Betrayal makes a heart go hard, but love is the great tenderizer. I’ve been there before, I know. And, it seems I’m going there again. Will I stay or will I go? Will I give up my territory, the comfortable truce with Bess, and life on the ledges to follow Andrew and Leslie where ever they may le
I’ve always heard rumor that a cat will choose you, you don’t choose a cat. But, is this cat choosing to live on a sailboat, at sea, one that is scheduled to cross the Indian Ocean next year!? Join us in this blog post as Andrew and I prepare to catnap Katherine “Kitty” Hepburn for a li
Years ago I kept a running total on my funny page for a while about What My Dog Destroyed This Week.You can click the name there if you’d like to revisit those days of yore. That was Yore, Colorado, which is just West of Centennial and East of Broadway, if you’re curious.
Buffy (the subject dog) is still with us. She’s too old to be destructive, now, but she’s sort of getting younger as she is, literally, demented with the doggie version of Alzheimer’s. She’s happy, though, so it’s okay. The odd thing is that not all that long ago, we picked up this:
We wouldn’t have such a beast, and yes, she’s one big cat, if our little Maine Coon hadn’t disappeared. She was gone for so long that we figured she was a goner. It was summer, and nobody can survive the Mojave without some sort of outside support in the summer. While searching the Lied Animal Shelter (not the website, but the actual room full of cats) to see if she’d been turned in, I noticed a long-haired adult cat who had been there for a couple of months. Once we decided that our then Auxilliary Coon (the beloved and much missed Jabba the Hairball died recently so she got promoted)Â wasn’t coming back, I decided to go back to the shelter and pick up that friendly black cat I’d seen. She was there, and since I get animals really cheap because I’m older than dirt and they charge me eighteenth century rates, I adopted her and brought her home.
Amazingly, she, like Buffy before her, has no fear of Satan, since the Lord of the Underworld must certainly be afraid of her.
According to several sources, including this article from Wikipedia, this breed is from Scandinavia, principally Norway, where they adapted (big surprise) to a very cold climate. I’ve never seen a cat with more hair on it, and that’s a fact. Also, like many Scandinavians and descendants of same, she’s huge, compared to a normal cat. I’ve read that many believe that it was these cats, brought over by the Vikings away back a long time ago, ya, that are ancestral to Maine Coons. That story holds a lot more water with me than the one about Marie Antoinette’s Angoras, but judge for yourself. She is about the most affectionate and friendly cat I’ve ever seen. I do not know if that is true of Norwegian Forest Humans.
The thing is, maybe because she’s so big, she just assumes that she’ll get what she wants. Only the fact that she’s only 1/3 the size of a basset hound limits her destruction. Still, she will crawl up anywhere and throw things onto the floor, in spite of repeated tossing-offs. She eats what she wants, when she wants it. She goes where she wants (which is almost nowhere, to be honest) when she wants to go there. I’ve never before seen an animal with such an inborn sense of privilege. She apparently has no concern over dogs, which quickly learn to ignore her since that’s what she’s doing to them. And, of course, she’s big, and fat. When you adopt an adult cat from a shelter it’s going to be heavy. After all, there’s not much for a cat to do there but sleep in a cage and eat. Oddly, this is perfectly acceptable to most cats. When we picked up Jabba the Hairball he weighed about 20 pounds, but he slimmed down to 13 or so from running around and such. Cleopottamus is over twenty pounds, and she goes, as I said, pretty much nowhere. She goes out back to do her thing, then comes back in and sleeps. She will, naturally, sleep in whatever place you’d least like to see a sleeping cat, but that doesn’t do a thing for her figure, which remains rotund. She’s like a giant, furry basketball with legs.
Originally she was Cleo as in Cleopatra, but after six weeks or so, in which time Cleo got fatter if anything, the name changed to Cleo the Cleopottamus, and so it will stay, although when we found out her ancestry we did consider names like Frieda or Ingrid or some such. I won’t be starting a page reporting on her activities, because I’ve just written down everything she ever does. In sum: go outside to drop some dog food (uh-huh), eat, crawl up on something and throw everything there on the floor, and sleep. It’s a heckuva deal. For a Cleopottamus.