I got my first cat at the age of three and a half. Okay, technically she and her sister were Father’s Day presents, but neither one of them ever had much use for Dad. The parents told me I could name the kittens, and I proudly declared them Archimedes and Merlin, after the characters in Disney’s “The Sword in the Stone”. Archimedes, or Ix Pix, as she soon became known, was a little ball of grey fluff. Merlin, later known as Boo Boo, was a brown, white, and black fluff ball. They were three months old, and so terrified of the new house that they promptly hid under the carved end table in the living room. Mom fished them out to introduce them to the dog, but otherwise they stayed under there for the better part of the day. At one point, my parents found me sitting next to the carved table with a pile of books. When asked what I was doing, I apparently replied, “Reading to the kitties!”
In a relatively short span of time, each cat “adopted” a kid. Merlin quickly became enamored with L, my sister, then only a few months old. Meanwhile, Ix took to following me around. She inspected my room, sat with me while I read or played, and curled up on my bed. She would even get in the bathtub with me, swimming as I washed. I have a vivid memory of the first time my babysitter came over after L was born. After L was asleep, Gina filled the tub before helping me undress. When we returned to the bathroom, there was Ix, happily paddling around in the tub. Gina was startled, to say the least. Apparently, Mom and Dad forgot to warn her about this.
Despite having two cats in the house, we didn’t have any “cat toys”. Merlin and Ix both preferred being with their kids, and that included playing with the same toys. They’d climb in the Playmobil and Barbie dollhouses, and chase random strings we’d drag across the floor for them. Merlin claimed several items of baby doll furniture as “hers”. Ix preferred to push things around the floor with her paw and chase them; Micro Machine cars were her favorite for this, followed closely by small LEGO pieces and action figure accessories. She’d play with them until the skittered out of reach under the bookcases in my room, and Mom would find them when she moved the shelves to vacuum.
My family jokes that L and I were raised by the cats, and it’s not too far off the mark. Ix was never far away from me, whether I was awake or asleep. When I got a loft bed, Ix supervised its assembly. That night, she meowed at the bottom of the ladder until I climbed down to retrieve her; within days, she could climb the ladder herself. She’d sit on my chair with me at the dinner table, just content to be with her kid. (Merlin would sit with L, but she insisted on inspecting L’s food.) At bedtime, Ix would meow at me until I followed her to our room, where she’d climb in bed and look at me as if to say, “You’re supposed to be here!” When I started school, Ix climbed in and out of my new backpack before I loaded it with school supplies. She’d greet me when I came home every day, and as I got older she supervised homework time.
If I got in trouble, Ix became my “defense attorney”. She’d literally sit between me and the parents, and if she didn’t like their tone of voice as they lectured me she’d meow back at them! She didn’t like seeing me upset; if I started to cry, poof! I had a cat in my lap, purring and rubbing against me. She also “talked” to me, using a series of vocalizations that ranged from a stereotypical “meow” to chirps and purrs. Between that and her body language, I could usually figure out what she wanted or needed.
All of our pets disliked us leaving them for long periods of time. Weekend trips to the lake were no issue; the dog went with us, and the cats could easily fend for themselves for a couple of days, although they were always very happy to see L and I when we got home. They always seemed to know, though, when we were getting ready to be away for longer. Ix would climb into my suitcase as I packed, as if hoping I wouldn’t notice she was there. On my return, I would be subjected to a very thorough inspection and re-marking while she chattered at me, seeming to scold me for abandoning her. The summer after I turned 13, I went on a three-week trip with a group of other young teens, the first time I’d ever travelled for so long without my family. Ix seemed to know that something was different this time; she was much more clingy as I packed. Apparently, every night that I was gone Ix would find my mother at my usual bedtime. She would meow at Mom until Mom followed the cat to my room, at which point Ix would climb into the bed and pace up and down, meowing, as if to say, “Where’s the kid? He’s supposed to be here. Why isn’t he here?” Mom would nod and agree and coax Ix to come accept treats. When I returned home, Ix wouldn’t leave me alone for almost a whole day.
