Oxbow's World

The 32nd president of the United States is often remembered for saying, “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself!” Now I’m not sure what he was talking about when he uttered those words, and I’d be tempted to do some research were it not for our current political landscape, where context has taken a backseat to bluster, so who cares why he said it. Say, do you think I should get a Twitter account, too?

Anyway, Franklin Delano Roosevelt obviously had no understanding of my world. I mean, think about it: I spend every day walking among giants who largely speak gibberish. I hear a lot of sounds and see many things that I simply don’t understand. It’s just feline nature, as well as human, to fear things we don’t understand.

So when things get intense and I’m feeling overwhelmed, I retreat to my safe space, a tiny little gap between the top of a bookshelf and the ceiling in a dark corner of the basement. I remember the first time I discovered it. Those Two were in a panic trying to find me! But they’re on to me now, and I think they’re pretty embarrassed about how often I retreat there.

Take Tuesday, for instance, when Mama G had a friend stop by. The minute I heard that knock on the door, I sprinted to the basement like a cheetah! And when Mama G tried to show me off, they were able to see only a few wisps of orange fur protruding from the crack. All this after Mama G had been boasting about how sweet I am.

When this photo was taken the very next day, I had sought comfort in my space from the sound of a driving rain. Yes, rain! I don’t need to wait around for lightning, thunder or wind — I’m pretty much a proactive guy when it comes to fear.

So go ahead and laugh, if you will, at the idea that a strong, handsome cat with a manly name can be such a coward. I’m just glad I have a place to go where I can feel completely safe. We should all have such a place.

The only thing we have to fear is finding the basement door closed!

— Oxbow

So it occurred to me last night, as I lay on the sofa pondering life while wearing my trademark vacant look, that astute readers of yesterday’s post might have been left wondering just what my name was before Those Two came along and hit the reset button.

Well, you’re going to have to keep wondering, because I don’t want to say. You see, it’s kind of embarrassing for a boy to be named after a sweet candy. Oh, all right, I’ll give you a hint.

My mamas never liked the name either, and truth is, I didn’t respond to it when they used it during those first few days with them. But then I don’t respond much to Oxbow, either, or any of the other pet (no pun intended!) variations that Those Two have used, including Bo, Bo Jangles, Bo-Bo, and Mr. J, among others.

I suppose if they really wanted me to come running when they call me, they should have named me Treat or Dinner, but then those would be pretty silly names for a cat, right?

Don’t worry, this is not going to be some sordid tale about a urinary tract infection. The headline is simply my attempt at being clever. We cats can be very clever, sometimes too clever for our own good. It’s a good thing we have nine lives.

This is actually the tale of how I got my name, since I promised you that story back when I introduced myself. It is a tale I’ve heard told many times, since people are often curious about my name.

Quite a few people, particularly men, have guessed that my name has something to do with the classic 1943 Western “The Oxbow Incident.” Not true! As far as I know, my mamas have never seen that movie, nor any other Western, since they’re not fond of gunfire, horses and scruffy men. Neither am I, come to think of it.

Those who know a thing or two about geography are more likely to be on the right track. For those of you who don’t know, an oxbow is a U-shaped bend in a river, and my story has more twists and turns than the Mighty Blackstone. (Note to those with attention problems: You can stop reading now, if you haven’t already. I hope the rest of you will sit back in your metaphorical canoes and enjoy the meandering ride.)

Mama G is a sucker for quotes, both the inspirational sort and those that are simply powerful and memorable. One of her favorites goes something like this:

Our lives are like rivers. They go where they have to, not always where we want them to.

It was this quote that would lead to my name. Mama G had won naming rights, since I wasn’t her first choice in cats, although she is pleased as can be with me now.

I was adopted from the Exeter Animal Shelter in December 2012. Coincidentally, the shelter was also my birthplace. My biological mother had been picked up by Animal Control (the cat police!) while she was pregnant. I was quickly adopted back then, along with a sister, but two years later our family lost their home and I was eventually brought back to the shelter. For reasons I could never understand, my sister easily found a new home and bypassed the shelter. So there I sat at the shelter again, alone, confused and afraid.

