Skeeter: A Cat Tale Page 5
The furniture was back exactly where I’d had it. No lasting harm was done, except to the clock, which had to be professionally repaired. I stopped being stiff and sore within a few days.
Next time someone offers to redecorate me, I’m going to give them a long look, the one I’ve learned from Skeeter. Then I’m going to sharpen my fingernails on each piece of furniture, to assert my ownership. If that doesn’t establish my territory, I don’t know what will.
June 20 would be great for your visit. Let me know about your reservations, and I’ll meet you at the airport. Public transit is not going to work from LAX to San Pedro. As they say, you can’t get there from here, not on the bus.
I’ll set up vacation time at work. How long can you stay?
Love,
Lynne
May 12, 2000
Dear Angie,
I put Skeeter on his leash this morning for our first adventure into the unsuspecting world. We sat on the front porch and surveyed the neighborhood. Representatives of the neighborhood surveyed us back—several cats, a few joggers, and some kids on bikes.
This area of San Pedro is called Whiskey Flats, for no reason I can understand. It’s hilly and there’s no whiskey in sight. The rule in San Pedro used to be “Don’t go east of Gaffey,” but I think that must have changed. Here we are, one block east of Gaffey, and it’s a nice neighborhood.
It was much tougher when I first lived in this area ten years ago. A few of my friends were horrified when I moved to San Pedro. But I have a fair amount of experience in transitional neighborhoods. I like them. In my opinion, it’s the rich areas that are truly dangerous. Why would muggers hang around here? A sensible thief would go to Brentwood, not waste time in Whiskey Flats.
I lived in a similar area when I was in graduate school. This was in San Francisco, and I’m sure the neighborhood is far beyond my means now. But when I lived there, it was marginal. Not slummy, I wouldn’t say that, but it could have gone either way.
I rented a room from Katy, who owned a two-story brown shingle house, built in 1906 after the earthquake. It had bay windows, fireplaces, and stained glass. Most other houses on the block were about the same vintage, not as well kept, but not bad. A vacant lot next door was choked with wild fennel and sage. Directly above us at the crest of the hill were a few foundations where buildings had been torn down. Since the view from there was spectacular, new buildings were due soon. Our street was dead-end, paved with its original granite blocks. It was too steep for conventional paving. The sidewalk was a concrete staircase.
Katy was justifiably proud of her house. She was unsurprised and happy to agree when she was approached with a request for its use on the TV show “The Streets of San Francisco.”
The filming went without a hitch. Katy was ecstatic. The night of the house’s television debut, she alerted friends all over the country.
And it appeared, but not in the way she had imagined. It was presented as part of the ghetto from which the heroine was struggling to escape. In one memorable scene on our front porch, she gestured toward the house.
“I want to get out of this place,” she said. “I want to make something of my life. I want to be a teacher.”
Whiskey Flats is on about the same level as Katy’s section of San Francisco, but several teachers live here, as well as a few computer types, entrepreneurs, salespeople, and one architectural consultant—me. And Skeeter, little demon that he is. I hope the joggers didn’t take one look at him and say, “There goes the neighborhood.” But I couldn’t blame them if they did.
Love,
Lynne
May 20, 2000
Dear Angie,
For once, Skeeter accepted his harness and leash this morning. I’m always relieved when he doesn’t resist, since my record of getting restraints on animals is mixed. My brother, Jim, can witness to that.
When I was in high school and Jim was about nine, he had a dachshund named Happy. One day I decided to take the dog for a walk and got her collar and leash from Jim’s room. Happy was willing, even eager. But I couldn’t figure out how to use the collar.
It was an ordinary dog collar, a straight piece of chain with a ring at each end. I tried hooking the leash to both rings, but it made far too big a loop, and I was sure Happy could get it off. In a flash of brilliance, I solved the problem. One loop must go through the other. I tried this and was confused when it didn’t work. It had to be the answer, but the loops were the same size. Thinking again, I got the pliers, flattened one ring, and passed it through the other so the collar made a noose. I applied the pliers once more, making the flattened ring more or less round. Then I attached the leash and took Happy for her walk.
