A break in the deal

With my recent computer problems, limited writing time, and a new-found desire to finish a book I’m working on, I’m suspending the 52 Cards project.  I plan on finishing it eventually, and to that end I’ll list the remaining cards, as they appeared in the shuffled deck back in January (I haven’t looked ahead until tonight).  Some of them might get skipped to if I feel like writing something off my regularly scheduled beaten path.

Remaining cards:

Six of Hearts (I know that it was last week’s, but I don’t want to let it go)

King of Spades (this week’s)

King of Diamonds

Seven of Clubs

King of Hearts

Three of Spades

Six of Spades (part 2 of Inside-Outside Straight)

Eight of Diamonds

Eight of Spades (part 3 of Inside-Outside Straight)

Five of Clubs

Ten of Diamonds

Ten of Hearts

Seven of Hearts

Two of Spades (part 3 of  Two-Island Lake)

Two of Clubs (part 4 of Two-Island Lake)

Nine of Diamonds

Queen of Diamonds

Eight of Hearts

Nine of Spades (part 4 of Inside-Outside Straight)

Ten of Spades (conclusion of Inside-Outside Straight)

Queen of Hearts

Ace of Diamonds

[picture will be uploaded later]

I’ve been using the aces of the deck to write about the four unique feline personalities that live with us.  Today, that honor falls to the youngest and most unique of all of them.  Truth be told, we wouldn’t have Eileen if we had listened to Bob Barker (and/or Drew Carey).  Weevil came into our house already fixed, but Logan and Mac didn’t.  They weren’t far apart in age, and they both felt the need to breed at about the same time.  Kate had been there and done that while living on a farm, but living on the not-even-close-to mean streets of Veblen with a step-father who was allergic to cats meant my experience with kittens was limited.  After several months, Mac gave birth to a litter of six kittens, which was shocking considering she weighted no more than seven pounds when she became pregnant.  There was one kitten that was bigger than the rest, and one scraggly runt of the litter that barely made it (but did).  As the kittens were starting to become mobile, I started giving them nicknames.  Kate advised me not to name them, because then I’d want to keep them.  She was half right about that.

One night when the kittens were slowly starting to get the hang of walking, there was a white kitten with crossed, light blue eyes that started to walk towards us.  The kitten was strong on her right side, but her left side almost caved in as she walked.  I watched her make about three perfect circles before she fell and started mewing.  Before Kate could say anything, I pointed at the kitten jokingly and said “I’m gonna call you Eileen.”  Kate laughed instantly, and unknown to me at the time my joke name would not only stick, but it would help Kate fall in love with a certain cross-eyed, circle walking kitten.

As the kittens grew older, we started finding good homes for them, except one.  Kate was willing to let her go, or so she said.  As the kittens were adopted, Eileen kept dodging the eyes of all those who took kittens home.  Finally, she was the last kitten standing, and we were out of people who wanted a kitten.  I wasn’t sure we could afford to have four cats, but Eileen was slowly winning me over.  She was unlike any cat I had ever seen.  Her body white, but her tail was gray.  One ear was black and gray, the other was orange and gray.  She had a bit of black and orange fur around one eye, and her white fur was slowly gaining other colors in spots, giving her a more off-white appearance.  Her crossed blue eyes were slowly uncrossing, but they suited her better when crossed.  Eileen had inherited her mom’s size, but she had unfortunately inherited her dad’s penchant for less-than-average cat intelligence.

When Mac started to push Eileen away, Eileen took to Kate like Kate was her mom.  Whenever Kate was sitting on the couch and Eileen walked in, she would jump up and rest on her shoulder or her “shelf” as Kate calls it.  Every time Kate would purse her lips at Eileen, the kitten would come up and start licking her face.  One night Kate and I were horsing around on the couch, and Kate made a shrill shriek while I was tickling her.  Eileen came running and started glaring at me.  Kate made another high pitched squeal, and Eileen jumped up to the couch and started to bat at me.  After that, Eileen was always easy to find.  All Kate had to do was raise her voice to it’s highest pitch and Eileen would come running from wherever she might be, ready to defend her new mom.

Logan and Mac don’t have a strong allegiance to either one of us more than the other, but now Kate has an Eileen to my Weevil.  Weevil is our trump card ace of spades, but Eileen is our little ace of diamonds.  She’s unique, precious…and at times pointy on all sides (when the call comes in).  I questioned whether or not we could afford to have four cats, but I know now our lives are forever richer for letting Eileen join our family.

