My first cat, the pretty princess, and Brave Defender (From Beneath The Bed).

Dec 10, 2006

Monkey is my eldest cat, and was the first cat I ever had on my own.

After leaving for university, I lived in a series of places that didn’t allow pets. It seemed the only places that allowed pets were either out of my price range, or rundown as all get out. [Not dreadfully unusual in a university town, apparently.] Finally I moved into an apartment complex that allowed one small pet: cat or dog. I read an ad in the paper about a cat, last of a feral litter, being given up for adoption to a good home. It was at a local vetrinarian’s office just a few blocks from my apartment complex. (Note to vetrinary clinics: if you don’t already know about using this tactic to get new customers, give it a try. After nearly a decade, including a distant move-and-return, I bring all my cats to this clinic.) This female kitten was in a large cage in the front office with a few toys, water, food, a small litterbox, a soft cloth to lie upon...and a rather displeased face. The entire litter had been found at a nearby community college, and when the mother hadn’t reappeared after several days, some of the vetrinary-medicine students brought the litter to this office. All the other kittens had been adopted out. This one had actually been adopted out twice already: the first person (who had brought the food bowls, toys, comb, and scratching post that I later took home) discovered their allergy to cats a week after bringing the kitten home; and the second person, a childless couple with no other pets and no cat allergies, had to bring the kitten back when the badly-asthmatic mother-in-law came to live with them. When the vetrinary assistants moved toward the cage to take her out so I could get acquainted with her, the kitten flattened herself to the floor of the cage and hissed. She didn’t reach up to scratch the hands that carefully picked her up and lifted her out of the cage, though. The kitten was a bit skittish, but once in an examination office with her feet back on the floor, the tabby kitten sneezed once, then walked along the baseboard to come sniff my hands.

I adopted her that afternoon, and picked her up the next day after the vets gave her a final examination to make sure she was truly okay. I called her Monkey because 1) she didn’t meow or hum or purr, she’d only squeak like a little monkey; and 2) her tail was longer than her body.

I adopted her in between contract gigs, so I had about a week to stay home with her every day. She stayed in my room, even though I opened the door a couple of times to let her explore the rest of the apartment if she wished. Once she got as far as seven steps out into the hallway. As soon as my roommate opened the front door, though, Monkey beat a hasty retreat to hide under my bed. At night, she would meep and chirp for me to lift her up onto the bed, where she’d curl up by my hip and knead the thick, fuzzy folds of my winter blanket.

The next week, I started a new tech contract. My roommate told me that Monkey would come out and stand by the front door for about an hour each day, crying. By the time I’d get home, she would have given up and retreated to my room to lie under the bed; but she always came rocketing out to demand attention and revel in my being back home (and not leaving her for good.)

Over the years, my housemate and I subjected her to all sorts of indignities. We clipped her claws. We gave her baths, with the bathroom four layers deep in towels. At one point we tried to make Monkey lay still on my roommate’s brand new scanner because we reasoned that the patterns on her coat would make a wicked desktop wallpaper. You know, the normal cat/owner/owner’s crazy-ass accomplice stuff. Monkey never learned to tolerate any of it, though she did forgive us when we’d brush her fur. She loved being brushed...or rather, she loved us holding the hairbrush down so that she could rub up against it and leave behind enough fur to stuff a medium-sized throw pillow.

To this day, Monkey is terrified of strangers...and by ‘strangers’, I mean ‘anyone not me’. She still has abandonment issues — I can understand those — so she doesn’t like it when I leave for any reason; but she doesn’t seem happy with the people who take care of her when I’m away on vacation. She won’t come out of hiding for much more than quick trips to the food bowl. Monkey’s known my parents for years and years, and still she acts like she’s never seen them. They stop by once every few months, and we play games or have dinner or something else. My parents have also helped me move (and re-hang paintings, and re-set up furniture) several times. It doesn’t matter to Monkey, though. She’ll go hide under the bed. About three years ago, when we were living in the miniscule termite-poo apartment, she’d get exceptionally daring and come out sit at the edge of the sitting room...with her back to us. We were in her house, but she didn’t feel like remaining confined to the tiny bedroom. Nor did she feel like being social. Hence the back-turning. The whole thing was exceedingly amusing. I’m sure my amusement pisses Monkey off to no end; but there’s no way she’s going to actually be social with Humans Other Than Her Accustomed Servant. Nope, nope, no.

Once, about two years after I’d adopted her, I had a seizure. I distinctly remember starting to fall, hearing Monkey yowl, and coming back to my senses with Monkey standing about two feet away from my shoulder, leaning as far forward as she could without falling over (her compromise between staying close to comfort *me*, and running away to comfort *herself*, I suppose) and crying. The first thing I said, when I could speak again, was “Good cat, good cat...” She eventually crept close enough for me to pet her.

Monkey moved with me up to Canada, riding along the 1300+-mile drive in the cab of a U-Haul truck, laying in her cat carrier generally being miserable. Sure, the floor of the truck was nice and warm (a big plus when driving at the tail end of October); and sure, when I wasn’t driving I’d reach down and pet her and tell her what a good girl she was; and sure, I’d brush her every night. But she still wasn’t very happy about the whole thing.

She’s grown in the decade since I got her; and she’s not the silent mousy little thing she once was. She’s quite happy to provide running commentary to my computer surfing, my movie-watching, my reading...whatever activity I happen to be engaged in. She’ll sit close by, sometimes coming to give me a headbutt and request more petting.

Keywords: | pets | Holidailies | family | cats |
Posted by Laughing Muse • 918 views • Share this link • Newer • Older