Confusion, Thy Name is Cat

The new fence and gate has been up for just a few days and the cats don't know what to make of it. The old routine was that two of our three cats would go out the back door in the laundry room, which gave them access to both the backyard and about a third of the driveway. Now that the driveway gate is gone, I can't let them go out of that door because I don't want them running down the driveway and towards the street.

The new routine is that they have to go out the door in the breakfast room, which gets them to the screen-porch. Which means I have to follow them so I can let them out the porch's screen door, which gives them access to just the backyard, which now has the new high fence and gate. I can't count the number of times I've been through this process in the last few days, and each time, I find myself saying out loud: "It's the same backyard, just a different door!" I guess that makes no sense in cat-logic. I say that to them because they look out of the porch screen-door as if I'm opening the door to an unknown territory.

It doesn't help that my middle cat is like Ed Norton in 'The Honeymooners' when it comes to routine. Remember how Norton would have to get his wrists and arms and elbows in just the right position in order to simply sign his name? Well, that's my middle cat... he won't touch a morsel of his food unless his little cat-body is in just the correct position in front of his bowl. And he will scrunch himself around and around till he gets himself just right.

And don't even think of changing his food dish. He has a blue one. He has had a blue one since he was a kitten. Change it and he won't eat. Same with his litter box. He started out with a blue one. I changed colors once when I bought new litter boxes. He wouldn't use the boxes. My carpet-cleaning service made a lot of money until we figured out what the problem was. And finding the solution to the color-change of his litter box came from none other than the well-known pet psychic Sonya Fitzpatrick. Thank goodness my husband believed in this woman also, because he didn't even flinch when presented with her fee.
And before you say there had to be a catch to that--- Sonya Fitzpatrick solved this problem just by looking at a photo of AngelBoy and telling me over the phone: "Honey, you took away his blue litter box. He doesn't like the dark color of the new one because he's afraid of it. Get him a blue one and he'll be just fine." Before she told me that, I said nothing else to her other than "Good morning" and she had never been to our home or spoke to anyone we knew. For the record, the new litter box I had bought was a dark brown. Once I went out and bought another blue one, AngelBoy was back to his normal picky little cat-self.

I don't have such problems with all three cats. The oldest cat, Rusty, is an orange and white Manx. He's so laid-back and docile that my pet-sitter once asked me if there was something physically wrong with him. "Is it normal for Rusty to sleep so much," he asked me. "Normal for Rusty," said I. All Rusty needs in this world is a corner to sleep in, a full food dish (color is not an issue) and a litter box on the porch (color, once again, is not an issue). When he feels like it, he'll walk around the backyard. But his bird-chasing and mouse-catching days are over. He just couldn't be bothered with such a waste of energy. We found Rusty the year after we moved to Texas. We had no cat food in the house, since we didn't own a cat then, so my husband opened up a can of tuna. Rusty has been with us ever since. What self-respecting cat would leave a home where tuna was his first meal?

Our youngest cat, ShadowBaby, is all black, except for one white whisker growing on the left side of his face. It stands out like a beacon. Gives him character, says my husband. ShadowBaby is the most loving of cats. He follows me around this house all day long and sleeps on my pillow at night. He doesn't care what color anything is as long as he's with us. He's the one who brings me the baby lizards that he finds on the screen-porch. We found him when he was just a tiny kitten. He was sitting on the curb outside an antique shop. As soon as he saw me, he ran to me and jumped up on my knees. We both said "Mine!" at the same time. My husband and I took him out to lunch with us that day and that tiny kitten ate chicken-fried steak. He's an inside cat, but I'll put a halter and leash on him from time to time and take him out in the backyard grass. I don't want him walking all over the backyard flower-beds, since he sleeps in our bed. (The other two cats sleep on the screen-porch and are perfectly happy there. Why shouldn't they be? Along with 'normal' porch furniture, I have a few cat-sized chairs for them to sleep on out there.)

The middle cat is AngelBoy. We adopted him from the SPCA. I can't remember what he ate for his first meal here, but I remember trying at least half a dozen things before he picked one that he liked. He's a Burmese and I've since learned that they need a lot of attention. He is a gorgeous silver gray cat with darker gray on his paws, tail, face and ears. Blue eyes that can melt your heart. Long hair that's as soft as a bunny's fur. And he is picky, picky, picky. He can give even Norton a run for his money. But besides being picky, he also curls up near my legs and rests his head on my feet. He's partial to my soft leopard slippers and a pair of black velvet sandals with rhinestone flowers at the toes. AngelBoy is so upset that he can't go out the laundry room door now that he has taken off at a run in the breakfast room and literally tossed himself at his 'regular' door. Then he looks at me with those blue eyes, as if to say "Can't you take a hint, woman? Open this door before I hurt myself."

I had a purple velvet star-shaped Christmas ornament on AngelBoy's door. Pretty little star about five inches in diameter, with ribbons dangling from its bottom, a tiny bell at the end of each ribbon. I found it at a yard sale a few years ago and was going to hang it on our Christmas tree. AngelBoy heard the bells and decided he liked it. I figured if I hung it on the tree, he'd never leave it alone as long as the tree was up. I didn't want the tree falling in the living room, so I hung it on 'his' doorknob instead. AngelBoy would play with the little bells, but only when he wanted to be let out of that door. Besides being so picky, he's also very smart.

Now, with having to change the door he goes out of, I hung that belled star on the breakfast room door. While AngelBoy goes through his little tantrum by the laundry room door, I'm standing at the breakfast room door, ringing those little bells for all I'm worth and saying "This door, AngelBoy, you have to go out from this door." The neighbors would think I'm crazy, except they have cats of their own.

This should all work itself out, I'm sure. It just may take a few more days. Until then, AngelBoy might throw himself at his 'old' door again. And if you want me, I'll be at the 'new' door, jiggling a velvet star so the little bells will ring, trying to get AngelBoy's attention. What was the name of that poem? "When I Am an Old Woman, I Shall Jiggle a Purple Star....."