Katzenjammer Cats

Katzenjammer is a German word that means “the yowling of cats.” It also means “hangover” because a hangover headache feels like cats are yowling in your skull. The Katzenjammer Kids is the title of a comic strip with a history that spans two centuries and two continents. In 1865 the German author Wilhelm Busch created a series of darkly humorous short stories for children, Max and Moritz, about two bad boys who got into all sorts of scrapes. The series was an immediate success and remains popular to this day.

In 1897, inspired by Max and Moritz, German-American Rudolph Dirks created a comic strip called The Katzenjammer Kids which featured two bad boys, Hans and Fritz, who played tricks on their mother, on a father figure called The Captain, and on The Inspector, the school parole officer. Widely popular, the strip ran in syndication until 1949.

My two Katzenjammer cats, like those bad boys, Max and Moritz and Hans and Fritz, get into comic scrapes as well, jammering all the while and I, like Mama or the Captain, try ineffectually to create a modicum of order from the ensuing chaos.  

Even though I love my job, some days can be frustrating. After a day filled with missed phone calls, angry clients, mixed messages, and general confusion, I staggered home one night looking forward to a good dinner, a glass of wine, a hot bath and an early bedtime. When I arrived, I was met with a jammer, Chloe stood in the window meowing frantically. “Come in! Come in! Save me from Annie!” she yowled, pawing at the window pane. I entered and rubbed her tummy to calm her down. I put some marinated chicken wings in the oven, and together we headed to the upstairs study with the mail. I sat in my rocking chair, putting the envelopes on the end table to sort and placing a glass of wine and a bowl of peanuts on the floor beside me. Chloe lay at my feet, purring, while I divided the mail into piles for recycling and immediate action.

With a rebel yell, Annie burst through the door. Chloe screamed and leaped to the safety of the window sill, knocking over the wine glass. Annie followed, tipping the peanuts onto the sodden carpet. She crouched below Chloe’s window perch, growling loudly while I ran to the linen closet for paper towels to sop up the mess.

When I returned, the cats were gone and the oven timer chimed. I cleaned up the carpet, tidied up the study, and went down to the kitchen to pull the wings from the oven. After making a quick tossed salad, I settled down at the kitchen table for a relaxing meal, Django Reinhardt playing softly in the background. After one bite of salad, I heard a screaming, thumping stampede on the stairs. Annie and Chloe chased each other into the downstairs hall. They landed on the scatter rug which slid down the hall. Annie hit the front door with a thump, yelling in anger and frustration. Chloe sensed an advantage. I heard her growl and spit, followed by a crash. As I rushed toward the living room to see what happened, the cats raced into the kitchen, nearly knocking me down

I found that a vase of flowers on the coffee table had been tipped onto the carpet. Just as I picked it up, I heard a crash in the kitchen. I dashed back to find my dinner plate on the floor. Annie pounded up the stairs, chicken wing between her jaws, followed closely by growling, spitting Chloe.

More paper towels sopped up twin messes. I listened carefully. Was everything quiet? Then my ears picked up a low, rhythmical, distressingly familiar sound, the sound of Annie vomiting. The excitement and the chicken wing were too much for her delicate digestive track. With a sigh, I carried the paper towels back upstairs for yet another cleaning task.” I give up!” I sighed in frustration.  I decided to crawl into bed with a good book and to call it an early night.

As I settled on my pillows, paperback mystery in my hand, annie tiptoed onto the bed and settled softly on my chest, looking deeply into my eyes. “Hard day at the office?” she seemed to ask solicitously. “Don’t worry. You’re home safe now.” With a sweet smile, she leaped daintily off the mattress and slipped beneath the dust ruffle to her home beneath the bed. As soon as she left, Chloe jumped on my chest to take her place. “You poor thing,” she seemed to say. “You look a little tense. Would you like a massage?” She began to knead and purr.

The sound of her purring and the gentle kneading was soothing. I felt much better except, of course, for the pounding headache that was even worse than a hangover. If you own two bad, jammering cats, I thought glumly, you can have a genuine German Katzenjammer without downing even one full glass of wine.

