Fiber Follies

Risky Malarkey O. came here as a foundling. Too tiny to get by in the wild.

The Husband left one Saturday to pick up Precious Child from work. He called me out, having seen something. A cat, kitten in mouth-but she had run off, right under a passing car he thought. He spotted something else, in the grass. We approached, and found a tiny kitten, barely able to walk yet. He picked her right up, so in she came. I cradled her in my arms until he returned with Precious Child.

We’d thought of asking my sister if she’d like the baby, having recently lost her own beloved cat.

I tried to feed her with moistened kibble, which barely interested her, and water. I feared her chance of survival was poor. I made up a basket to sit by the bed. Her baby mews made me pick her up and tuck her in next to me. That didn’t last, she kept creeping up and down my side which tickled terribly, and I was afraid I’d roll over her. Back in the basket. The other cats were kept out of the room.

Next morning The Husband decided we ought to keep her. He chose a name for her by nightfall. Risky. After a risky start to life it was fitting. By the time I got a veterinary appointment I’d appended Malarkey for her middle name, for she was already showing her stuff. The “O” was a joke, really, to make her an O’Hare. Okay, lame, but we liked it. Risky Malarkey O. Hare.

The vet guesstimated her age between 3 and 4 weeks. She was in pretty good health for such a little one. Weighed far less than a kg-only a bit over 300g. Fit in my palm with room to spare. And fluffy. Hard to understand that the little thing could be such a fluff so young. I was instructed to keep on with whatever I was doing and that she’d probably be fine. She underwent the routine worming and parasitic stuff.

Risky spent her days in my office. First I shut her in the carrier when I wasn’t home. It was a safe place. She was let out for snuggles and feedings, and I had to wipe her hiney and tummy with a wet washrag to make her potty. Soon she was pottying without the hated washrag. I went off to work and came home frequently to check on her and to snuggle and feed.

She began to grow and to explore. She quickly became inquisitive, romping through the room with glee. It was hard to find her sometimes, she was so little and fit so easily under and behind everything. We had a contretemps one evening and she hid in a sulk until mid-day next day, scaring me no end. All we’d done was hiss! She hissed at me and I hissed back. I now understand that my response had frightened and offended her.

Eventually I stopped putting her into the carrier when I wasn’t here. I left it nearby with the door open and a soft towel inside, just in case she wanted its security. She rarely did. The Husband was the one who successfully got her into a litter pan. She would just leave a tiny puddle here and there but he caught her assuming the position one day, scooped her up and placed her into the litter pan before anything got out. That’s all it took.

She became quite interested in her kibble, preferring to crunch it dry. I stopped moistening it and she dug in happily, eating well and growing quickly. A little bit of tinned food, sliced instead of that stinky spammy crap, was cheerfully accepted too. Her next veterinary visit revealed nice growth and her first vaccinations were given.

Risky became a typical energetic kitten. She loved to probe into everything. Favourites included unrolling toilet paper or simply shredding it on the roll, and poking her head into the facial tissue boxes, the ones with the slitted plastic openings. I had to watch everything to keep her out of danger. She found lovely places to curl up for a nap. She almost got a broken neck when poking her head into the space between seat and platform of the chair The Husband was sat in. After the panic and realising she was fine, he took that chair outdoors where he and Precious Child broke it up so no one could chance getting hurt again.

Risky hated to be left alone nights. She’d stretch her little body across my lap, spreading herself over as much of me as possible to hopefully keep me from leaving the room. She made bedtime very difficult! I didn’t like leaving her alone, but kept soft toys nearby and the radio tuned to classical music, played at very low volume. I think leaving her alone at night hurt me as much as her. She was so cute when she’d stretch out on my lap, belly up. Pure trust. It made me feel very good.

Precious Child was enchanted with this little kitty. She came home with a soft stuffed toy mouse, which scared Risky. It was several weeks before she decided to make it hers. I guess it was just too big for her right then. Another time Precious Child brought home a weird thing consisting of a spring mounted on a flat carpeted block. Atop the spring was a fuzzy ball. Wow! Was that ever a hit with Risky! She pounced on it and wrestled it again and again.Precious Child also made her a play box. The box was made of a large packing box on its side, with a smaller box inside. She tied a piece of ribbon to a kitty-sized whiffle ball and taped it to hang from the top of the box. That provided weeks of hilarious playtime. Eventually the boxes started collapsing, so out they went. Precious discovered Risky’s fondness for super-bounce balls. Before long Risky was fetching them and bringing them along for more playtime. The Husband got her into chasing after milk jug rings too, which provided happy play for years. Risky often started looking playful just when he was due home from work. She knew. He’d come in and settle on the sofa with a handful of the milk rings, and start flicking them across the room so she’d leap and dash after them. She’d fetch and bring back if he’d only flick one, but he loved flicking bunches, then grabbing whichever she didn’t fetch.