As I got older, Ix and I trained one another in new habits. She still supervised homework, but if I had to work on the computer she stayed on my lap (I’d put her down the second she climbed on the keyboard). I don’t remember how, but I taught her to stay off the shelves that displayed my Star Wars collection, except during the twice-annual dusting and rearranging. She still loved being on my lap any time I read or watched TV, although she’d give me disgruntled looks if I laughed too much and disturbed her. I started working at the local zoo in junior high. I’d come home smelling of whatever animals I’d handled that day, and Ix would meet me at the door, ready to re-mark me as hers. In high school, I began playing trombone. While Ix loved my flute (she’d perch on my lap and purr and rub her face against my chin, which made practicing a challenge), she was not a fan of the ‘bone, and would retreat to another room when I pulled it out.
Going away to college meant leaving Ix, now in her teens. My family did their best to look after her and she accepted their efforts. I was still her Preferred Human when I’d come back, even though things kept changing. Without me there all the time, Ix had no reason to climb up into the bed, and eventually it got to be too hard for her. If she meowed, I’d still pick her up, but she mostly slept on the chair in my parents’ room. When the rest of my family would go on trips, I’d sleep in the parents’ bed. This was mostly for the dog, but Ix would always curl up with me, too. She also came up with a new way of waking me up in these instances: She’d sit on my chest and lean forward, staring at me. I usually woke up when her nose touched mine, and would open my eyes to meet hers. “Breakfast time?” I would ask. “Prrrow!” she’d reply, and would accept a brief chin scritch before we got up.
I was a little concerned when I started hormones my senior year of college. The change in my body chemistry would likely affect my smell, and how would Ix react? Thankfully, my worries proved groundless; Ix still sought me out whenever I came home, curling up on my lap and purring away.
A month before graduation, early in the morning, I got a call from Mom. “Ix isn’t doing well. You need to come home.” I did, and was able to accompany Ix on her final trip to the vet. Returning to the parents’ house afterwords felt decidedly odd; for the first time in nineteen years, no little grey kitty appeared to greet me. The dog did his best, and L’s cat Raffia (Merlin had died several years previously) came to check on me, but it just wasn’t the same.
A couple of months later, just after I started grad school, my parents and I adopted two new cats, Mandy and Ragamuffin, from a local shelter. In the beginning, we sometimes joked we should have re-named them Scaredy and Fraidy, because they were so shy. I admit, while I enjoyed having more animals around, I couldn’t think of either cat as “mine”; I still missed Ix too much. However, Rags spent a lot of time in the den in the basement with me. I’d set up my work station there, and I think she liked the relative quiet. When I needed a break from work, I’d sit on the floor and talk to her, and eventually she started letting me pet her. Several weeks after that, she began to seek me out when I was elsewhere in the house. Initially, she would just sit and look at me until I noticed her. One day, I heard this high-pitched squeaking noise, and looked around to find Rags with her mouth open. It was her!
By the time they’d lived with us for a couple of years, Rags and Mandy had come a long way, although it still wasn’t the same as our other cats. For one thing, these two were reluctant to sit on furniture with us humans. (Mandy eventually got over this, but to this day Rags rarely sits or lies down on a sofa or bed when a human is there.) Mandy would happily accept attention from anyone, although she seemed to like Dad and Mom the best. Rags, on the other hand, preferred me almost exclusively. This held true even after I moved out into my first apartment, which did not allow pets. Any time I came over to the parents’ house, Rags would appear, demanding attention, and ignore Mom and Dad for the duration of my visit. Fortunately, when I wasn’t around she would accept their attentions.
Despite being her Preferred Human, I did not bring Rags to Alaska with me. Between her issues with traveling, my insane schedule as a first year teacher in a village, and the lack of reliable access to vet care, I could not, in good conscience, do that to her. Her forever home is my parents’ house. Over the years, she’s gotten a lot more accepting of them, although any time I’m back to visit I’m still her first choice.
Since I’ve moved to Seward, I’ve toyed with the idea of getting a cat. I kept an eye on what the local shelter had to offer, but never saw anyone that pulled at me. Anyway, it wasn’t like I didn’t have enough animals to play with; my closest friends here in town have dogs that LOVE to say hello, and one or both animals are frequently present when we get together. Plus, I returned to the hometown often enough that Rags still felt comfortable claiming me as hers. (One of my favorite pictures from this past holiday season is of me sitting on the floor in my parents’ living room with Rags curled up against my legs.)