Chloe and the Apocalypse

Last night after dinner I settled down on the sofa with a book and a cup of tea. After a few minutes, I heard Chloe’s footsteps on the stairs. As she walked into the room, I patted the arm of the sofa, indicating that she could perch at my side like she usually does. She jumped on the sofa arm as usual, but instead of sitting at my side, she stepped deliberately into my lap, staring full into my eyes.

“You can lie in my lap, if that’s what you’d like,” I said, scratching her back. But instead of lying down, she pulled herself up to her full height, hiding the book from my view. “Lie down, Chloe,” I said again, pushing down a little on her back. She began to butt the book with her head, knocking it out of my hands. Then she turned again and stared into my eyes.

“OK, I’ve had it. No lap for you!” I stood up, knocking her to the floor. She got up without complaining, strode purposefully to the stairs, turned around and stared again. It was a classic “Lassie” moment.  “What’s wrong, Chloe? Show me what’s wrong!”

She led me up stairs, pausing on the landing and turning back to make sure I hadn’t gotten lost. At the feeding station, she looked, first, at the water bowl, then at me, then at the bowl again. Sure enough! It was empty. I filled it from the sink; she had a long drink of water, and then turned to gaze at me again. I took the bowl back to the sink, topped it off with fresh water, and put the newly filled bowl back in its place. She ran back downstairs and, as I sat back down with my book, threw herself exhausted on the carpet. Another tragedy averted thanks to Chloe’s quick thinking. She and one incompetent human are all that stand between the world as she knows it and the apocalypse. It’s a heavy burden to bear.

My friends with dogs tell me that they prefer dogs over cats because dogs can communicate with their owners. Specifically dogs have empathy and a sense of humor that cats seem to lack.  “When I come home, he seems so happy to see me,” John says about his Labrador retriever. “He jumps up, barking happily, with those expressive brown eyes. He looks as though he’s smiling. Cats always have the same poker face. You can’t tell what’s on their mind.”

I think back to the dog my family had while I was a teenager, a setter mix named Lucille. It’s true she seemed beside herself with happiness when family members came home after a long absence. She greeted us, capering with joy. When the returnees finally sat down, she would place her head gently in one person’s lap and gaze lovingly with her big, brown eyes. Clearly, she really liked us.

But her real passion was not for any member of our family. She saved her adoration for another, a public figure she had never met. She was mad about Richard Nixon. Whenever we turned on Walter Cronkite and Nixon appeared on the evening news, Lucille would run to the television and press her face right to the tube, leaving drool marks on the screen. Usually a gentle dog, she would growl and snap at anyone who tried to pull her away from the T.V. until Nixon was no longer on the broadcast. We never knew if Lucille’s love of Nixon was grounded in her concern about the Cold War or if she just was grateful for the Checkers speech, but nothing would keep her from her hero.

One evening we had guests in the living room. My grandmother, who had her own suite, had left the company to retire for the evening. Lucille lay on the carpet at my mother’s feet. Suddenly she leapt up and streaked toward grandmother’s room like lightening. “What happened?” asked the guests. “Is your grandmother OK? Does the dog sense that something is wrong?”

“Oh no,” said Mother.  “I forgot. The State of the Union is being broadcast tonight. Mom must have it on T.V., and Lucille wouldn’t miss it.”

One winter Lucille got bronchitis. She coughed, had a fever, and moped around the house. The vet gave her antibiotics and suggested we cover her chest. “You don’t have to buy one of those pricey dog sweaters,” he said. “Just use your imagination.”

Mother took a warm, grey child’s sweat shirt and cut off the sleeves. She put it on Lucille, belting it with a piece of fabric. Lucille was used to being dressed up for Halloween, so she took her new outfit in stride. Besides, she was too sick to object. My sister decided to dress it up a little. She painted a formal suit with a bow tie, shirt front and lapels on the front of the sweatshirt. Since Lucille could respond to a modest number of commands, family members had fun telling her to sit up. She would show her suit front, waving her paws in the air with a goofy doggy grin and she’d get a treat in return. One evening Lucille was out in the yard when a call came in from a neighbor. “You have to get your dog out of the driveway. She’s a menace in that stupid shirt. A driver almost had a wreck in front of your house”

We rushed out to see what was happening. Lucille was sitting at the foot of the driveway, looking intently up the street. Whenever a car appeared, she would wait until the driver had a clear view of her. They she’d sit up on her haunches, waving and smiling. The driver would hit the brakes, staring and laughing. We pulled her back inside.  “Can you imagine the call to the police after a wreck?” we said. “I’m sorry I drove off the road, Officer, but I was flashed by a laughing dog in a tuxedo.”