Ace of Spades

Back on Halloween 2005 I recieved a call from Kate.  She was doing laundry in Minneota at a friend’s brother’s place, and a stray cat had found her.  He was nuzzling her while she was hauling stuff out to the car, and the cat kept following her as she went door to door around the neighborhood to see if anyone was missing a grayish/brown tiger-striped cat.  The cat was very tame, and it wore the markings of a house-cat (declawed and fixed) and a stray (his ears were mostly frozen off and he was rail thin).  No one claimed him, and no one could remember him being around until a few weeks ago.  She begged to bring him home, and even though I said yes, she had already loaded him in the car and was on her way back.  When I arrived home to see the cat, he was hiding in the bathroom.  He was a lot bigger than I expected, and he looked very timid.  There was another cat living with us at the time named Gia, and she was no fan of the new cat.  The new cat had no name, and I took it upon myself to name him.  Something about his face reminded me of the character of Eli ‘Weevil’ Navarro from “Veronica Mars”, so Weevil became his name.  The name turned out to be oddly appropriate.

On TV, Eli Navarro had done some time.  Weevil the cat would be in lock up by the end of the night.  Kate’s cat Gia liked to play a bit rough, and she assumed Weevil would be the same.  Weevil didn’t care for rough play, and he voiced his displeasure before sinking his fangs right through Kate’s fingertip, including the nail.  Within minutes he was in a cat carrier, and Kate was on the phone with the hospital.  We agreed to take him to the animal impoundment center for observation, rather than subject him to an immediate rabies test.  We met the officer at the impound center, and while he filled out paperwork Kate took Weevil out of the cat carrier.  He started purring, and he put his arms around Kate’s neck and nuzzled her.  This made turning him over a bit more difficult, but the officer convinced us it was the right idea.  Once Weevil was securely in ‘kitty jail’, we got back in Kate’s car, and I lost it.  I felt so bad for Weevil, since his odds of adoption weren’t good, and his hope of finding a home was looking like a death sentence.  I also felt bad for a cat nobody wanted, since before meeting Kate I frequently felt like someone nobody wanted .  Kate and I talked about it, and it was decided that we’d take him in if nobody claimed him. 

We kept checking on Weevil’s status, and after a week he wasn’t showing any signs of rabies.  Kate took Gia back to her parent’s house, and they allowed us to adopt Weevil as our own.  Having a home changed him pretty quickly, as he began to eat veraciously.  Within a month, he went from skin and bones to almost Garfield territory.  He had some odd quirks that began emerging as well.  He hissed at my oscillating fan.  He was scared to death of vacuum cleaners.  The sound of a lawn mower had him cowering in a corner, or holding onto Kate like a frightened child.  He also began to nip at us on odd occasions.  He would chase us in the dark, nipping at our heels if we weren’t quick.  One night I was plopped on the sofa with Kate, and he got this crazy look in his eye.  He charged at us, let out a short growl, and bit my knee.  After the bite, he just turned and walked towards his food dish, completely calm and acting like nothing had happened.  As time went on, he grew to like me more and more, and Kate less and less (which is totally unfair, since she’s the one who rescued him).

A few months later, we decided to get a second cat, one Kate could call her own.  Logan came into our house as a tiny kitten, barely old enough to be adopted.  Weevi’s first reaction to Logan came at the food dish.  Weevil was chowing down, and Logan decided he wanted to eat as well.  Weevil was without claws, but not without a wicked right cross.  One swat sent Logan rolling across the room.  Luckily, Logan was perky and persistent enough to win Weevil over.  It’s odd to think about those days now, as Logan has grown up bigger than Weevil in any measurable sense.  Weevil eventually found himself facing Mac, and then Eileen.  Both times, he was hostile for about a week, and then he either came to terms or just “gave up” and accepted the increasing cat population.  His attitude about our son has been…odd.  While Kate was in the hospital, I brought one of Braeden’s blankets home so the cats would be used to the baby’s scent.  Weevil saw the blanket right away, sniffed it, and then he plopped on it like it was his own.  Now, he frequently sleeps outside Braeden’s door at night, almost like a guard dog.  He doesn’t have much patience for Braeden pulling his fur, but what cat does?

When I assigned aces to the cats, I knew right away Weevil would be the ace of spades.  He always acts like he’s the king of the cats (although so does Logan, especially since Logan became the largest cat in the house) and he came before the others.  He’s also not part of the other cat “family” so he’s a bit of an outsider.  Weevil also gets the fancy card because of how he loves to prove us wrong every single time we have company.  We warn people that he’s “grumpy” and “bites” and all that, then he’s the first cat to start rubbing on our guest’s legs, purring all the while.  Most of all, I gave him the ace of spades because he’s my favorite cat of all time, and it will be hard to find another cat I’ll care about as much.

