Louie the Cat

Louie the Cat

Cats  like somebody to boss around. When my younger boy Brook was about six, I brought home a cat. I had grown up with cats, and my mother had told me that the youngest child in a family needs a cat to learn responsibility for others. That cat was a Russian Blue called “Louie,” and he had quite a personality. I was working up in Bellingham when I found him. During a lunch break, I saw him in the window of a pet shop, and he was free. He definitely preferred men. When one of my sister’s boyfriends, who had a beard, got down on the floor and rubbed faces with him, the cat knew that he had learned how to communicate with men. He would walk along the back of the couch and come up and start rubbing faces with a man. He was a meticulous cat: he preferred to pee in the toilet. He climbed up on the seat, squatted over the hole, squinted his eyes, and fired away. When a few friends were visiting one day, after Tommy had had a few drinks, he went into the bathroom and came running out wide-eyed. “The cat is peeing in the toilet!” he said. Everybody jumped up and ran to the bathroom and watched while the cat peed. 

   The cat was a very fussy eater. When I fed him “Meow Mix,” which looks like three colors of little Cheerios, he picked out the liver-colored ones and strewed them across the floor, and ate only the others.      

      He may have been Brook’s responsibility, but Louie figured that his job was to guard Brook. When we sat down to dinner, he took his post next to Brook’s chair, with his back turned to his client, like any proper Secret Service agent, watching for any approaching enemy, especially rats trying to steal his food, I suppose. If Brook wasn’t home, then Louie took his post next to my older son, Eric. If neither boy was home, then the cat would guard my guest if I had a male guest for dinner. If there were no other choice, Louie would guard me.

     Do you think Lassie was remarkable for barking when Timmy fell in the well? When I came home from work one day, the cat met me at the door, howling and howling, and walking back and forth between me and the dining room. I went to look, and found that a large flower pot suspended in a macramé sling had fallen to the floor. Of course, he had probably tried to climb on it.He was a jumper:  When Brook patted his chest, the cat would jump onto Brook's chest and rely on Brook to catch him, while he dug in his claws to hang on by himself as best he could.  He surprised a few men by leaping to their chests without warning.

     When I moved from Seattle to Snoqualmie, Louie came along. Every morning, he wanted to go outside on the second floor of the house. He jumped onto a little structural eyebrow between the first and second floors and circled the house. Having finished his patrol, he wanted to come in and have his reward.

The house was drafty, and unfortunately for us, Louie could guard us best by spraying tomcat scent at every air leak in the house. He sprayed the electrical outlets, and he’s lucky he didn’t get electrocuted. At least once, I heard the socket sizzle.He also observed that we used a lever-type know to open the front door, and learned to jump on it to open the front door, to get outside. However, he never bothered to close the door behind himself.

     He was getting a little old and definitely crabby. My boyfriend at the time was Darwin; and Darwin had grandchildren. Every one of them had to be told, “Do not bother the cat.” They were old enough to know better, but one after another, as they came of age, they had to poke the cat. Every one ended up with a harsh scratch.

     About then, Brook came home from a summer with his father in Anchorage, and got a message from his father: “Pick up your cat at the airport.” We brought home a pure black shorthair, “Gizmo.” Louie was re-energized, because he had somebody else to boss around.

     At one time, I realized that one of his claws had grown into a complete circle and was becoming ingrown in his foot pad. I didn’t realize that he needed to have his claws clipped from time to time. I took him to the vet, who said “He’s an old guy, isn’t he?” and told me that his own cat was 23 years old.

     Louie didn't appreciate aging. When he tried to jump from the floor onto the couch, he would miss, and stomp around twitching his tail in anger. More than once, he fell asleep while he was sitting on a broad window sill, and fell off.  He got up and stomped around twitching his tail like it was somebody else's fault.

     Ultimately, Louis grew glassy-eyed and did not eat or drink, and within a day, died of old age. He was seventeen. I remembered what my dad had told me when I was six years old and a pet cat had died:  'He's gone to the happy hunting ground."