Chloe may lack Lucille’s sense of humor and her keen interest in politics, but it’s hard to be lighthearted or concerned about world events when you are the only bulwark between an orderly life and the end of the world. Tonight while I washed the dinner dishes, Chloe patrolled the perimeter. Food in the food dish, check! Water in the water bowl, check! Annie asleep in the upstairs bedroom, check! Clean litter box, check! Assured that we would make it safely through another night, she waited for me to sit down on the sofa, knitting in my hands, smooth piano jazz in the background. She sat beside me on the arm of the chair and we watched the sun set slowly. I sighed, she sighed. I patted her rump and she licked my hand. Thanks to Chloe’s vigilance, we made it through another lovely day.

The Sound of Mew-sic

Four mornings ago I was awakened by country music at 5:30. It sounded like it was playing on the street or downstairs in my house. I put on a bathrobe and padded downstairs. The radio/CD player was tuned to a Christian country station. The player remote control, instead of being on top of the radio as usual, was on the sofa cushion. Chloe lay, curled up beside it, seemingly asleep. I turned off the radio and padded upstairs for another short nap before the alarm clock rang.

The next morning, I was awakened again by Reverend Bob, the D.J. for the Christian Country network. “That’s odd,” I thought. My sleep-addled brain remarked that both this day and the one before, Chloe had left my bed and headed downstairs shortly before the music began. This time, the remote was back on top of the radio where I had placed it the day before, but Chloe lay on the sofa, eyes shut to contented slits, listening to the mellifluous voice of Reverend Bob announcing another song.

I’m a slow learner. It was the third morning before I figured out that Chloe had somehow programmed the remote to have the clock radio start playing the Christian country station at 5:30, a few minutes after she padded downstairs to take her seat on the sofa. That evening I discovered I had misplaced the radio instruction booklet and couldn’t figure out how to de-program the radio. I turned down the volume instead, hoping beyond hope that Chloe can’t figure out how those buttons work.

This experience got me to thinking about cat-themed music. I’ve read a number of articles about cats and music. Most researchers and cat owners seem to feel that cats like classical music. I’ve tried Mozart, Hayden, Telemann and Vivaldi. Neither Annie nor Chloe seem interested in the least. They aren’t affected at all by jazz, New Age,  or world music. I even tried a sample from Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Cats. No response. What, other than the music from Cats, are some famous cat-themed songs?

Most songs with the word "cat" in the title aren’t really about cats. “The Ballad of Cat Ballou”, for instance, is an Oscar-nominated theme song for a 1965 Western about a schoolmarm, Cat Ballou, who becomes an outlaw. “Three Cool Cats,” a 1958 song about three guys looking for three girls. In 1962, the original Beatles, Paul McCartney, John Lennon, George Harrison and Peter Best, recorded “Three Cool Cats” and thirteen other songs as a demo for Dacca records. Decca rejected the group, a decision I’m sure their management sorely regretted in the following years.  Here’s a link to the recording for those interested in hearing the very early, pre-Ringo Beatles:

Some songs about cats, like those about dogs, are aimed at children. The two best known are both embedded in animated films. Both feature sinister felines. “I Tot I Taw a Puddy Tat” is part of a 1947 Tweety and Sylvester animated short in which Sylvester the cat attempts to catch and eat a canary named Tweety Bird, a Warner Brothers Looney Tunes production. The 1955 Disney animated movie "Lady and the Tramp" features two Siamese cats, Si and Am attempting to steal a goldfish from the Cocker Spaniel, Lady, in the song “We are Siamese if you Please.” While both are generally viewed as humorous children’s ditties, I remember seeing them both at different times as a child and finding them rather menacing since the cats in both are devious, amoral, homicidal creatures. Neither cartoon would encourage me to want a kitten! Here they are for you to enjoy (or find unsettling). In watching them again as an adult, I still see them as more sinister than humorous.