Ace of Clubs

[I'm using the aces to talk about each of our cats, but I had no idea I'd be doing two in a row.  I don't think it's my best work, but I have to play them how they're dealt.]

“I’ll be home soon with my cat.”

Now, this may not have been what Kate said that day, but it was essentially what the meaning was.  Weevil had evolved into my cat, and Logan was meant to be Kate’s cat.  Weevil and Logan had other plans, and both of them gravitated to me.  Kate was wanting her own cat, and she thought it would work fine (speaking as someone who grew up in a three cat household).  So, she went to the farm of a friend’s friend and picked out a small kitten, just ready to leave the litter and make her way in the world.  I was sitting on the couch when Kate arrived, and she brought the small cat into the living room.  The small, black kitten was hugging her chest tightly, and until I held her I didn’t see her white underside.  I was hoping for an all black cat to name Ravage, but instead we stuck with the Veronica Mars theme and name her Mac, after Veronica’s computer expert pal.  Logan came up to Mac and sniffed her a few times.  It was his first time around a female cat, and it made him a bit nervous.  By a bit nervous, I mean he urinated all over my leg.  Kate spent the rest of the night apologizing, I spent the night laughing, and Weevil spent the night hiding.

Mac got into a few scrapes with Logan and Weevil over the next few months, but soon she was getting along with them well enough to eat and drink beside them.  She grew a bit, but not as much as Logan had.  Logan had gone from runt to as big as Weevil, but Mac remained quite petite.  She was very kitten-like to the point of almost being wild.  She loved sharpening her claws and chasing cat toys.  At least, she did for the first few months.  One day she started meowing long and deep, and before too long Logan knew what he was supposed to do.  We tried to discourage it to some extent, but we knew the risks of two cats that weren’t fixed.  After about five days, Mac stopped meowing, and she was sleeping a ton. We had a pretty good hunch that she was pregnant.  Kate grew up on a farm, so litters of kittens were no big thing.  I’d never been through it before, so I was actually rather excited for the idea of having some kittens around. We weren’t ready for exactly what Mac had in mind.

Kate called to tell me the birthing had begun, and by the time it was done our little Mac, who may be one of the smallest fully grown cats I’ve seen, pushed six kittens out.  Kate was guessing four at the most, and I thought three would be pushing it.  Mac had been so wild and aggressive before they were born, we had our doubts that she would work as a mother.  Mac not only rose to the challenge, she often went above and beyond the call of duty with her kittens.  Her nipples were sore and swollen, but she never pushed one of her kittens away.  The wild child of our cat family had tamed overnight.  Her purr is what sticks with me from those early days.  I have never heard her purr louder or longer than when she was nursing her litter.  She embraced her motherhood fully, and those kittens were some of the luckiest cats around.  Kate was pretty sure one or two wouldn’t make it, because that’s how litters on the farm went.  Mac made sure all the kittens got their share, especially the runt of the litter.  In a few months all six were starting to wander all around the bedroom, and soon we had to construct what I called the “kitty pen” to contain them.

Logan’s role as the kitten’s father was unusual.  I’m sure you’ve heard stories of tomcats eating kittens, but Logan never tried.  In fact, he sat about a yard away from Mac during her labor with a concerned look on his face.  We didn’t want to take the chance that Logan would do something with them, so we didn’t let him interact with the kittens much.  There were a few nights where we let them roam free, and Logan actually played with them.  We didn’t want more kittens, as we were still lining up homes for the kittens we had.  The decision was made to get Logan fixed, and that led to a whole other side of Mac.