Like a great many things, the arrival of the novel coronavirus changed all of that. With everyone in “stay put” mode, I couldn’t see my friends or their pets. I also realized pretty quickly that the chances of my usual summer visit to the Lower 48 occurring were slim to none. By early June, I once more turned my attention to possibly getting a cat. The local shelter didn’t have anyone I could take, so I moved the search online, checking web sites for places in Kenai, Anchorage, and elsewhere. I found several likely candidates at the Anchorage Humane Society, so I called to make an appointment (due to the pandemic, they aren’t allowing walk-ins).
The Humane Society operates out of a small industrial park, occupying a space that is part loading dock, part office area. The entire place has been adapted for the use of the cats: Chainlink fence sits next to the garage doors so they can be opened to let in fresh air. Shelves lined with various cat beds and scratchers occupy both the main floor and the loft, as do cat trees, litter boxes, and food and water bowls. When I arrived, one of the volunteers spoke with me, both to find out about my background with cats and see if there were any specific cats I wanted to meet. When I mentioned one particular cat, the volunteer paused. “We can try, but he’s pretty shy.” Sure enough, we found the cat in an upstairs room, curled up in a covered cat bed in a corner. He sniffed my hand but ducked when I tried to pet him. The volunteer admitted to being impressed the cat hadn’t immediately bolted, and brought me a toy to try playing with him. Kitty didn’t get out of the bed, but he did play with me for a bit. “I’ll take him,” I said.
I spent the next week getting the apartment ready for it’s new occupant. I’d gone to a pet store before stopping at the shelter, so I had most of the essentials. Many experts recommend introducing a cat to a new home by confining them to one room for a while before letting them into the home at large. Due to the layout of my apartment, my bedroom would be the cat’s room for this phase. As I worked, I mentally prepped myself for the idea that this could be my life for some time; after all, when we brought Mandy and Rags home, they lived in my parents’ bedroom for a month. Ziggy, as I’d dubbed my new cat, was also shy, so who knew how long until he felt comfortable with me and the apartment?
I offered to help catch Ziggy up when I returned to the Humane Society, but they politely refused my offer. Fortunately, I’d already filled out all of the necessary paperwork and paid the adoption fee on my first visit, so once Zig was secured in his new carrier we were free to go. We stopped at PetSmart to get him a collar and tag, and then hit the road for Seward. Thankfully, he handled the 2.5 hour drive well.
When I opened the carrier in his new home, Ziggy promptly disappeared under the bed. He stayed there for most of the evening, but later in the night I could hear him exploring the room. To my surprise and pleasure, he actually came out to say hello the following day, and allowed me to pet him a little. Within a few days, Zig would sit next to me on the bed, begging for attention. He also started to act restless, so on his fourth day home I opened the doors and let him explore the rest of the apartment. (I originally intended to keep him in the living room, which is right next to the bedroom, but Zig had other ideas.)
It’s been about six weeks since Ziggy moved in, and I think it’s safe to say we’re both happy with our lives. Ziggy enjoys watching the world from the various windows; between the local wildlife (mostly birds) and the kids that live around us, there’s usually something entertaining to see. While it can be a little annoying at times, I do love how he’ll “sing” when I haven’t spoken to him for a bit. My morning exercises are now supervised by Zig, and when I come back from my daily run he greets me, knowing that “adore the kitty” is the next part of our routine. Amazingly, the cat who wouldn’t even let me pet him when we first met is the world’s biggest cuddle bug, which has led to his nickname, “Bug”. In Bug’s opinion, a day is no good unless we’ve been cuddled and/or on the human’s lap at least twice. In fact, he’s curled up on my lap as I type this!
Late last week, I went on an overnight camping trip with my friend Bea. It was the first time I’d be gone so long since Bug arrived. My friend Kira graciously agreed to check on him, but I was still a little worried about how Zig would react to essentially being left alone for 36 hours. On my return, Ziggy appeared as soon as he heard my voice, scolding me like Ix used to, and even attempting to mark me despite the fact that I reeked of insect repellent. After I showered, he demanded cuddles, and again when I awoke the following morning. In fact, he stayed glued to my side for most of the day.
This year has brought a lot of challenges. I’m glad it’s also brought me a new companion. Welcome home, Ziggy!
everydaytrans 