I can't speak the language, because I am sure he was dropping the F Bomb with every breath.

So the great looming question is-- where do we go from here? Do we nail up the dog door and tell the bulldog she needs permission to go outside? Do we invest in an electric fence? Do we fatten Basil up until he can't waddle more than a few feet? Do we buy a trap and teach Basil and Eustace, the other cat, they are to be avoided at all cost? It is too bad that one grumpy old man can ruin a whole neighorhood, but we are the ones breaking the law, not him. Now we just have to figure out how to convince Basil and Eustace that they must be on leashes to go outside.

Yo Ho Ho and a Merry (Pirate) Christmas

Some people might look at our Christmas tree and say it is half empty. Other people might look at our Christmas tree and say, "Why in heck are all your ornaments on the top half of your tree?" The answer is: new kittens. Well, to be perfectly honest it is the work of just one kitten, Eustace, but for all we know, Basil might be helping out after hours.

Meet Basil and Eustace, the New Kits on The Block. Last summer we found an ad in the newspaper for free kittens, and when we called for directions the lady with four litters(!) told us we couldn’t miss the house because they were flying a pirate flag. And she was telling the truth. Naturally the two boys we picked out had to have pirate names, so the big black and white one was dubbed Eustace, The Black Monk, and the smaller grey and white one was christened Basil Ring Nose.

As it turns out Basil’s secret name is Danger Mouse– one look and you just know there was a mouse in the woodpile. His coat is matte grey and his face is small and pinched with a pink nose. But unlike any mouse I've ever known he has a big voice, a voice like a fishwife competing with a force 10 hurricane. Basil’s favorite activity is sitting in the middle of the kitchen and relating to everyone (within a ten block radius) the pitiful saga of "The Kitten Who Only Had Dry Food In His Bowl." He is thin and frail looking– which belies his mandatory 10 meals-a-day schedule. His most endearing habit is following me around like a puppy– napping when I nap, eating when I am eating, and climbing right up inside to see what might be available every time I open the refrigerator door.

Eustace, on the other hand, must have an otter somewhere in his ancestry and looks like he spends his evenings giving himself VO5 hot oil treatments. He is also a chunk; solid as a cement block describes both body and mind. Once Eustace seizes on an idea, there is no way on earth of changing it. He decided shortly after moving in that people were a nuisance, the kitchen counter was his private lounge, and Fanny the bulldog’s chest hid the nipple of glory. All of us, including Fanny, have spent a lot of time trying to change his mind about these matters. Fanny thinks of kittens as more of wind-up toys than babies to be cuddled but after 5 months of persistence by Eustace, she has come to accept his nursing for up to 10 minutes at a time. Sometimes I come across them inflagranto delecto and the look on her face is priceless.

Eustace has now gotten it into his head that Christmas tree ornaments are shiny vermin that need to be destroyed. Although we keep moving them higher, he responds by standing on his tip toes and leaping higher to capture them. Once he has his prize in his mouth, he sneaks off to the kitchen to bat it around until it is broken. It takes him only a few minutes to break one before he is back harassing the tree. I’m beginning to suspect that it is his job and he is paid for each (smashed) ornament. Only 10 more days til Christmas. Just how bare will our tree be by then? Only Eustace knows.

Mick

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Our home has suddenly become catless. Our friend Mick has not been seen for three weeks, and we are sure that he is gone for good. We can only hope he has gone on to a paradise with fewer and gentler bulldogs.

His name was not always Mick. Five years ago, we decided it was time to do something about the mice who were punch drunk with freedom and carousing in all corners of the house. Luckily some friends of ours had just had a litter of kittens born in their barn. It was easy to tell which kitten would be our choice, the fearless one with the friendly manner. But we decided he should have a playmate as well so we brought along his sister. We named them Mick and Sister. It became obvious a few months later that we had made a mistake, two mistakes in fact, and the names were switched around pronto. Sister would always be the alpha male, however, even if she wasn't technically a male. She would climb the highest, bring home the biggest snakes, and be the most aggressive lap hog. Sadly, her fearlessness was her undoing and before she celebrated her first birthday, we found her dead by the mailbox. Probably the victim of a car accident.

Mick was always shy and without Sister to help him out, he seemed even more withdrawn. Eventually he bonded with Otis the old bloodhound-- by this time more furniture than pet-- and the two of them spent their days napping together. Otis seemed impervious to Mick's claws as he went about the serious business of trying to nurse from Otis’ stomach. Life was pretty tranquil for this sleepy pair and then we got Fanny.

We thought a bulldog puppy might liven things up. We were right about that, but we were wrong when we imagined that Mick, who weighed twice as much as Fanny, would teach her to be respectful. He never had it in him to be the aggressor. Instead Mick became Fanny’s endlessly fascinating wind-up toy. Fanny and Mick played the same game over and over: Fanny would appear to be fast asleep, Mick would sit and calculate his odds before attempting to cross the room, and then, just before Mick reached safety, Fanny would pounce. Fanny never did anything worse then pin Mick to the floor with one paw, but that was bad enough. Mick never fought back, he just waited patiently until either Fanny got bored or one of us humans got involved. But perhaps that was the best strategy after all– no one ever got injured and frequently the two of them would reconcile with a mutual face-washing orgy. Perhaps Mick’s docility was the only possible way their friendship could flourish.

I’ll miss Mick. I’ll miss seeing his silhouette in the bedroom door assessing his chances of making it to the bed. I’ll miss his loud cries of impatience as he waits for us to join him in taking a nap. I’ll miss his games of hiding behind the newspaper and reaching underneath to attack my hands. I’ll miss the sound of his pretend baby kitten voice as he tries to convince me he needs to nurse on
my stomach. Farewell, dear friend, you will live on in our memories. As my daughter says, "You were the best cheese head-rubber, ever."