The Art of Feline Manipulation: The Door Dance

After 2-3 days of constant storms, our yard is soggy beyond belief. This morning’s sunshine has promise, but still it’s cold and the ground is soaked. Nonetheless, my cats want out. Especially my indoor-outdoor princess, Peaches.

She uses my home like a grand hotel, coming and going as she pleases. Her pleasure shifts depending on whether she wants fresh air and relief from boy-drama inside our home, or whether the humidity and too-much-too-soon heat has her wanting air conditioning. I play the doorman, and I suspect she thinks I stand around with nothing else to do but wait on her beck and call. Yes, I am Princess Peaches’ beck and call girl.

Before I went upstairs to begin my day of edits on my novel I spied Peaches by the door, hovering. I opened, she left. Opie, her boyfriend, made to follow. I blocked him. I have enough issues without adding muddy paw prints to my freshly washed floors.

I make coffee and cereal, and answer Buddy’s shout from his bedroom: he needs his litter box cleaned. Yes, he does really call when it needs cleaning. I return to the kitchen and see Peaches by the door. She wants in. I shoo Opie and open. She dances away. She wants Opie to come out. Sorry. I close the door.

I run a few things upstairs in preparation of spending considerable time behind closed door. Already Herman is up there waiting for me. He’s my mews. He also has special dispensation. No one else is allowed inside my office.

I return to the kitchen for coffee and cereal. Nick and Cookie have joined Opie staring at Peaches, staring back at them through the door. She meets my gaze. She shivers. I shoo the boys and open. Nope. She wants them all to come out and play. Sorry. Not gonna happen.

I’m about to go upstairs. I know I shouldn’t look…but I do. She’s staring at me. This time there is something definite about her stare. She noses the corner where the door will open. With a sigh, I shoo the boys and open a crack. She pushes the crack and slithers inside…dragging it out considerably longer than necessary, as if to prove a point.

I’ve been manipulated by a cat every day of my life since my grandfather gave me my first kitten at age five. I’m resigned…and wouldn’t have it any other way.

Breakfast with Cats

Breakfast in our household begins promptly at 6:30, seven days a week. I don't get weekends off to sleep in. The General won't allow it.

With spring comes storms, and plenty of them here in the Mid-South. This year I purchased a weather radio. I was plenty sick of being caught unprepared, especially with six cats plus a few outdoor ones I'm particularly fond of. I have a kitchen closet deep and wide stacked with cages ready to be filled. I even have them tagged for who is placed where. In the closet I have bottled water, canned and dry food. Medication. Feli-Way spray to calm them down...I kinda hope it also works on me.

This week we've had several storms roll through, tripping the weather radio alarm. The band I use also sends alerts to storms in nearby Arkansas. This year Arkansas seems to be targeted for the worst with flooding, tornadoes, lightening and more. The alarm, meant to give me warning, has ramped up my panic. I now understand the meaning behind the saying, ignorance is bliss. I had bliss before I bought the radio. No more.

Yesterday morning I awoke to storm clouds and rain. I set up the cat bowls and divvied up the Fancy Feast, the DM (for Buddy) and the CD (for Herman). Peaches requested sprinkles so I added a few kibbles over her bowl. I'm trying to steer my gang off dry food. Its not healthy and I've lost a few cats to kidney disease, but a few is better than a constant bowl.

I scatter the bowls around my kitchen. Each cat has their own particular place preference. Opie and Peaches eat side by side. So does Nick and his toady, Cookie (aka The General). Herman eats in front of the kitchen sink. Barney on the table, a habit formed from years of having his food taken by the alphas before he's finished. Buddy eats in the bedroom. At age 20 he's had enough of the morning drama and requested his meals to be catered.

I then feed the outdoor cats: Chauncie in the fenced yard, sometimes Jack. Jesse and his daughter JayJay on the other porch. They prefer to eat atop their cat trees. I also bring kibble and cookies for a couple young raccoons who will join the cats in their cat tree if I don't feed them by the woods. Once everyone is hunkered around the bowls, I wait.

I wait because once one of them finishes eating, he will move to see who hasn't. Normally its Nick who bullies his way into a brother's bowl, but with Nick now on Prozac, not only has his aggression issues mellowed, his appetite dropped and he's lost weight. A total godsend, that Prozac! Now I watch for Cookie to finish. I swear Cookie is bulimic. I've yet to see him stick a paw down his throat, but if I am distracted he will finish off as many bowls as he can, and then upchuck a warm soupy mess onto my freshly cleaned floor.

But with the spring storms comes additional commotion. This morning the alarm went off just as Cookie was tucking into his breakfast. It startled him enough to inhale through his left nostril. He wheezed and coughed and choked with considerable drama. That's all I need, I thought. Death by Fancy Feast. The alarm scattered several cats from their bowls. Having inhaled his own breakfast, Cookie helped himself to Herman's.

Every Spring the Fur Flies!

Every spring Herman and I have a date with a clipper blade. I have a masters in dog grooming. That doesn't mean I have much success giving Herm a decent haircut.