Later, when Jim came home, a wail emerged from his room: “Who ruined my dog collar?”
I explained what I’d done. He looked at me like I was crazy, then demonstrated the trick of passing the chain through the loop to make the noose. It wouldn’t have occurred to me to do that if I’d worked on it for months.
I was born with my fair share of gifts, but mechanical ability is not one of them. I think I can claim to be free of it. Jim and I are grown now, but he occasionally reminds me I owe him a dog collar.
Considering my limitations, it’s a good thing Skeeter doesn’t create any extra challenges when I put on his hardware. The treat he gets for cooperating with me probably has a lot to do with it. Sometimes I wonder whether the animal at the end of my leash is a cat or a pig.
An article I read recently claims that using food rewards is wrong. The authors, a couple of professional animal trainers, say it’s better if animals perform for praise only. They think praise reinforces the trainer’s authority, while a treat is simply a bribe.
It’s a bribe all right, but they have not met Skeeter, who is definitely on the take. Training Skeeter isn’t a question of what I’ll stoop to. It’s a question of what works, and treats do, at least for now.
On the other hand, I wouldn’t be surprised if Skeet reveals before long that goodies are not enough. He’ll probably soon be asking for small but regular deposits to a Bahamian bank account. And he’ll get them—the same day Jim gets a new dog collar.
Love,
Lynne
June 5, 2000
Dear Angie,
It’s good you can stay through July 4, because there’s a block party in the afternoon. I’m not sure what’s on the agenda, but it should be fun. There’s a fireworks show at the beach in the evening too.
If I can leash-train Skeeter well enough by that time, we can take him to the party, but not to the fireworks, of course. I’ve been struggling with the leash almost every day. Some days I think he’s catching on, and some days I don’t.
Mark came downstairs and watched us awhile this morning. Skeeter has passed the point where he sits on my lap and trembles. Now he caroms around like a yo-yo. I’m not sure that counts as progress. Yo-yo was never one of my favorite games.
Mark, you may remember, has never had a pet. He hadn’t thought about them much, either. He had always seen dogs trot along nicely on the leash and couldn’t understand why Skeeter won’t.
The subject of dogs and cats is a large one, but I tried to sum it up. “Dogs are more or less rational. They’re emotionally so similar to people that they’re used in psychological experiments. Cats are all emotion, no control. Dealing with a dog, to put it crudely, is like dealing with a person who’s a bit dumb. Dealing with a cat is like dealing with a person who’s more than a bit crazy.”
There’s also a saying, “Never try to out-stubborn a cat,” but that’s exactly what you have to do, of course. In training any animal, the real question is, who’s going to give up first?
It won’t be me. I am blessed—or cursed—with a stubbornness verging on perversity. You may have noticed I have pierced ears but never wear fancy earrings. The truth is, I didn’t want pierced ears, but a boyfriend in high school told me, “Don’t you ever dare pierce your ears”—so I had to. At least, at sixteen I thought I had to
. I’m glad he didn’t tell me not to tattoo “Mother” on my shoulder, with decorations of American flags and eagles. It wouldn’t have looked good with my summer clothes.
Speaking of clothes, bring a few long-sleeved things and a sweater. California is less summery than Chicago, even when the temperature is higher. It feels cooler because of the dryness and the sea breeze. Also, nights are chilly just about all year.
I’m getting excited about your visit. I can hardly wait.
Love,
Lynne
June 12, 2000
Dear Angie,
I guess this will be my last letter before your trip, but I’ll call the day before to make sure we have our plans straight. Melissa, my sister, says she can take you to O’Hare. She’ll call you to work out the details.
