Freak Out

It's 7:30 Wednesday night. Which can mean only one thing: It's time for Koko to get his freak on.

One minute he's curled up on the sofa, purring away. The next he's on the counter top his big white-rimmed green eyes agog. His head jerks back and forth. His abbreviated little tail twitches spasmodically. He's turned into a little Anamatronic kitty.

And then he's off.

A blur of black streaks like a shot across the room, bounces off the wall with all four feet, twists in mid-air and takes off down the hallway. The entire house shakes under the thunder of four paws galloping. He races through the house, one, two, three, four times skidding through turns, claws scrabbling frantically for traction.

Streak. Bounce. Boing. Twist. Zoom. Bow. Bam.

The other six cats look up with bemused expressions, then drift back to sleep. They've seen it before.

Koko makes his victory lap, then leaps into my lap. And a sort of exorcism takes place.

The wild green eyes blink, grow peaceful , close. His tense frame stretches, sags, relaxes. Four little paws, still warm from tearing up the floorboards, reach out to touch me. He purrs. He's asleep. It's as if the last few minutes never happened.

Except they do, every week, like a live-theater mini-episode of "The Incredible Hulk" or "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde."

Just what the hell is it? Does anybody else's cat do this?

I guess sometimes a kitty just needs to get his ya-yas out.

The Shedding Season

Recently, I've started waking up looking like the bearded lady in a circus sideshow. At first I thought it was another damn menopausal symptom. As if the weight gain, night sweats and waning hormone-induced hissy fits weren't enough to make reaching the mid-century mark suck. Then I realized I don't have orange hair. Oh, right, it's the feline shedding season.

Time to break out the FURminator. If you are a cat owner and you don't have one, what are you waiting for? Get you to a Pet Smart. This is the only thing that is going to keep you sane this summer. Unless you just happen to relax by vacuuming 20 times a day. And rubbing a lint brush over your entire body 50 times a day.

FURminators are pet brushes, but not just any regular brushes. The teeth are tiny razors which thin out the cat's undergrowth, the source of shedding and major cause for hairballs. At first, I was skeptical, and then when I started using it I was horrified. That's a lot of hair to be coming off one little cat! Was I going to wind up with a litter of wrinkled, hairless little freakazoid kitties like Rachel's Mrs. Whiskerson on "Friends?"

Fortunately, the answer was "no," although I did wind up with a big enough pile to knit a cat fur sweater or even build another cat or two if I was so inclined. (I'm not; seven's enough. But, then, I think I once said six was enough, too.)

As with any process involving cats, the brushing does not go as smoothly as it does on the TV infomercial (see also my posts about flea treatments and the Pedi-Paws Nail Trimmer). Unlike the nail-trimmer, however, the FURminator occasionally makes it out of the junk drawer BECAUSE IT WORKS.

Granted three of my seven would rather walk across a hot stove top (and have done just that) to escape the Furminator. The other four would gladly let me brush them bald-headed.

I guess none of them have ever watched "Friends."

Calling All Cats

Do you wonder why some cats respond to their names and others don't? Well, you probably have better things to wonder about, but I don't.

Some people (mostly "dog" people") would have you believe that cats are incapable of learning their names. Not true. Even at the crowded House Where The Black Cat Lives, each cat knows his or her own name. Well there was that brief period long ago when Ernie thought he was Koko, an identity crisis that has since cleared itself up.

Not only do they know their names, but they can sort out the plethora of silly and downright embarrassing nicknames I have bestowed upon each of them over the years. To wit:

Henry -- Henri, Monsieur Henri (or sometimes just Monsieur), Hen-Hen, Handsome Boy, Dreamsicle Kitty, Bubba

Sammy - Sammy Bear, Sam I Am, Samster, Sammy Lee Magee

Nettie - Nettie Louise, Net-Net, Weezie, Weezabit

CJ - Celie Jo, Ceej, CJ Sweet Girl, Princess Fluffybutt

Koko - Ko, Kokomo Magee, Kokobean, Beanie-Weanie, Big Eyed Boy

Ernie - Ernie H, Ernesto, Big E

Roxanne - Roxie, Rox, Roxanneroxannadana, Roxita, Missy Anne.

And they all go by Pretty Kitty. No false modesty within my crew.

So, I can see where the occasional state of name confusion might ensue. But I'm convinced it's really a control issue. And, yes, they are the ones in control.

Henry likes to play this little game where he half-turns his head in my direction when I call him, a gesture that clearly says, "I want you to know that I recognize that I am being paged. I also want you to know that I am not coming."

He is also quite capable of pretending he doesn't care that I've been gone after a long vacation. Eventually he will saunter my way and, with total indifference, offer up his ears to be scratched as if to say "Well, since you're here..." I don't call him Monsieur Henri for nothing; he is soooo French.

Sammy, on the other hand. is too much of an attention whore to ever carry off that whole insouciant act. I look at him, say his name and he gets all happy. Every time.

I like to think I can even summon my cats telepathically. They always seem to know exactly what I am thinking (not that they care what I think).

The fact is cats will come when called if they believe there is something in it for them. Pure and simple. Just like humans.

Which gets me thinking. I know what I call them, but what do they call me? One would think "Mama" but that's really a name I call myself, isn't it?

Well, whatever it is, I bet they think they've got me well trained.

And they are right.