The three other cats were extremely curious about the kitty in the other room. They were kept in the house proper until I decided to start introductions. Charly showed the greatest curiosity. Once I felt my baby girl was big enough I brought Charly in. Huh. That cat growled and hissed and backed away-if Risky had been let nearer I’m sure Charly would have smacked her! Poor little Risky was just curious, and Charly turned spitfire. Who knew? She’d seemed so fascinated and loved sniffing at the door. sigh. Tried Schade next. Poor Schade isn’t the brightest of kitties but is certainly the sweetest. She, too, turned into a wild thing, although much more frightened than Charly. We didn’t bother with Catnip. He was just a big oaf, who’d lived on his own til deciding to move into The Husband’s car shop. He’d got asthma so soon came here to live. And grow. By the time Risky joined our household, Catnip was quite the hog. I was afraid he’d think Risky was a snack or prey so kept him away. He wasn’t mean, he was just large and hungry. I tried a few more introductions as Risky grew. Once Risky was about half grown we gave up on the failing introductions procedure and just took her into the house. The growling and howling and hissing and spitting were scarey! But Risky serenely ignored the fuss and explored. She appeared to not even know any other cats were around. She just didn’t care. And they were all so horrified at this interloper that they kept a bit of distance. Eventually they accepted her. Not necessarily loved her, but accepted her. Risky remained my baby. Her ability to simply ignore the rest with all their nonsense was amazing.

By September she’d gone into her first heat! We had none of us ever seen a cat in heat but sussed it right off. A call to the vet confirmed this. She went in next day for her spay, which had been scheduled for the following month. It seemed the better thing to do.

The Husband and I were out of town on business the next day so Precious Child and Amanda went to pick Risky up from the surgery. Risky was a panic when she spotted them. I’m told she leapt from the tech’s arms right into her carrier, and shivered the carrier so hard all the way home that Precious Child swore the car shivered. That, of course, was the last time Risky ever got into the carrier without great effort-unless she was just finished her annuals and was ready to go home. Poor little girl. I made up a bed on the office floor and slept in there with her that first night home.

We were all sat in the office one Saturday afternoon when a big banging thunderstorm cruised in. Risky was by the open window when a mighty BABANG of thunder sounded, sending her under the sofa. From that day on she was horrified when she heard thunder. She often knew long before a storm that one was coming. She’d do what I called the “belly run”, where she hunkered low and ran like hell, her belly fur dragging along the floor. Poor little thing was inconsolable in a storm. At first she ran into the basement, which in those days was left open much of the time. She usually hid under an old skirted rocking chair. After we stopped leaving the basement open, she tried to make herself tiny and invisible in the garage. I offered boxes for her to back in to but she usually didn’t care. Later still she discovered our bedroom closet. Storms from that time on meant opening the closet door so she could snug down in a dim safe place where the noise didn’t seem quite so threatening. Occasionally she would just hide under the office sofa, but generally preferred the closet. She’d panic and fight and claw but I usually tried to carry her in so she could run to the closet. No matter what I did she never got over her terror. The rest of the time she was a big bruising cat with an attitude. What a difference a storm could make.

By the time we’d had her a year The Husband was trained to share his breakfast with her. He loved his raisin bran more than just about any breakfast. She sat on the table right next to his cereal bowl, waiting impatiently for a taste. He gave her little tastes of milk or raisin or bran. Sometimes she got too much milk which upended her stomach. ick. She learned to love bran. I’d read somewhere that a pinch of bran helped kitties to either pass or eliminate hairballs. Well. That was a charm to Risky. Each morning at breakfast, when the cats all got a tiny bit of sliced tinned food on their kibble, they also received a pinch of bran. As soon as the bran container was opened Risky came running, dropping her head in for a mouthful of the stuff. She was the only cat allowed on the counter when I prepared their breakfast. First, the bran. Then she’d watch very closely as I measured out kibble, added the tinned stuff, the pinch of bran. She then had to lick off the fork. When the top was put back on the bran container she jumped down and hollered for breakfast. I loved that routine so much I was often more generous-much more generous-with her tinned food portions.

Risky loved anything food-related. She did get heavy for a while, but a little more care with portions saw her in good form quickly. I enjoy baking in winter. The containers of flour and sugar and a bit of butter warming in a bowl were irresistable. The best was when she’d sneak in for an attack on the flour, sending up puffs of flour as she lapped at the stuff. Didn’t bother me but as I sometimes baked for church I’d have to put her into the office so I could bake in peace without worrying about cat fur in the cakes. Or cat lick. Some folks just can’t handle that.