I’ll meet you at the gate at LAX. That place is a loud, confusing maze. I wouldn’t be surprised if some visitors wander around the airport for their whole holiday, whimpering pitifully. Maybe there are special St. Bernards, looking for the lost and overwhelmed, bearing casks of Margaritas around their necks.
Although, come to think of it, California-style Margaritas might make things worse. I encountered Margaritas for the first time when I moved here before to go to college. While I was unpacking, hot and thirsty, someone came over with a pitcher of what I thought was limeade. I chugged a couple of tall glasses before I realized it wasn’t.
That was the most unusual move of my life. I didn’t remember the next morning where I had put anything, and it took about six months to find it all. The airport St. Bernards had better stick with brandy.
You won’t need them, though. I’ll be right at the gate.
Love,
Lynne
2
Dear Melissa
June 21, 2000
Dear Melissa,
Angie arrived in one piece yesterday. Thanks for taking her to the airport. She had a good flight, but we did get messed up at LAX. The airline posted the wrong arrival gate, but what did I know? I waited there patiently. Nobody showed up, even when the monitor said the flight had arrived. I finally grabbed the attention of an airline employee, who told me the gate had been switched. Uh-oh.
Luckily, Angie and I both carry cell phones, so I called her. I felt dorky, walking though the airport while giving my location. “OK, now I’m at the south end, that’s the left end, of gate 88.” Out of embarrassment, I was looking down. In fact, I wasn’t looking where I was going. I plowed right into Angie, who was doing the same thing with her phone. We hung up, then hugged.
When we got home, Skeeter did his usual trick of hiding under the bed. Angie psyched him out in a minute. She pretended to be completely uninterested in him. He’s used to people almost standing on their heads, coaxing him to come out. Angie just sat in the living room and talked to me. Skeeter was in her lap within fifteen minutes. She condescended to pet him and gave him a cat treat she had brought for the occasion. She has his number.
I don’t know what will happen when she leaves. He’ll probably pack a tiny suitcase and expect me to buy him a ticket to Chicago. I’m not sure Chicago is ready, either. The Windy City survived Al Capone and even Mayor Daley, but I doubt it’s ready for Skeeter.
Love,
Lynne
June 30, 1999
Dear Melissa,
Angie surprised me. Everyone wants to see the ocean as soon as they get here, and she did want to see it. But first she wanted to visit the place I found Skeeter. I wasn’t sure anymore exactly where it was.
“Why do you want to see that?” I asked. “It’s an ordinary house.”
“Just in case,” she answered. I didn’t know what she meant. Maybe she thought another Skeeter-cat might jump out of that bush. I’ve heard that lightning does sometimes strike twice in the same place. But what would she do if one did? She can’t possibly want a cat like Skeeter.
Because he’s been awful—that goes without saying—but not in the way I prepared her for.
The fact is, Skeeter has developed a crush on Angie. It would be funny, if he weren’t so hard to put up with. He hides and waits, then pounces on her feet. He scrambles onto her lap at dinner and tries to grab her food. The way he does this is curious. He seems to think she can’t see him because he’s under the table. However, apart from noticing a paw hooking onto her plate, Angie could hardly miss him. The tabletop is glass.
Skeeter’s disgrace extends beyond dinner hour. He spends nights in the kitchen now. I never have been able to sleep in the same room with Skeeter, and he’s twice as bad with Angie. After the first night of having her ears chewed and her feet pounced on, she came to breakfast with circles under her eyes and a request that Skeeter bunk somewhere else.
We did get to the beach yesterday—in fact, to all the beaches. We have a sand beach for swimming, a cobble one for gazing out to sea, a salt marsh, and a sailboat marina. And a real fishing harbor, not a tourist attraction. Fishing boats have set out from it for a century or more, crewed mostly by the same families, generation after generation.
She was as indignant as I am about the feral cats. People dump them at the ocean. I guess they rationalize that the cats will fish. Since deep-sea fishing requires large boats with expensive gear, the likelihood that a cat could do it is slight. And the fishermen don’t dump fish parts around the harbor for cats to scavenge. It’s not allowed.