Equally unsettling for different reasons is the children’s song, “The Cat Came Back,” a comic song written in 1893 but still sung today in different versions, about attempts to abandon or kill a cat which backfire with gruesome results on the perpetrators.

            None of these numbers are suitable for Annie and Chloe who would either find them as disturbing as I do or else would choose to emulate the homicidal Siamese couple, Si and Am. So are there any cat songs I like and would share with my feline companions?

            In 1981, the British rockabilly band, Stray Cats, released "Stray Cat Strut" on its premiere album, a song about a black and orange Tom who is

“. . . a ladies' cat,
A feline Casanova, hey man, that’s where it’s at
Get a shoe thrown at me from a mean old man
Get my dinner from a garbage can.”

It reminds me of one of my favorite literary cats, the redoubtable Mehitabel.
Here’s a very funny You Tube music video (sorry about the advertisement) featuring a wonderful guitar riff.

            Given my love of all forms of jazz including ragtime and stride, here’s a favorite of mine, "Kitten on the Keys,” by Zez Confrey, released in 1921 and a staple of player piano rolls.

              The great doctor, organist, and theologian, Albert Schweitzer once wrote, “There are two means of refuge from the miseries of life: music and cats.” But as my experience with Chloe and the radio has shown me: "Not at the same time, Herr Doktor! Not at the same time!"

Night Watch

One morning at work my co-workers and I chatted about the weekend before the day’s business began.

            “Did you see Saturday Night Live this weekend?” asked Shawn. “That political parody was hilarious.”

            “I’m no night owl. I’m an early bird,” responded Teresa. “Saturday and Sunday I started the day with a walk at sunrise."
             "So what are you?” Teresa and Shawn looked at me expectantly, “A night owl or an early bird?”

            Actually, I’m neither. I have a tedious physical condition which causes chronic pain. As a friend with rheumatoid arthritis remarked quite accurately, “The problem with chronic pain is not, ironically, that it hurts. It’s that it wears you out.”

            So I’m tired. Ideally, I could sleep nine hours a night. Realistically, I hope for seven or eight. But here’s what my nights are like.

            At about nine p.m. I take a long, hot bath to ease my aching muscles. Chloe sits nervously on the bathmat by the tub. She finds it deeply disturbing that I would immerse myself in liquid. I towel off and crawl into bed, fluffing the pillows and grabbing a news magazine. I plan to read a little before I fall asleep.

            I stretch out on my back with a sigh. Just as I start the first article, Chloe leaps onto my chest, her head facing my toes. She kneads and purrs luxuriously. I try to adjust my reading angle, twisting this way and that, trying to focus on the page and avoid the big, furry butt creeping closer to my face. After several unsuccessful attempts to peruse the text, I put the magazine aside and turn off the bedside lamp. What the heck, I need the rest!

            The steady hum of Chloe’s purr lulls me to sleep. After an hour or so she jumps off my chest with a cheerful meow.  “Don’t worry,” she seems to say, “I have to go but I’ll be back soon. In the meantime, Annie will protect you.”

            Annie jumps into my chest. Her razor sharp claws dig in just beneath my collar bones. “Don’t worry,” she seems to say, butting her head into the space between my jaw and my chest. “I’ll protect you. When I have to leave, Chloe will be back.” Annie purrs softly into my throat as I drift back off to sleep.

            I wake up a few hours later with the sound of Annie crunching kibble and thumping down the stairs. Chloe jumps back onto the bed, stretching sideways on the mattress, leaving me about ten inches on the far side of the bed. Hanging precariously onto the edge, I fall asleep, awakened by an odd sensation. Chloe, purring and kneading the blanket intently, is trying to insert her tail into my mouth.

            It’s 4:30 in the morning. I give up on sleep. I fluff the pillows again, sit up and open the magazine. I might as well read. Annie and Chloe are at my feet, each on one corner of the mattress. They sit like little sentries, facing the bedroom door, alert for intruders.  At 5:30, I put the magazine aside, turn off the lamp, and close my eyes for one hour until the alarm clock awakens me for the day. I stumble, bleary-eyed, to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face.

