Cat on a Hot Ceramic Stovetop

That damn cat. I had just gotten into bed last night when my mom called to tell me Scout jumped up onto a burner on her flat-top stove right after mom had taken a pot of soup off. She yelped and jumped down, and mom was convinced she had sustained serious injuries.

"She's not my cat anymore!" I wanted to yell into the receiver, but we both know that Scout will always be my cat. The only difference is she now lives at mom's house and doesn't recognize me anymore. But when it comes down to who is still resonsible for the cat's overall health and well-being, well, that'd still be me.

We had Scout trained to not get on our tables or our stove while we had her. Who wants to deal with cat hair and kitty butt on your dining room table? When she was a kitten we shook cans of pennies at her whenever she got on a counter or a table, and she learned. But it didn't take long for my mom to unlearn her.

I suggested future stovetop discipline in the form of a water bottle of a can of pennies.

"But I don't want to have to be mean to her."

Okaaaaay...it's better for her to fry herself?

While mom was fretting, I told her to check Scout's paws for blisters. This is easier said than done since Scout thinks if you touch her paws you're getting ready to clip claws, but somehow mom managed to rule out blistering.

"Well, if you don't see any blisters, mom, and if you can get her to walk over to you, then I would say she's OK."

"Oh, she just jumped up on the kitchen table, so I guess she's alright."

Greaaaaat. Scout's allowed to get on the kitchen table. I'll be thinking of that the next time Ainsley empties her McDonald's fries onto the table and starts eating them.

I told mom to keep an eye on her and to call me back if she thought she had really burned herself or seemed to be in pain; when the phone rang half an hour later, just after I had dozed off, I was ready to throw on clothes and go to the kitty emergency room.

"I just wanted you to know that she jumped up on my bed and went to sleep, so she really is fine. I didn't want you to worry."

Gee, thanks, mom. Because hearing the phone ring at 11pm while I'm sleeping really puts my mind at ease. I'll be able to get a great night's sleep now.

I did manage to sleep, but darned if I haven't been worried about Scout all morning. I know I'll be calling at lunch today to make sure she's not limping around the house.

Once a kitty mom, always a kitty mom.

On the Disloyalty of Felines

Before Christmas, we gave our beloved cat, Scout, to my mom. It was a very hard decision. Ainsley was diagnosed with asthma this fall, and we discovered through allergy testing that she's allergic to cats and that Scout was probably a trigger for her nighttime coughing. And I had been having allergy problems myself; throughout the summer and fall, I had been battling an allergic reaction in my eyes and through my own allergy testing learned that I am allergic to cats. (This was a shock--I've had cats my entire life and had allergy testing before. Go figure.) So Scout had to go.

It's been a good arrangement. Scout, who ironically has allergy problems of her own, got a good home with someone who knows about her health needs and will stay on top of them. Mom, who has been living alone since my dad passed away, has a new companion to keep her company. The only downside is that mom travels quite a bit, so I have to visit and make sure the cat is fed and watered. And doing that this weekend, I've learned an ugly truth: my cat hates me.

This cat, who before Ainsley came along was our "furry baby", who slept on our bed every night for 6 years, who I mourned like a child when we thought she had died behind the refrigerator (long story), and who could not bear to be separated from me or Jason when we shared the same house, now will not even acknowledge my existence.

Scout was the most dependent cat I have ever seen; unless "strangers" were in the house, she had to be on top of or next to either Jason or me. She was my lap cat. She was my substitute dog; she greeted me at the top of the stairs every afternoon and even played fetch. We were tight, Scout and I. And now when I go to mom's to give her food and water, she gives me a look that says, "I think I might know you...but I know I don't care." I can't coax her out from under the bed. She sniffs my hand and lets me pet her head for approximately half a second, then she turns her kitty butt at me.

I was hurt at first, but now I'm just mad. We spent thousands of dollars on this animal in the 6 years we had her, what with vet bills, her special "low-allergen" prescription cat food, kitty litter, etc. I have taken sick days for her various medical crises (at last count, she's on her 5th life.) We tolerated her 3am go-up-and-down-the-hallway-meowing-loudly-for-no-good-reason spells when most people would have shown her the other side of the door. I cleaned up after her every time she thought the living room carpet would make for good toilet paper. I refrained from kitty abuse when she would leave a hairball right where I would be sure to step on it in barefeet on my way to the bathroom in the morning. We even applied those rubber "Soft Paws" claw caps on a regular basis to keep from having her declawed. We did this because we loved her. And thought she loved us. But it seems that as long as someone is providing the cat food, and a warm lap, Scout doesn't really care who that someone is. My mom is now the special human in Scout's life, and I am just this person that smells vaguely familiar and pokes my head into her hiding spot under the bed from time to time.

I suppose she could be harboring bad feelings toward me since I moved her from her accustomed surroundings to a new home that took her weeks to get used to. I wish she could understand that I had to put Ainsley's health first. I wish I could tell her, and have her understand, how hard it was, and how I don't know if I could have gotten rid of her if my mom hadn't volunteered to take her in. I wish I could be more of my husband's view that she's "just a cat", and not see her as a fluffy, meowing, dysfuntional member of the family.

I wish my cat was still my cat.