At the time, my mamas were grieving the loss of my predecessor, Carrot, who had just died at the ripe old age of 19. They had a two-week trip to Alaska planned for the spring and had decided to wait until after that trip before searching for a new cat. Oh, how Those Two crack me up sometimes! After just a few days in a quiet, pet-less house, they were already online looking for a new cat. Ten days after Carrot’s death, they were adopting yours truly. But it all could have ended quite differently.

The day they met me, they had initially planned to drive to a shelter in North Kingstown to look at a cat named Moon Pie that Mama G thought looked promising. In addition to quotes, she is also a sucker for cute names. However, they got a late start and in true Rhode Island fashion decided North Kingstown was too far and instead stopped at the closer shelter in Exeter.

Now Mama G wasn’t crazy about me at first, because I was a bit traumatized by finding myself back at the shelter and acted, well, let’s just say a little standoffish. Instead, she had fallen for a big, gray older cat named Diesel, who was 22 pounds of charm. Unlike me, Diesel knew how to work visitors! Mama C, however, wanted another orange cat and was hooked on my handsomeness, if not my demeanor. Since they didn’t agree on me, they went home, discussed the matter, and decided to compromise: they would adopt both me and Diesel. However, when they called the shelter the next day to tell them of their decision, they were informed that Diesel’s owners had had a change of heart and took him back home!

And so it was that I found a home with Those Two, all to myself. The fact that my tail has two kinks in it only adds to the oxbow mystique. (I think it got shut in a door a couple of times, though I’ve mostly tried to block out those memories.)

I’m a bit ambivalent about being named after a river feature, since like most cats, I despise water. But it makes for good conversation, and it sounds manly. I like that.

Let’s face it, whether human or feline, chances are good that we all have some kind of body-image issue, some aspect of ourselves that we’re just not too happy with. Now I know I’m a handsome guy, but that photo of me yawning in the last post made me cringe, because it revealed my secret: I’m pretty much a toothless wonder.

My dental problems started early in life, and by the time my mamas adopted me in 2012, they were in full bloom. Whenever Those Two would kiss me on the head or nose and I’d yawn with contentment, they’d recoil in mock horror, wave their hands in front of their noses, and call me “Satan.” I might have been offended were it not for their kind reassurances that my bad breath was part of my charm, since as near as they could piece together, I had had a pretty tough start in this world. Besides, I was still handsome. Handsome will get you far in life.

Anyway, soon after my adoption, my mamas took me to the Chariho Animal Hospital for an exam. I was very pleased with my new vet: she is as competent, gentle and compassionate a practitioner as a cat could hope for. Nevertheless, as you can see here, I was initially reluctant to open up about my shameful problem. Finally I let her get a good look at my choppers and she started poking around in there. To my utter horror, one of my teeth simply fell out. Yes, it just plopped onto the table, like some sort of bizarre offering to Dr. Matyia!

I think Those Two laughed, figuring they had just saved a lot of money. Ha, not so fast! There were more bad teeth in there that were not so eager to give it up. So, two dental surgeries later, I’m in my current state, much happier and healthier overall, but a bit embarrassed when others can see my issue.

Now when I yawn, my breath is not exactly minty fresh, but pretty darn good for a cat, and Those Two call me “Snaggletooth.” But that’s OK. As long as treats are involved, they can call me anything they want.

 

Do you ever have those mornings when the alarm clock just seems to sound way too early, and you want nothing more than to shut it off, roll back over and pull the covers over your head, but household chores, family obligations or work require your attention?

You poor human!!!

Sweet daydreams!

Not only are we cats cool, but we are incredibly flexible creatures. That’s because we at one time had to be great hunters. Now I don’t have to hunt much these days, and I won’t share with you what I’m hunting for here, but those predatory skills are still in my genes.

Those Two think it’s hysterical when I assume this pose, and refer to it as “The Butterball,” like it’s some Olympic dive that deserves to be rated. Yeah, well let’s see you try it, you stiff-legged old ladies!

