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/

My Cup Runneth Over...onto the Plate...off the Table...all over the Floor

For the past week I've been OVERWHELMED. I am prone to hyperbole, but I assure you, this time I speak the truth. So grab a cup of coffee, or a Coke and a bag of Cheetos cuz I need to vent.

Whenever my husband leaves on business all hell breaks loose. I am always at the center of the storm but unlike hurricanes my storm center is not still and quiet. My center is a huge ball of stress that deprives me of sleep, sensible nutrition and most of all…quality writing time.

It started when Chauncie showed up holding her leg against her chest and steamrolled downhill from there. Chauncie has recently discovered a way onto the roof. How she gets up and how she gets down is a mystery. The first thing I thought was, of course, she broke her leg.

Chauncie has been with me for about 3 years but only in recent weeks has given in to my constant efforts to touch her. Not pick her up; touch her. I fretted a bit about getting her into a cat carrier, but she must have been one hurtin’ pup—uh, kitty because she let me move her. Turns out, she had a caustic burn on her paw, the leg after shaved showed it purple and swollen with a puncture wound. Since Chauncie ain’t talkin’ it will forever remain a mystery as to what happened. However, she could not be released until her leg healed so she had to be caged…in my sunroom…because…the morning I took Chauncie in, I grabbed another stray. I didn’t plan to grab JayJay but there she was, glowing with motherhood and my sanity left me. However the vet was short-staffed and could not give her an ‘operation’ until Thursday. It was Monday.

I put JayJay in the cat apartment in a roomy cage with a bed and litter box. She's never been indoors before, plus she’s never used a litter box. So she pees in the bed, ruining it. I pitched it out and gave her a mat with the blanket she used outdoors. Since JayJay now has the cat apartment, and the baby pool I use for a litter box, I had to create two additional boxes in the hall and dragged two cat trees out as well so the boys wouldn't riot. Meanwhile JayJay's yowls inspired me to release her into the room so she could stretch her legs. No. She wanted outside. I assured her life as an unwed mother will complicate not only her life, but mine too.

Keeping two outside cats in my home with several cynical males and one ultra territorial Queen tested my sanity. I forgot to mention I have begun cooking for my cats and removed dry kibble. I lost two cats to kidney disease; I have two obese cats, one asthmatic, one diabetic; one with FUS. No more kibble! This means I am accosted by six cats every time they see me--especially Nicholas, who at 20# is eight pounds overweight. Nick tries to run me down and trip me as I walk through the kitchen. Cries, hisses, yowls--demands for never-ending banquets prepared to their own particular tastes--drove me to the sanctuary that is my office. Behind closed doors I turned up the music and lost myself in my private writing world…only to be constantly interrupted by someone shaking the door, wanting in or tattling on someone else, accompanied by screams and sounds of gut punches and low kicks to the groin.

Thursday morning I took JayJay in for her ‘operation’. I had run out of cat food so I had a lengthy stop at the grocery store. I also had a noon hair appointment (noting my stress Hope offered me a big ol’ glass of wine; I guzzled gratefully) and then had to run back to vet to grab JayJay who would be recuperating with me for 7-10 days. I repeat. SEVEN to TEN DAYS. Schnit! As I pulled out of my garage my van made an odd sound that had me getting out to see I had a flat. Double schnit!

I text my husband in La La Land… Should I call AAA or what? Do not text—call me. I am driving. I set out for the vet about 15 minutes away. So what does hubby do? He texts me. Questions. I ignore him. I get to the vet to find the reception room chaotic and crowded. Joyce spots me in the crowd. She’s checking people out and can’t wave me through. Dr. Joe then sees me in the crowd. He grabs JayJay and brings her out for me, to which I’m very thankful. You’re probably wondering why would I expect preferential treatment? Why would I expect to be waved ahead of all the others? Ha! You’ve no idea how many times a month I’m at the vet or how much I spend monthly let alone yearly. My vet in Jacksonville was able to buy a four-wheeler and put an addition on the clinic because of what I spend. Yep. I’ve become accustomed to animal clinics knowing me by name on sight and waving me through.