Once Precious Child and I came home from a weekend away with a new toy. This was one of those “fishing pole” toys. It had a clear plastic pole with metal beads inside to rattle as they rolled back and forth. It had a long plastic line and a bunch of feathers attached to its end. Precious Child of course had the most fun with it, as Risky was quite wild when she came in wielding the pole. Never did see a cat pirouette like Risky did when chasing the feathers. Precious Child would even lay on the floor, spinning the feathers overhead, so Risky would circle at very high speeds, leaping over Precious Child or simply clawing her way across. She could jump a mile too. I loved bringing that pole out, and the other cheappie poles I bought later, just to see her leap. She never seemed to put effort into her jumps-she just went airborne. Then fluffed down to the ground with nary a thump.

That’s how she would jump up onto the bed at night. Just a fluff, barely moving the bed. She was the biggest cat in the house most of those years but the least felt when the procession started jumping onto the bed for snuggles.

Sleeping is high art in the cat world. Miss Risky Malarkey O was probably the most accomplished sleeper I’d ever known. I had never seen a cat lie on its back, let alone sleep that way, before Risky. It never ceased to entertain me. The Husband would say she was broken when she lay like that. I called it capsizing.
Risky wasn’t one to share her sleeping spots, so finding her snoozing next to one of the other cats was always notable. She liked having plenty of space to stretch out. Sometimes she just looked contorted. But she was always most certainly content. I liked to approach her when she slept. I could reach over and give her a little scritching. Sometimes she’d awaken and lick my hand, or lick my face if I leaned near enough. Sometimes, without appearing to waken, she’d just start purring.

Risky really liked to lick. Her tongue was so darn rough! Risky’s licking was like being sanded. Her favourite times were when I was working. She’d jump up onto my lap as I sat at the pc, and commence licking the inside crease of my arm. It was pinked up quickly! She’d do her little kitty two step on my lap and lick til I had to move my arm from the pain. Then she’d tuck in and fall asleep purring. She was always most likely to take my lap when I had to get up-to get something, to go out, or just to pee. Usually the last.

We went on through the years happily, our routines rarely disturbed. The Husband and I, or Precious Child and I, or I alone, would travel for business and occasionally for fun. Not often for more than a night or two. I went to England for several days and she was very needy, hardly leaving The Husband alone. I missed her terribly, resorting to ringing home when no humans would be about just to talk to her and the other cats. Of course none bothered to pick up, they’d just let the thing collect a message. Once I returned home she quickly became my baby again. All other trips were short. Precious Child and I went off on a togging trip each August, just for the weekend, coming home with a car laden with new clothes. The Husband and I would go off for business, usually just one night, sometimes two. Precious Child was an excellent care-giver but Risky, for all she loved PC, was thrilled to see us home. I wonder sometimes if was for having missed me or for the boxes we’d bring home. Once unpacked, the paper that cushioned their contents was replaced and she’d have a ball. In she’d leap, rustling and rummaging and eventually settling in to sleep. We kept one giant box in the kitchen for over a year. Just because she loved it so.

I had several shipments come in. Those boxes were also immediately claimed. Risky could barely contain herself long enough for me to open them. She’d clamber all over the unopened top, then drop inside the moment I lifted the cover.

Risky’s fascination with boxes made Christmas even more fun than could be imagined. She also loved rustling into heaps of gift wrap, which we left piled on the floor until I could no longer stand the mess.

Risky’s general contentment came to an abrupt end when Mabel joined the household. Mabel wanted full rights to everything so first off there was a never-ending animosity. Also, suddenly Risky was no longer Daddy’s little girl. He was unable to divide his attention between the two, and Risky suffered. She mourned and wept over the lost treat times when Daddy would come home and play with her. Mabel barged right in on every play time and he just let her. I would shut Mabel up in another room for a little while most days just so Risky could have my undivided attention and play. The Husband never made the effort. He still doesn’t understand how deeply hurt Risky was over that. He never meant to hurt Risky. That’s just the way he is.

Shortly after Mabel came here, the boys moved in. That was just too much. They’re good boys but she was extremely cautious from the upset that Mabel caused, so never got too close. She barely tolerated them. It was sad, because Tuie adored her, worshipped the very ground she trod. Aslan was fond of her too. But she just wasn’t accepting them. She came to an easily ruffled tolerance and that was as far as it got. I believe that Mabel’s influence harmed her outlook forever.