A local group of cat lovers catches harbor cats, has them neutered, and then releases them. They feed them twice a day and go to great trouble to take care of them. But they say, as soon as they get the population under control, more cats are dumped, and they have to start over.
That’s the sad side of the beach, but we mostly had fun. Angie bought Skeeter some fish at a local market to make up for not staying home.
He’ll probably be expecting a small offering now every night when I get home from work. And he’ll want me to poach the damn thing in Chablis, too, while my own frozen dinner spins in the microwave. I’d better put my foot down. Enough is enough.
Love,
Lynne
July 5, 2000
Dear Melissa,
I put Angie on the plane this morning. Her sister-in-law is picking her up at O’Hare, so I didn’t have to ask you to do it.
Yesterday was crazy. I am in shock. The block party started early and loud. We went to investigate and discovered there would be a potluck lunch in the closed-off street. So we went back inside to make cookies and sandwiches.
Mark made a pasta dish, his specialty. I don’t know what’s in it, and I’m not sure I want to know. It’s good.
Just before noon, we took our goodies down to the tables in the street. I had no idea so many people lived on this block. There were kids weaving in and out on skateboards, adults comparing recipes, teenagers looking above-it-all. The food was great. San Pedro is a multiethnic community, and we had delicacies from all over the world.
During lunch, we left Skeeter inside. But afterwards there were events, from three-legged races to a raffle. And there was—are you ready for this?—a neighborhood pet show.
We went upstairs and got Skeeter, and for once he behaved OK on his leash. Cats were first, then dogs, then other pets. The dogs were lining up as the cat parade was starting, and Skeeter swiped one of them right on the nose. I apologized to the owner, but I was proud of Skeeter. It was a dog that barks constantly. I wish I could have swatted him myself.
Skeeter eyed the other cats warily. I’m not sure he knows he is a cat, though I’m certain he doesn’t think he’s a human. He may think he’s a one-of-a-kind creature, and if he does, he’s right.
We paraded along the block for the neighbors’ benefit. Skeeter had to be dragged at first, getting a laugh, but he cooperated after a few steps. Nearing the end of the block, I thought we were home free. Then we saw the boy sitting next to a cardboard box.
He had a hand-lettered sign, “Kittens Free to Good Homes.” Well, I knew I didn’t want one of those. Skeeter was more than enough.
/>
Unfortunately, Skeeter had other ideas. I have heard stories about neutered male cats getting motherly, but I’d never seen it. Skeeter adopted one of those kittens himself, a little calico with a pink nose. He licked it, purring, and wouldn’t leave.
I knew the landlady wouldn’t let me have another cat. She was stretching a point for Skeeter. But Mark, at my elbow, was likewise smitten with the calico kitty. That little girl cat must’ve had something. I wish I knew what.
“Well, the landlady can hardly tell me I can’t have a cat when she let you and Armando have one,” said Mark, scooping up the kitten. Skeeter kept a nervous eye on Mark. He wanted it clearly understood that this kitten was his.
I looked over at Angie, but she didn’t look back. She was absorbed in another kitten, an orange tabby male. I could not believe my eyes. She was taking the kitten and thanking the boy.
“Angie,” I said, wondering if magic mushrooms or something had been in the sandwiches, “You can’t take that cat back to Chicago.”
“Well,” she said, “I’ve decided to move here. I like it better than Chicago, and you know very well that place we worked is awful. I can do a lot better here, and I like the climate better. I’m tired of spending half the year up to my butt in snow.”
“Isn’t this kind of sudden?” I asked.
“Just like you did it,” she answered, snuggling the kitten. “Can I stay with you awhile when I get back with my stuff?”
“Yes,” I said, “but what are you going to do with the cat?”
“Well,” she said—(I’m beginning to be gun-shy about that word)—“you’ll keep it until I get back, won’t you?”