Herman is a Turkish Van. His hair is baby fine and smears across furniture and clothes. It has been known to weave into eyelashes, so a haircut is necessary.

Our date always begins the same. He's thick and bushy with a winter growth, seeking the cool tile floor for comfort. I set up my tools and without notice whisk him into the laundry room. I place him on a towel and remove his collar. With the first swipe of my blade his hair melts off his skinny body. Soon, a pile grows around him. He starts to twitch and whine. The vibration tickles. Herm doesn't like to be tickled. I work as fast as I can, knowing he will soon reach the end of his patience. I don't want this to be torture for him. It's necessary, but not dire. He isn't a show cat. Its for his comfort that I shave him.

Herm has a high intelligence and his ability to communicate has always impressed me. He looks me direct in the eye and meows. He has a tiny sissy voice. It's soft and whispery. I tell him to be patient. I go for his arm pits. He has thick hair in his pits often snarled and curly. He hates the vibration on his back, but on his tummy and pits, well... His scowl alerts me his patience is at an end. He raises his voice, looking stern. I work a little faster. He makes a threat by raising his paw to my cheek. It rests there. I mean it, his eyes seem to say. Just one more minute, I assure. Sorry, time over! He smacks my cheek, without claws. Okay! We'll take a break.

Herm jumps off the washer. I open the door to release him. He runs through the house with loose hair flying behind him. Without the heavy weight of fur it is clear he feels lighter, cooler. He thinks he looks great. To me he looks like he's been run through a blender. I give him thirty minutes to an hour to calm down before grabbing him for Round Two.

If it wasn't for my husband's rude remarks I might consider leaving Herman with his punk-like haircut. But I can't. He's a handsome cat, and seeing his body marred by uneven blade tracks drives me insane.

Round Two didn't produce my professional expectations, and so this Saturday Round Three is scheduled.

In the meantime, I have a pile of baby fine Herman hair ready to distribute to nesting birds as soon as this stormy weather dries up.

The End!

Your Hero's Angst Began Inside the Womb

Any writer worth their salt knows in order for readers to care about our characters we must put them (both reader and character) through an emotional wringer. Rip their hearts out…make ’em sob…make ’em turn the page wanting more.

There are uncountable ways to develop your characters. I’m speaking not only of main characters (i.e. hero and heroine) but the secondary and the minor ones, too. Every character you use in your story has to serve a purpose, and a good writer knows even the hotel doorman who greets your characters should appear polished and friendly.

I collect characters from real life. I collect snippets of personality quirks, of descriptions, of dialogue and appearance and arrange them in such a way to create a 3D living breathing person who hopefully will grab my reader by the throat and say: Pay Attention to Me!

I love psychology. What makes people tick has always fascinated me. I had a discussion a few years back on how birth order impacts a child’s position in the family. I’m the first born. I have twin sisters three years younger. I was impressed enough with what I learned to dig a little deeper into the birth order psychology and how it affects us throughout our lives.

According to Michael Grose, author of “Why First-Borns Rule the World and Last-Borns Want to Change It,” a child’s birth position impacts his personality, his learning and his ultimate earning power. Grose says we have an intuitive sense of how our birth order impacts our development, yet we underestimate how significant that impact can be on our whole lives.

First-Borns come out of the womb with a heavy load to carry. Our parents are developing their parenting skills on us. Possibly I, as a first-born, have a few more childhood psychological traumas carried into adulthood than my sibs because Mom wouldn’t let me walk barefoot in the morning grass, but my sisters were allowed to run wild in traffic. As a result, I am careful, plan ahead; am reserved and cautious, whereas my youngest twin sister throws caution to the wind and rolls the dice. Que Sera, Sera is her motto.

First-Borns lead the classes at Harvard and Yale. Every astronaut that went into space was either the first-born or the eldest boy. According to my research more than half of U.S. presidents and British prime ministers were first-born, as was Nobel Prize winners. First-Borns are typically law-abiding, conservative; keen to please and yet need to be in charge.

Celebrity First-Borns: Prince William, J.K. Rowling, Hillary Rodham-Clinton, Bill Clinton, Oprah Winfrey, Clint Eastwood, John Wayne, Sylvester Stallone, Bruce Willis, and all of the actors playing James Bond.

The parents of Middle Children have acquired a ‘been there done that’ confidence that allows them to chill out and not overreact when the newbie kid demands peanut butter for dinner and pushes the Brussels sprouts off the table. First-Born ate the poisonous little cabbages and now watches with shock as Mom hands newbie the PB&J. When the youngest is born, the Middle kid can easily become lost in the shuffle of their families, and as a result can be more easygoing and peer-oriented with excellent people skills. The middle children often take on the role of peacemaker in the family. They also know how to work the oldest sib and the youngest sib and get away with murder.

The Middles get along well with most people and fit in with just about any group. They are diplomatic, sensitive to others and often excel in sports or other creative endeavors. Middle children tend to leave the home earlier than their sibs, and yet statistically seem to have a lack of direction in their lives. They also acquire a “look at me” mode of appearance such as hair, dress or makeup to be noticed.