The one thing Risky always tried to get was a blister pack full of tablets. I really had to be vigilant about keeping them out of sight and out of reach. She loved to kill them, shaking vigourously, loving the rattly noise they’d make.

It was a blister pack that undid her. I don’t know if one of us failed to properly shut the cabinet door, but she managed to get in and to find a blister pack. Apparently shaking it to death wasn’t enough, she eventually gutted it. I awoke Sunday morning to the sound of her doing the hookeh-hookeh sound like she’d make to cough up a hairball. The first time I heard it, I rolled over thinking that cleaning up a hairball was quite the thing to have to start a Sunday on. She horkered again, and again while I was climbing out of bed-I was worried by then.

She did not look at all well. I had no idea what was wrong, then found the ravaged blister pack. Three tablets missing. Then she yurked up a tablet.

That poor little cat suffered through a trip to the local Animal Emergency department, came home, and returned again next day. I’d kept her in bed with me the first night, and spent much of the next day trying to keep her hydrated. She didn’t want to drink-or maybe she did and couldn’t. I had to remove the insides of a stick pen and sterilise it to use as a straw. I got fluid into her with it through the day, drop by drop, water sometimes, and the broth from a boiled bit of turkey other times. I rang her vet and the hospital with my worries, the hospital refused to get a doctor on the line. By nightfall she was crashing and I rushed her back. The doctor assured me that she was indeed in a serious condition and that he’d need to run tests and get her stabilised again. Her condition could be life-threatening, he said, but he’d act on her right away. He sent me home.

And a half hour later, as I drove home, he rang me.

“I have bad news.”

pause.

“Risky passed away.”

Passed away? I’d gotten some hope that she’d be okay. I disconnected from the doctor. I screamed. “Give her back! Give her back! Damn you God, give my baby back!” I pounded the wheel, I screamed and I howled and cursed God and the saints for having failed to listen to my fervent prayers. I shrieked over the absolute horror of her having to die away from home. I roared. That little cat was terrified to be away from home, and the emergency hospital atmosphere traumatised her. I believe that she thought I’d given up on her, or had punished her somehow, for having been sick. I believe that her horror and trauma and grief over having been left behind made her give up. The doctors “don’t know about that”. But I do. If she were to die, why couldn’t she die in my arms, at home, surrounded by the love that made up her life, in the security she so needed?

I managed to get home to get The Husband. We went to get her and to bring her home for the last time. I bled when she was wheeled into the examining room. She was covered but for the top of her little head. That spot I loved to scritch, which made her shut her eyes and purr, which I’d never enjoy again. She looked so little and innocent. The staff offered a box but dammit, my baby kitty girl was going home in my arms. At home I arranged her somewhat after taking her round for the other cats to sniff and say good bye. They just didn’t get it-I suppose she smelled too much like hospital. Aslan even hissed.

Next morning I gathered some favourite toys-a handful of milk rings, several bounce balls, a hefty pinch of catnip, the little stuffed mouse PC had got her when she was tiny. She was laid on the kitty cage pad I’d knitted for the Humane Society, which she’d claimed as her own immediately. That was laid into the first Kitty pi, which she’d also claimed as hers. Then she was laid in one of the boxes she’d recently claimed, which wouldn’t close over all the stuff I had with her. I wept all the while. You can see where tears ploshed into her box as I made her comfortable. I popped her and all her goodies into the giant box which had sat in the kitchen for over a year. That was just right. She was cremated surrounded with the things that helped shape her short life. Those things that couldn’t be cremated with her are sat in a small drawer, which I’ll probably never look into. There’s no need. My most precious Risky is gone and those things are not her. I grieve too much still to look at them anyway. Her remains now sit in a pretty tin. She’s sat on a shelf in the cabinet holding my best antique glass ware. I can see the tin whenever I want, yet don’t even look in that direction unless I’m after an object in the cabinet.

Now I spend a little time every day, sobbing over the loss of a fantastic cat. Risky Malarkey was never perfect. Far from it. But her personality was huge, and there’s naught now but a ragged bleeding hole.

People come and people go. People love and people hate. People live and people die. I cannot imagine what it must be like to be the parents of a soldier killed. I cannot imagine what it must be like to loose a child. I cannot imagine what the doctor must feel when informing us of a loved one’s passing. My parents and many relatives and friends have passed. There was terrible grief for every one. But they were beings who could act deliberately and with forethought. They were rarely helpless. Risky hadn’t a chance. She’s “just a cat”, sure, but she was also my very dependent, hilarious, ALIVE cat.

I see you everywhere, Little Kitty Girl. The other cats still sniff around, looking for you. They miss you too. Would that you could have got well. You and I ought to have been able to grow old together.

I love you, Risky Malarkey O.