Logan was pretty doped up after his surgery, and we kept him away from all the other cats.  I’m not sure why cats forget each other so quickly, but when he finally emerged from his groggy state Mac didn’t want him anywhere near the kitty pen.  Logan, while not a smart cat, understood and kept his distance.  I was coming into the house and saw Logan walking towards the kitty pen, and Mac absolutely freaked out.  She snarled so hard she was snorting, and her body hugged the ground.  Her fur shot out in all directions, and she started slashing with her left front paw.  Logan was confused and scared, and he took a jump away from her.  Unfortunately for him, he jumped right into the kitty pen.  Mac chased him out, and he hid for a few hours in the basement.  Mac remained a great mom to the kittens, but once we started finding them homes she became cold and mean towards Weevil and Logan.  Once all of her kittens had found homes, she remained cold towards the other cats, and she grew cold towards Kate and I.  I thought it was because she missed her litter, and she did spend time in some of the spots we had them, almost as if she was looking for them.  The one kitten we kept, Eileen, was lumped in with Weevil and Logan.  Months passed, and she was becoming meaner and meaner towards everyone.  She even hissed and batted at her own daughter.  She never wanted to play, and she had no desire for any kind of interaction.  I kept hoping she’d come out of it, but finally Kate convinced me that we should get her fixed.  I didn’t think it would help, and with both males in the house fixed, it didn’t seem necessary.

Mac spent two nights at the vet, and when she came home she kept to herself for about a week.  Finally, one night as we tried to sleep, we heard meowing from under the bed.  It was Mac and her daughter Eileen, and they were meowing back and forth like they were having a really deep conversation.  It was almost like Mac had shed all of her negative qualities at once, and she was back to the playful, energetic Mac we’d fallen in love with when she first came into our home.  I chose the ace of clubs to represent her, for a few reasons.  Clubs can be seen as a clover, and Mac is probably the girliest of the cats.  A club is also a weapon, and I’ve seen Mac fight the other cats enough to know she’s not to be messed with.  Then, there’s the simple reason that she’s mostly black with some white, and the ace of clubs is a perfect contrast.  Or, it’s because the other cats fit the other aces so well that the ace of clubs is all that’s left.  Maybe the best way to put it is this: clubs is a complex suit, and Mac is a complex cat.

Ace of Hearts

“Why do we have to have such big hearts?”

This is the question Kate asked me Tuesday night as we embarked on what became a fool’s errand.  It was a cold day, and I was just leaving work.  The traffic from the West was heavy, but a simple turn to the East had my trip home going a lot more quickly.  I came upon an intersection that provided a merge lane, and in between the old intersection and the merge lane was a traffic island, one I’d driven by hundreds of times.  This time it was different.  There was a black and white cat lying in the middle of it.  The cat wasn’t moving, but it also wasn’t mangled.  It didn’t move, but it didn’t look dead.  The thought crossed my mind that it was nearly frozen, and was on death’s door.  A recent article I’d found in the Brookings paper told the story of a cat that was literally chipped out of a puddle of ice, still alive.  That cat actually survived and was adopted by a new family, one who hopefully wouldn’t let something like that happen to it again.  As I drove the wife’s car home, that story kept going through my mind.  Also going through my mind were several other things.

Why didn’t I stop?

What if he’s still alive?

What kind of person am I to just leave it?

I didn’t even stop.

What a horrible way to die.

These thoughts were a constant loop as I slowed down to turn onto 4th Street.  As I slowed for the stop signs on the way to my turn, those thoughts only got louder and louder.  As I pulled into the garage, I was starting to rationalize.

He’s probably dead…he wasn’t moving.

I had cars behind me on a busy street and nowhere to park.

If he’s alive, he might be feral, or rabid.

What if he has fleas and infects our cats?

Those thoughts kept getting shouted down by the first thoughts I’d had as I drove home on a night that promised to dip well below zero.  I was composed for the most part as I walked into the house, and saw my smiling wife holding our son.  Then I looked down and saw Logan.  Our big orange cat looked up at me and meowed.  As I sat my backpack down, he started rubbing against my legs.  He’s probably our dumbest cat, but he’s very good around strangers and is almost always in the mood for affection.  Kate could tell right away something was bothering me, like any good wife would.  She asked what was wrong, and I told her about the cat and how much it was bothering me.  She really didn’t want to hear it, because, like me, she has soft spot for cats.  No matter what we’re talking about on any given road trip, if we spot a dead cat on the road the same thing happens.  The conversation ends and we don’t say much for at least a mile.  Sometimes the somber mood lasts the rest of the trip.

Without promising anything, we left to make a quick trip to County Fair for milk and a few other groceries.  Kate’s mom (who stays with us three days a week) was making lasagna, and we were on a timetable to get home when it was ready.  The trip to the store had a lot of talk about the cat’s fate, and Kate kept hinting that all I would have to do is say the word and we’d go check on the cat, if we had time.  I tried to distract myself by browsing the cereal aisle, but it was only a fleeting distraction.  Once we checked out, Kate called to check on the status of supper, since the grocery store trip went faster than we expected.  It was on schedule, and to our surprise our wee one was down for an unexpected nap.  Suddenly we had the time to check on the cat, so we had to make a decision.