Back to my issue. I’m on my way home with JayJay when again hubby texts. So did they fix the flat yet? It’s been perhaps 45 minutes. Get real, bucko! I ignore him. This time he calls. Poor guy. He can’t get a word in edgewise. I finally stop ranting to grab a breath and he asks if I’d like him to call AAA for me. YES! Back in the cat apartment JayJay shows me her operation scar and swollen nipples. She can’t have food that night but I bring her a treat around nine just as AAA shows up. I am so ready for that day to end, but it’s close to ten when I finally remember I never ate all day.

Friday. I’m finally able to sit at my computer for a nice chunk of time. It’s a beautiful day, the sun is shining, the birds are singing; my cats are getting along and I have the windows open for everyone to enjoy the fresh air. I’m thoroughly absorbed in my editing when I hear a feline conversation over my shoulder. I turn to see Opie sitting in the window talking to Peaches who is on the other side. My office is on the second story. Holy mocha!

Peaches discovered Chauncie’s mysterious access to the roof. Something inside me turns mean. "You got up there, sister, you can get down." I ignore her cries to come in through the window. Meanwhile Opie is pawing the screen, filled with admiration and yearns to run wild and free with his girlfriend. I close the window and shoo Opie out. Peaches disappears. Good. She’s figuring out how to get down.

Anyone who knows me knows it is impossible for me to ignore the situation. Soon I’m in the driveway watching Peaches amble along the roof, looking for a way down. She’s at the peak, half way into a hole. I shriek! God knows where that leads and she could end up inside the living room walls…to which I would move out. I would pack a bag, my lap top and leave. Hubby would kill me anyway. Best I just give it all up and go. I call her, and thankfully she leaves the hole to come. She stands on the edge of the roof and makes a motion to JUMP! I scream NO! I’m eying a ladder, wondering if a stay in a hospital with a broken spine wouldn’t be better for me than just leaving. Thinking of someone waiting on me instead of me waiting on them…boy it was tempting.

I return to my office, yank open the window. Peaches is there waiting. It takes me ten minutes to figure out how to open the screen…I had to do some idiotic thing to the window, pulling it toward me and then the screen pops. Peaches is ready to climb in, but the window is slippery. I grab her and pull her in. And grab Opie before he goes out.

The next morning I had a deadly surge of insanity and tried to grab YumYum, yet another pregnant stray--a Siamese, if you can believe that! YumYum has been on the road awhile and is clearly not charmed by me like JayJay is. She left me a couple bloody scars and the knowledge she did not appreciate being handled As she is a hit or miss kind of stray, I never know when I’ll see her, it saddens me to know she will be bigger next time I try to grab her.

Then I asked Chauncie how her leg was feeling. She held her paw against her chest. It was the wrong paw. Sorry sister, but your stay at the Kozlowski Ritz is over. I shoo her outside. She shoos back in and leads me on a merry chase around the kitchen and sunroom.

That evening I brought JayJay out of the cat apartment to hang out with me on the sofa. She was sick of her own company and I gave in. A couple of the boys came by and weren’t all that surprised to see me hanging out with a new cat. They’re pretty much used to my insanity. However when Peaches came over to investigate, she smacked JayJay’s face. Peaches likes being the only Queen Bee, obviously.

Later that night, I stood on the lawn gazing at the full moon glowing orange in the night sky. It made sense then, seeing that full moon, and recalling the chaos I’d endured all week. A friend once said she thought my life with the cats would make for a funny reality TV series. To which I made a rude hand gesture and crossed her off my Christmas card list. You cannot understand where I’ve been unless you’ve spent the day by my side scooping litter.

Just hearing what my week was like should make you all very glad you are not me. Now take pity and buy my book. Click the cover photo and buy. Go on. Shoo!

Peace and Love! Kim