            The cats jump reluctantly off the bed while I straighten the quilt. They leap back onto the mattress, sighing and stretching before curling into cozy balls of fur. I pet each one gently. Each opens one eye, just a slit. “Go to work,” they seem to say, “and leave us in peace. Last night was strenuous and we’re on guard tomorrow night as well. We need to get our rest so we can take good care of you.”

            I tiptoe downstairs and, yawning, brew a cup of coffee before heading off to work.

           

The Proverbial Feline, #1

When Chloe first arrived to live with me, she had a terrible skin disease which covered her with bloody scabs. In addition to consulting with my regular vet who prescribed an antibiotic cream that Chloe would have no part of, rushing to hide under the bed if she caught sight of the spray bottle, I also consulted with anther veterinarian friend. She said, “A good diet and a stress-free life will go a long way toward a cure. Cats have a remarkable ability to recover from almost any illness. They are practically indestructible. They have nine lives, you know.”

            Within a month, Chloe was cured. The scar on her back, the only reminder she was ever a miserable, bloody fur ball, is covered by her long hair. But that incident got me thinking about proverbs which feature cats, especially those proverbs I’ve known all my life, and how they explain cats, me and life in general.

            When I think about that cat with nine lives, I am reminded of the feral cat that lives where I work, a pretty grey tabby. She stays far away from humans. She’s painfully thin. When I arrive at work early in the morning before the others have arrived, I see her skulking through the few brushy spots that border the parking lot near my office building. She must be searching for rodents, birds and insects to eat. I can’t help but compare her life, a constant struggle for existence, to the life Chloe and Annie enjoy: unlimited water and kibble, a warm, cozy bed where they can lounge all day, a human caretaker who greets their approaches with cat treats and affectionate caresses.

            I compare myself with my friend Jane, especially during her last, difficult years. At the end of the month when her disability check was exhausted, she went hungry. She spent time in a homeless shelter near Port Authority that required her to stay on the streets from early in the morning until dinner time. In the interim, during the winter months, she walked New York City’s frigid, windy streets, wrapped in a motley assortment of jackets, blankets, scarves and quilts I sent her. They were regularly stolen by other shelter inhabitants or else she would lose them during her travels.

            For those few, difficult months, Jane was a feral creature, eager to live at any cost so she could save her daughter, her husband and her father the pain of her death. A deeply faithful Christian, she was convinced her life – a life plagued by mental illness and poverty – was part of a divine plan. She prayed daily for the wisdom to understand her plight and the strength to endure it.

            I’m a non-theistic Quaker. I don’t believe in a personal god. I’m not counting on an after life. I have a comfortable existence, a pleasant home, a job I love, a broad circle of friends, a small but close family, sufficient financial resources and two bad cats. Do I want nine lives? One is sufficient, especially the one I have now. While I write, sitting in the upstairs study, Annie eats some kibble at the feeding station in the hallway and enters the room. She rubs against my ankles; then looks at me, meowing insistently.

            “OK,” I say, “Up you go!” I put my notebook on the end table by my cup of steaming tea. Annie jumps into my lap. I scratch her behind the ears. She stretches and purrs contentedly before curling into a ball. I watch her tiny ribcage rise and fall in perfect rhythm with my breath.

            Why would I want nine lives? I ask myself. This moment contains all I desire.

The Gressions

When I come home from work, Chloe is in the window, waving frantically and meowing. I enter the house and she jumps into my arms, burrowing her head into the crook of my neck. Annie saunters into the room and rubs against my ankles, purring loudly.  Chloe, the little drama queen, is as emotional as a furry Edith Piaf. “Mon Dieu! Annie is un diable! She roars at me! She bares her claws!  Sacré bleu! I am desolée!”

             Annie looks up at us, a deceptively sweet smile plays on her little kitty lips. “Just wait, ma chère,” she seems to say to Chloe.  “Just you wait. Your protector is here now, but she’ll go back outside sooner or later. She’ll leave you alone, unguarded, sans protection. And then you’ll be mine, all mine to torment.”

