Aren't cats supposed to be boring?

For something more than a decade I’ve been trying to convince my cats they’re supposed to be boring. So far I’m not making any progress.

For a long time, a friend of mine tried to convince me that dogs were better than cats. According to her, cats were just boring. They didn’t do anything other than sitting around being cold and aloof. Dogs, on the other hand, were very attentive. They’d go for walks, chase toys, protect the home, and be ever-faithful companions.

I had a dog for a while, a laid-back Shetland Sheepdog with an incredibly sweet disposition. She had a gimpy walk because one back leg had been broken and never healed properly, but she never let it slow her down. She was a friend to everyone, a great companion, and everything my friend tried to convince me cats weren’t. But she was nothing like a cat. Or two. Or five.

As life changes I find myself otherwise alone in a big drafty old house with lots of clutter and little time to do anything about it. I appreciate the ever-present attendance of my five furry friends all the more, as they are a great blessing and an endless source of amusement.

Amelia is my long-time shadow, a gorgeous shorthair with bold tortoise-shell coloring. I found Amelia as a barely-weaned kitten at a sidewalk sale in a small town in central Ohio and brought her home, where she took over my life. If cats could talk, she would tell stories about “I remember him when …” She’s 16 years old now and starting to get a bit frail, but she follows me around the house, rarely outside arm’s reach. She’s constantly asking to be scritched and is very vocal, so I guess she can talk, she just doesn’t speak English. Though she’s not a lap cat she is usually quite close at hand, often sitting on the back of my chair purring softly into my ear.

Louise, more commonly known as Scruff, is second in line to the throne. She’s a medium-hair calico that always seems to be grumpy but just has to be where her people are. Imagine the Peanuts character Pig Pen as a cat and you’ll have a good picture of Louise. Let’s just say proper grooming isn’t one of her strong suits.

Also a barely-weaned kitten, I found Louise by the side of the road at an extremely busy intersection south of Traverse City Michigan, where she was in danger of running into traffic and meeting an untimely demise. When she spotted me she came running across the lawn about as fast as her little legs would carry her and leaped into my arms as if to say “Where have you been! I’ve been so scared!” Louise takes her name from the camp in northern Michigan I was on my way to when I found her, and within moments of being safe in the car she curled up and slept off her trauma for the rest of the drive. She’s the timid one of the brood who loves attention but will also stay just far enough away that you can’t give it to her. She’s 15 years old but you’d never know it to look at her. Considering the vet told us she’d have a fairly short life because of severe stomach issues I’d say that’s pretty good.

Next comes Earl. He’s a bit of a rarity in the United States, a purebred British Shorthair, complete with the quintessential British temperament. How he ended up at the Humane Society I’ll never know but I’m grateful to have found him there. He has brought great blessing to this house. He’s older, but I don’t think he knows it judging by how he races around the house chasing his imagination.

Earl gets his name from his regal bearing and appearance, as he is a very elegant animal with a demeanor befitting royalty. His gorgeous coat is always impeccably groomed, never a hair out of place, with his tail very politely wrapped around his paws when he sits gracefully in his window watching his subjects passing on the street below. A Pince Nez carefully balanced on his nose would complete the look, but I’m sure he’d be quite annoyed by it. Since he’s British he needed a title as well as a name, therefore Earl. In a moment of humor reminiscent of my Grandmother, it occurred to me that since he is a silver tabby – also a rarity – he should be dubbed Earl Grey.

S'more is my gentle giant. He’s also a bit of an oddity. If you remember Sally from the Peanuts comic strips, and the cat she would drag around draped over her arms, that’s S’more. He’s a breed called a Ragdoll and will go completely limp when you pick him up. At some 18 pounds, most of which is fur, I’m grateful for his quiet disposition. He doesn’t seem to know he’s huge, which makes his occasional playful antics all the more humorous.

He's also the only one that will answer and come no matter which cat you’re talking to. The others have developed the ability to discern if a call is directed toward them or one of the others. They will answer only if you’re talking to them, and then only if it suits their mood at the moment. Not so S’more. That big galoot just assumes that of course you’re talking to him and offering to pet him, offer a lap, or both.