Kate and I are equally bad about decisions, and we frequently pass the decision-making buck.  I think the conversation from the parking lot to the intersection that led either to home or that traffic island went a bit like this (starting with Kate):

“So, do you want to go?”

“You’re right…the cat’s probably dead.”

“But do you want to go?”

“I do, but you’re probably right.  It’s too late.  Plus, you’re right about it being sick.”

“If you want to go I’ll go.”

“Nah, we should go home.”

“You want to go home then?”

“Well, no, but it sounds like the right thing to do.”

“AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH”

We pressed onward to check on the status of the downed feline.  All the way there she told me how bad I would feel if the cat was dead.  Really, she was talking about herself and how much she hates to see a cat who went before their time.  I insisted I’d feel better if the cat was dead.  While that sounds morbid, I was hoping for some relief that I hadn’t been a totally heartless bastard who left a cat that was alive abandoned in the cold.  I know it makes me sound selfish, and maybe emotionally I was being selfish.  However, as the night went on it became apparent that Kate may have been right after all.

We reached the traffic island, and the traffic at the intersection had calmed down.  Kate stopped the car, and I got out.  I walked towards the cat, and he didn’t move as I got closer.  I wanted to reach out for him, but I was afraid.  What if he bit me?  What if rigor had set in?  What if I frighten him and he runs into traffic? I stopped about six inches away from the cat and crouched in a catcher’s squat inches away from him.  The cat’s eyes were closed, and his front right leg was extended with his left paw covered up by his right leg.  His back legs were curled up behind him, but not very well.  I could see the spots in the snow where he was frozen into the ground.  I just kept watching, hoping to see a small rise and fall of his back to know he was breathing.  I didn’t see that sign.  I halfway reached out to pick it up, but I just couldn’t bring myself to touch it.  Part of it was fear, and part of it was the fact I’d never held a dead cat.  I’d read stories, blogs, and accounts of people having their own cats put down due to age or disease, and how they held them as they went to sleep one last time.  One of our cats is in double digits, so the thought of someday having to go through that myself kept me from picking him up.  I grabbed a chunk of ice and tossed it at the cat.  It bounced off into the evening as Kate rolled down her window.  “It’s dead.  We’ve done all we can.”

The drive home was a long and painful one.  Kate felt awful, and I didn’t feel the relief I was expecting, even though I kept telling her I was happy to know I couldn’t have done anything.  As the night went on, my mind kept going back to the cat.  I was just starting to realize that while I can tell myself there was nothing I could do, those feelings wouldn’t bring back a cat that may have been somebody else’s Logan.  My frustration turned into a crabby attitude for the night, and that included being annoyed with Logan’s continued attempts to rest on my head.  Logan often likes to sleep on my pillow, but that night he was taking up more space and he was trying to wrap his paws around my head.  I kept moving him, and occasionally sternly telling him to get lost, or words that communicated that intention.  This became my second tragic misstep of the night.  I’d wrapped myself up in a shroud of anger and sadness, and I wasn’t letting in the one cat that could sense it.  No matter when or why Kate and I get in a bad mood, Logan pops up.  It’s like he can sense it, and he tries to make it better by purring and snuggling.  I wasn’t the mood that night, and unfortunately Logan bore the brunt of my frustration and disheartenment.  The next day Kate revealed I’d not only woken her up complaining about Logan, but that I was a “total asshole” to him.  She was probably right about that, but the kicker is that Logan didn’t seem to care.  I apologized to him, and I stroked the fur on his back until he was purring for me like nothing had ever happened.  The next night, he was back on my pillow, but he left plenty of room for my head.

I’ll never know if that frozen cat was anyone’s Logan.  Even if he was a stray, he didn’t deserve to die alone on a traffic island.  Getting back to the quote at the beginning, it’s something Kate says every time we feel bad about a stray we can’t help, a dead cat left on the road, or any time we visit a shelter and see rooms full of cat cages, each sticking out their tiny paws in hopes of finding a new companion (seriously, if you ever want to see me cry, take me to an animal shelter’s cat room).    My heart went cold for Logan for a night, but Logan never holds a grudge.  He just knew I was torn up inside, and he tried to help, even when I pushed him away.  Logan may not be the smartest cat in the world, but he reminded me that having a big heart is a 24/7 thing, and not something that should be switched off.   Kate and I might fancy ourselves the king and queen of hearts in this tale (or, at least we try to be), but Logan is our Ace of Hearts.