            Annie trips blithely upstairs. Chloe jumps from my arms. She flops onto her back and I rub her belly. I start upstairs, Chloe at my heels. She runs happily ahead of me, then stops cold on the landing. Annie crouches in the upstairs hall, barring Chloe’s passage. I don’t know how tiny Annie has the power to intimidate Chloe, who is twice her size,  with a glance, but she does. Poor Chloe slinks back downstairs.

            “Why do you threaten poor Chloe?” I ask Annie who is now sitting beside me on the bed while I change out of my work clothes. “What is your problem with aggression?”

            “A gression?” Annie looks at me arrogantly. “I have several gressions, many, many gressions. They’re my fondest possessions. I will never give them up. And I keep them with my other treasures under your bed.”

            Maybe the power differential is explained by the fact that Chloe has been declawed while Annie still has her talons. She uses them against Chloe to great effect, swiping her savagely at every opportunity. Sometimes I’ll come home to find Chloe hiding behind the sofa, huge clumps of her hair on the carpet.

            I go back downstairs to cook dinner. Chloe looks at me imploring, twining around my legs and considering her prospects. “May I have a pearl handled derringer for Christmas, please? Just a feminine, dainty, single-shot model. It would even the playing field.”

            “No, Chloe! We try to be peaceful creatures in this house. Even if we don’t succeed," I say, looking at Annie who is peering around the kitchen door, growling softly. "For heaven’s sake, I’m a Quaker! A derringer could be fatal.”

            “I wouldn’t kill her; I’d just wing her.” She looks at me hopefully.

            My friend Ed suggested that I offer to buy Chloe a Taser gun. “So she could stun Annie,” he suggested helpfully. “It’s not lethal, but it’s effective.”

            Still, I hope for a weapon-free solution. When Annie unleashes her gressions savagely, I stand between her and Chloe, hoping the situation will defuse. Fat chance!

            Cats are the queens of displaced aggression. They see a threat outside the window and react by attacking a catnip toy indoors. I protect Chloe from her foe by warning Annie sternly, “No gressions!” while standing between the two. After Annie leaves the room, Chloe thanks me with an angry hiss and a swat of her declawed paws before raising her tail like a battle flag and prancing to her window perch where she sits looking outside and ignoring me pointedly, a portrait in disdain.

            There aren’t many Quaker artists. Quakers disparaged the arts as frippery until the twentieth century, but one early American Quaker artist, Edward Hicks, painted over sixty versions of The Peaceable Kingdom based on Isaiah 11:6, “The wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid, the calf and the lion and the fatling together, and a little child shall lead them.” It’s a lovely scene. The naivety of the artist’s vision mirrors his naïve hope for a peaceful world, a world without two bad cats.  I prefer the nuanced words of Quaker Pamela Umbima. As George Fox, the founder of Quakerism would say, they speak to my (and Chloe’s and Annie’s) condition:

"This is a marvelous world, full of beauty and splendor; it is also an unrelenting and savage world, and we are not the only living things prone to dominate if given the chance. . . We have no reason to be either arrogant or complacent: one look at the stars or through a microscope is sufficient to quell such notions. But we have to accept our positon in the world with as much responsibility and fortitude as we can muster, and try to grow up to our measure of love in this tangle of prospects and torments.”

Quaker Faith and Practice, Yearly Meeting of the Religious Society of Friends (Quakers in Britain). Warwick, England, 1995, 25:08.

Litter Wary Critic

I have a weak stomach. I can take the sight and smell of blood, but other bodily effusions make me gag. I am not good around babies with spit-up and dirty diapers. Before I got Chloe, I worried about my ability to clean a litter box without getting sick. I managed by buying “clumping” litter, rushing into the bathroom, holding my nose and encasing the noxious clumps in a plastic bag which I tied tightly before throwing it in the trash can outside the house.

For the first month I had Chloe, she dutifully used the litter box. One day I came downstairs to find a fresh fecal deposit on the oriental rug in the dining room.

“Oh crap!” (And I meant that both literally and figuratively). As soon as I cleaned up and sprayed room freshener liberally, I rushed to computer to google litter box problems. I discovered there is a whole cottage industry devoted to the non-litter-box compliant cat. Ominously, there was a lot to read.

The articles encouraged me to see my vet to rule out physical causes, so Chloe and I made an appointment.