S'more looks like a giant toasted marshmallow, especially when he’s curled up on the couch and all you see is a blob of fur. That, and when I went to pick him up, I was actually going to retrieve the aforementioned Earl, who had been quarantined for a few days while they made sure he was in good health. When I went to Earl’s cage, he was gone, and S’more was in his place. The Humane Society representative mentioned that they just happened to be having a two-for-one special on cats, and, well, I had come for one cat and came home with S’more.

Then there’s Sylvia, the baby of the bunch, at least in age but definitely not in size. She’s also known as Loudmouth since she meows in boldly underlined CAPITAL LETTERS!! When she was brought home it caused several of our neighbors to come out on their porches to see what all the commotion was about. I think they were convinced there was a murder happening in the front yard. No, just bringing home another cat. I promised them she’d settle down, which she did.

Sylvia is an otherwise generic looking polydactyl tabby, with an extra toe on each of her front paws, almost like she has thumbs. Some know them as Hemingway cats, since Earnest Hemingway was very fond of them. If anyone is still under the illusion that cats are graceful, a few minutes with Sylvia will quickly dispel that notion. I never knew a cat to be so much of a klutz. I’ve seen her fall off the bed, out of my lap, off the couch, trip over her shadow, and fall into a tub filled with water. She just rolls with it though, and goes on about her business as if every cat that ever there was does stuff like that.

Well, now you know the players involved in yesterday’s adventures at the Keith household. I needed a good laugh, and oh boy, they provided it in spades! I could – and often do – tell stories about the antics of my cats, since they provide endless opportunities for good laughs, even if you weren’t there to witness it firsthand. Yesterday’s event, though it only took a few seconds, gave me one of the best stories yet.

I had been away for a few days, and when that happens I end up with five furry friends following me around wherever I go. They have to tell me all about everything that happened while I was away and catch up on their quota of scritches. Because after all, it’s been months since anyone paid any attention to them!

As I got ready for the day I went into the bathroom, which isn’t quite big enough for me and five cats, but they never got that memo. In that situation I’ve found it helpful to move very deliberately and slowly since they can be a bit unpredictable in their movements. I don’t want to step on them, and I’m sure they don’t want to trip me either.

While in the bathroom I noticed their water dish needed to be freshened. I picked it up, dumped it, cleaned it, and refilled it, all with S’more standing between me and the vanity and the other four within easy arm’s reach. Earl was actually standing behind the faucet, craning his neck around to get a drink as I filled the dish, which made it a bit tricky to fill. I’m sure in his own mind he was just trying to “help,” as cats are prone to do.

With my eyes on these two I momentarily lost track of the other three but knew from the noise they were close at hand.

Then started the fun. Poor S’more, I don’t think he knew what hit him. Fortunately he’s a good sport.

As I lifted the water dish out of the sink Loudmouth came out of nowhere at a high rate of speed, headed for the counter to see what was happening. I never saw her coming. All I know is that one second I had a water dish in my hand, and then I didn’t. My hands were empty. The bathroom was soaked. S’more was soaked and was looking up at me with great surprise registered on his face. Earl was wet, I was wet, the vanity was wet, the floor was wet and is now somewhat clean. Did I mention S’more was soaked?

Loudmouth was dry as a bone, and was looking at me as if to ask what had happened to the water dish that had been in my hand a second ago.

Remember I said that S’more is big? And has long fur? Well, at this point everything was moving in slow-motion in my mind. Amelia and Louise were still dry. They looked like they were trying to decide if they should stay to see what happened next, or if they should leave and come back later to survey the damage. They stayed. Big mistake.

I watched as S’more backed up about three steps, which put him in the most open part of the bathroom where, of course, he could maximize the impact of what he would do next. All that water that was covering him from head to toe had to go somewhere. Remaining on him simply wasn’t an option. My big furry blob started shaking like a dog that had just climbed out of a lake after a good swim, with about the same result. Now, Amelia and Louise were also wet, I was even wetter, the wall was wet, my books and magazines were wet, and S’more was now reasonably dry.

Loudmouth was still dry as a bone.

By now I was laughing so hard I had to leave the room to collect myself before I could go back in and commence cleaning up from all the mayhem. And as often happens I have to stifle chuckles that would otherwise burst into gales of laughter when the whole scene plays out in my mind again, which usually happens at inopportune moments like when I’m bored by something to which I’m supposed to be paying attention. Ah, the pleasures of an overactive mind.

For something more than a decade I’ve been trying to convince my cats they’re supposed to be boring. So far I’m not making any progress.