I can spring up to nine times my height, and yet how many mornings have I watched the two of you struggle to lower yourselves out of bed? Let’s see you try to jump onto the roof of the house to clean the gutters!

So go ahead, laugh. I bet you’re a bit envious.

I’ve witnessed a lot of bizarre human emotions in my six years on this planet, but I’ve always found jealousy to be the most ridiculous one of all. And I think jealousy was precisely what my mamas were expecting to see from me when they recently came home reeking of kittens after having had the opportunity to visit a new litter.

They stuck their arms and hands out at me repeatedly, waiting for what they thought would be my predictable reaction, but I didn’t give the situation a second whiff. Why? Because when you’re secure in a relationship, there is no need for jealousy. I love Those Two, though they try my patience at times, and I know they love me, though my ways occasionally baffle them.

Besides, who can resist kittens? I was once an adorable, curtain-climbing fluffball myself, so I get it. Ah, those were the days …

I know when Those Two are getting ready for a vacation. No, it’s not the suitcases — that’s the last step. It begins with the cleaning.

Now don’t get me wrong: my mamas are cleaner and tidier than the average house dwellers, if my memory of my previous digs serves me right. There’s just something about going away for more than a day that spurs them to clean like there’s no tomorrow. And, quite frankly, I think that’s the point.

I’ve heard them say, “What if something happens to us?” I’m not quite sure what that “something” might be, but the gist of it seems to be that horror would ensue if family members or even a stranger had unbridled access to every floor, every room of the house, and not just where my pet sitter might venture.

So they vacuum, dust, Swiffer and scrub at a frantic pace. Does it never occur to them that “something” could happen on any ordinary workday, when dishes are piled in the sink and clothes are strewn about? Silly humans!

I know they worry, too, that I’ll be depressed when they’re gone, wondering whether they’ll ever come back. Being abandoned once did scar me a little, but I know Those Two will be back. They can’t live without me.

I’m feeling a little blue this morning. Maybe it’s all this gloomy weather the Northeast has been experiencing this spring. Seattle has nothing on us at this point!

Or maybe it’s something a little deeper. It hit me when I went to get a drink of water and I saw that three-letter word on my bowl. C-A-T. Really? Those two clowns I live with couldn’t be bothered to get me a bowl with my name on it?

And then I plunged into one of those moments of existential angst, wondering what, exactly, it means to be a C-A-T, especially one trapped in the human world. But don’t worry, I’ll snap out of it. I always do.

It’s only Post Number Two and already I have to say, my bad! I violated the rules of polite conversation and injected politics into my introduction. Now I’m no politicat, but that last election just rocked a lot of people’s worlds. I know, because I witnessed it firsthand.

Being sensitive creatures, we cats process what is going on around us by interpreting the moods, emotions and tones of our human captors. So let’s just address the elephant in the room, or should I say the elephant in the West Wing, and get it over with.

Last Nov. 7 began much like any other Tuesday … a light breakfast, a trip to the litter box, and a long nap. But when my mamas came home that evening, I could sense that this was no ordinary day. They seemed excited, jubilant even, and talked of history being made. They settled into their chairs with drinks and snacks, and turned on the TV. First came some raucous laughter, as election results from places like Indiana and Kentucky came in. Trump! “Oh no, it’s over!” Mama G shouted mockingly, and they both giggled.

As the night wore on, the laughter faded, and a side of my mamas I had never seen before emerged, and one which I hope to never see again. They started throwing soft objects at the TV and yelling things that made even me blush. There were even some tears before they went to bed, their faces masks of stunned disbelief. It was a look that would remain for days, and I tiptoed even more gingerly around the house for a while. I think they’re mostly over it now.

Despite my mamas’ efforts to include me in the process, no, I did not really vote that day. And if I could have, my vote might have surprised you. You probably think I would have gone for the one with the orange mane, right? Definitely not! As I already alluded to, his pet-less status is enough alone to be a deal-breaker for me. Besides, I’m well aware of who feeds me.

So who was my candidate? I’m not telling … politics is personal.