“There’s nothing physically wrong with your cat,” the vet said “Let me recommend the services of a veterinary behavior specialist. Fill out this detailed questionnaire, make an appointment with the specialist – here’s her card – and perhaps you can get to the root of Chloe’s problem.

My friend Jane had been a lifelong consumer of mental health services, so I knew a thing or two about psycho-therapy. I imagined Chloe reclining on a tiny couch, telling a feline psychologist about her relationship with her mother or her conflicts with Annie while I sat in the waiting room for fifty minutes, reading back issues of Cat Fancy magazine.  I was wrong. The behavioral specialist put together a complicated regime for me. I had to bar Chloe’s passage to the dining room except when I was present. I cleaned litter boxes twice a day and experimented with litters of different scents and textures and boxes made from different materials, moving the boxes to alternative spots and logging a daily journal of Chloe’s bathroom activities. It was driving us all crazy. I hate keeping records and was forced to spend my free time logging Chloe’s every move while lugging litter boxes around the house. Chloe was suspicious of this person who followed her everywhere, notebook in one hand, litter scoop in the other. And Annie, jealous of all the attention Chloe was getting, started pooping outside her litter box as well, to get a piece of the action.

“I‘d rather live with crap on the carpet than become a fecal policeman,” I complained to a friend.

“This is kind of weird,” she responded, “but I know somebody who had a dog with issues. He found a pet psychic who was able to – you know- read the dog. The psychic told him exactly what the problem was and how to deal with it. He swears it changed the dog’s behavior entirely.

“That’s just crazy,” I scoffed.

“No crazier than a friend I know who paid a hundred dollars for her cat to see a kitty shrink,” my friend laughed. “A phone appointment with the psychic is only forty bucks.”

I held Chloe on my lap so the pet phone psychic could catch her “vibrations.”  She told me Chloe had lived in the county and other information I couldn’t verify. Then I asked about the litter box issue. “Why won’t Chloe use the litter box and what can I do about that?”

There was a pause.  “Chloe just doesn’t like using the box,” she said. “She likes the freedom of using the carpet, not to mention the paw feel of the soft carpet pile compared to the sandy feel of litter.” Another pause. “I’m not sure you can do much about it.”

This was clearly neither a physical complaint nor a psychological problem. This was a lifestyle choice. Chloe was a committed free-ranger, preferring to think outside the box. I refused to give in. I moved a litter box into the dining room, putting it on the carpet in the corner spot Chloe preferred for bathroom activities, not noticing that it was directly below a damp patch forming in the ceiling plaster. (I was soon to discover a leak in a radiator pipe in the ceiling). I combed reviews of kitty litter and found a “cat attractant” litter I purchased on line.

When I filled the box with cat attractant litter (a combination of litter and herbs), Chloe expressed interest.  She sniffed the box, looked at it  thoughtfully and sniffed some more. After careful consideration, she backed into the litter box gingerly. At that moment, a piece of plaster fell from the ceiling, smacking her on the head.

She jumped out of the box indignantly, completing her business on the dining room carpet as far away from the litter box as she could get. She refused to step into that corner of the  dining room at all, and I can’t say I could blame her. I was pretty upset myself.

A few days later I discovered a crack in the litter box in the bathroom, the one Annie uses for all her bathroom activities and Chloe uses for urination only. The litter was leaking onto the floor.  I went down to the dining room and got the unused box, cleaning it with bleach and water, putting it in the front yard so the sun could complete disinfection before filling it with fresh litter and placing it in the bathroom. Chloe entered the bathroom and stopped short. She looked at the box and then at me with alarm.

“What’s the matter, Chloe? The old box broke, so here’s a new one, nice and clean and tidy.” She stared at me and the box again. Clearly, her message wasn’t getting through. Deliberately, she looked first at me, then the box, the ceiling and the box again. I got the message. This was the litter box of death. If she used it, boulders would rain from the sky. No way was she using that box.

I went to the basement and got a spare litter box which I filled with fresh litter for the bathroom. I took the box of death and accompanied by Chloe, carried it downstairs and placed it ceremoniously in the trash can outside. When I reentered the house, Chloe looked relieved.  Thanks to her quick thinking, she had saved us all from certain death. She sighed contentedly and crapped on the oriental rug.