Celebrity Middles: Donald Trump, Bill Gates, J.F.K., Madonna, Princess Diana, Ted Kennedy, Tim Allen and Julia Roberts.

Youngest Child excels in creativity and can be very charming…possibly manipulative. It may be due to their parents having a nostalgic regret about this being the final baby that they give in to this youngest child’s demands far easier than the older ones. This can at times hinder the Youngest from maturing as all they have to do is turn on the charm and get their way. The Youngest often craves being the center of attention. Because mom and dad tend to do for Youngest than let Youngest do for himself, Youngest is less likely to set goals for himself, in which case they can wander in an unorganized, chaotic manner. As a result, they are the more likely to take risks without fear of repercussions. The Youngest usually identifies with the underdog. They have success in journalism, advertising, sales and the arts.

Celebrity Youngest: Howard Stern, Jay Leno, Cameron Diaz, Jim Carrey, Drew Carey Eddie Murphy and Billy Crystal.

Only Children (like Binky, pictured) have similar characteristics to First-Borns, which means they can be equally screwed up from our newbie parents’ mistakes and high expectations. However, research has shown them to be more confident, articulate and prone to better use of their imagination. They can also be highly critical and inflexible, and pain-in-the-keester perfectionists. The Only tends to be logical and organized. They have no problem hanging out by themselves with no real need to depend on others for entertainment purposes.

However, Only children can miss out on learning to develop territorial skills, such as sharing toys, a bedroom, and television program choice. They struggle with interpersonal skills in relation to family dynamics which can later lead to misunderstandings later in life with coworkers. They may feel awkward in group situations and on the outside looking in with peers.

Celebrity Only Children: Rudy Giuliani, Franklin D. Roosevelt, Alan Greenspan, Tiger Woods, Leonardo Da Vinci, Lance Armstrong, Carol Burnett, Laura Bush, David Copperfield, Robert De Nero, Teri Hatcher, Barbra Streisand, Frank Sinatra, Robin Williams, Betty White, and Brooke Shields.

This link will help you develop your character with a snapshot of your character’s birth order: http://www.birthorderandpersonality.com/index.html

The above material I referenced from http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1351567/First-born-Piggy-middle-Or-baby-How-place-family-rules-life.html by Linda Blair

AND http://jobs.aol.com/articles/2009/01/26/oldest-middle-youngest-whos-most-successful/ by Kate Lorenz, CareerBuilder.com Editor

Alarm Clock? I don't need no stinkin' Alarm Clock!

I love "newbie" cat owners. My good friend and fellow author Linda Rettstatt has been sharing her cat stories with me for two years now, and I have invited her to share her morning routine with her roommate and personal "mews" Binky.

As a new cat owners (or should I say 'servant'), I'm completing my two-year internship. Just when I think I'm trained, I discover something new I have to learn about cats. My cat, in particular, Binky.

Let's go back to July, 2009. I had recently moved into a new apartment--alone. Nice. Then I considered the benefits of having a pet--someone to greet me warmly when I came through the door at the end of a long day. An adoring little creature who would gaze at me with unconditional love and curl up in my lap in the evening. What I got was Binky. She was six years old and named Minnie, a name I couldn't live with because it brought back nightmare memories of my second grade teacher.

On the way to the shelter to bring my cat home, I passed a street sign for Olivia Lane. Olivia. A nice, feminine, dignified name. The problem: the cat refused to acknowledge me when I called her Olivia. (Okay, so I've since learned cats generally refuse to acknowledge unless food or some other reward is involved. For them.) Because of an often cute and sometimes annoying habit she has of pretend-sucking on almost anything, I began to call her Binky. And she responded when I did.

Hence, I give you Binky. My furry, sandpaper-tongued, almost-human alarm clock.

I work four days a week and have to be up at 6:15 a.m. I'm a sound sleeper and, so, set an alarm clock and the alarm on my cell phone fifteen minutes apart. But who am I kidding? I'll never need either one--even on my days off. Binky has her own alarm that goes off between six and six-thirty every morning. She has no concept of 'day off' and 'sleep in'. All she knows is, morning is breakfast time.

I am generally wakened by first a paw jabbing through the sheet, then tugging the sheet down. It's a feat for her, since she was front-declawed by her first owner. But never underestimate the determination of a cat. She will dig me out of three layers of blankets if necessary. Then her back-up alarm goes to work. She licks, starting with an exposed arm and hand, working her way to my face. If I cover my face with an arm, she'll find a space to squeeze her little furry head through. When I open my eyes, I am staring into hers--one of which has a black heart-shape surrounding it, reminding me she could have at one time held the leading role in Godspell.

And why is it so important I get out of bed? Well, she wants her breakfast, of course. But then, she wants to take her after-breakfast nap. Here--

Her morning antics can be annoying, but tell me this: How many mornings is it that you wake up laughing?

Linda Rettstatt is an award-winning author of nine novels, writing stories for women--stories of strength, love, humor and hope.

You can read more about Linda at http://www.lindarettstatt.com/ and http://onewomanswrite.blogspot.com/