So What Do You Get Cats For Their Birthdays?

Yesterday, I received seven birthday cards in the mail. Which threw me a little because my birthday isn't for three months.

On the other hand, my sister's birthday was yesterday. I wondered if some of our family members and/or mutual friends had gotten us confused again . It happens. Then I saw the cards were all from PetSmart. And they were addressed to Henry, Sammy, Nettie, CJ, Koko, Ernie and Roxie.

Is it that time again already?

What do you get cats for their birthdays?

The obvious presents -- kitty condos, catnip toys, scratching posts -- have all been done before. Over and over.

The not-so-obvious gifts: electronic, self-scooping litter boxes, grooming sets, water fountains, well, those have been done, too.

There's always the practical route. But I wouldn't want flea medicine or laxatives (even beef or tuna-flavored) for my birthday. Why would they?

The most unpopular birthday gift to date? According to Henry, Sammy, Koko, Nettie and CJ, that would be July 24, 2005, when Ernie came to be their birthday present/little brother. Henry is still pissed at me about it.

None of which solves my current dilemma. But I still have a few weeks to mull it over. Since PetSmart included some birthday coupons with the cards, whatever I get probably will come from there.

Any ideas?

Andrew Jackson Slept Here (And So Did I*)

"I'm sorry, but breakfast will be late this morning," the hostess at The Cottage Plantation informed us as we enjoyed the misty morning view from the main building's back veranda. "It's going to take a little while to get this skinned and into the pot."

"This" turned out to be a raccoon that got busted in the night while trying to steal the plantation cats' food, and now sat regarding us calmly, if inquisitively, from the confines of an animal trap.

Much to all the guests' (and the prisoner's) relief, 'coon really wasn't on the menu and we were all soon sitting down to a full Southern breakfast of eggs, bacon, grits, biscuits with homemade jam and fresh blueberries in the formal dining room, while the captive 'coon (who was actually damned good company) was transported to the surrounding woods and set free.

So began the 4th of July -- with life, liberty and pursuit of happiness -- just like our forefathers promised us.

The Cottage Plantation in St. Francisville, La., is not quite as old as our Nation, but comes close. The original four-room cottage was built in the last decade of the 18th century. And while George Washington never slept here, another future President, Andrew Jackson, did stay a while on his way back to Natchez from the Battle of 1812.

While the term "plantation" calls to mind a certain grandeur, The Cottage is really more of a really nice, if genteelly shabby, farmhouse. Unlike a neighboring plantation, Rosedown, which underwent a multi-million renovation some years ago, the historic sections of The Cottage wear a slightly worn mantle of benign neglect.

This was a little like staying in your grandmother's house, if your grandmother was a Southern aristocrat who lost her money long ago.

It was certainly a cut above my accommodations during my last trip to St. Francisville as a Girl Scout 40 years ago. Then, I had to cook my own dinner over a campfire and sleep in a screened tent with a bunch of other pre-pubescent girls. Here, I was served in-room coffee in demitasse cups with fresh-cut flowers on a silver tray.

When in St. Francisville, you tour a lot of plantation homes. In addition to The Cottage, I also caught tours at the much-fancier Rosedown, where I was charmed by a nest of resident baby barn swallows, and The Myrtles, America's most haunted house.

Other than that it was lots of good Louisiana cooking, a ferry ride across the False River to Cajun country and the scenic route home through fields and fields of sugar cane, eating boiled peanuts while smelling 4th of July barbecue roasting over dozens of roadside pits.

All in all, it was the perfect 4th.

*But not at the same time.

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.

Stormy Weather

Well, it was one of those weekends.

Stormy weather. And my man and I weren't together.

So on that note -- and because I hate to drink alone -- let's all raise a glass to the late, lovely Lena Horne.

The weather let up enough for me to get this shot of my lilies -- the prettiest thing in my yard right now.

But mostly I stayed in the kitchen.

On the menu: one of my favorite pasta dishes -- lemon fusilli with arugula. Ina Garten, do you ever come up with a bad recipe?

I'm growing my own arugula this year, and for the first time I get what all the fuss is about. The freshly harvested leaves have a peppery bite to them -- much tastier that the packaged arugula in the grocery store. Because my arugula leaves are getting a little sparse, I had to supplement with some fresh basil which also works with the lemon and tomatoes in this dish.

The first summer cherries are starting to hit the produce stands (how I wish we could grow them here -- they are my favorite) and I celebrated with a cherry clafouti. I've eaten this yummy dessert -- a cross between a pudding and cake -- numerous times in France, but have never attempted to make it at home until today. Easy, easy, easy.

Cherry Clafouti

1 cup sour cream

1 cup ricotta cheese

1/2 cup flour

3-4 Tablespoons granulated sugar

2 eggs

2 cups pitted fresh cherries

powdered sugar

Mix the first five ingredients together. Pour into a Pyrex pie pan. Drop the cherries over the top. Bake at 350 for about 45 minutes until puffed and just starting to turn brown. Dust the top with powdered sugar. Serve while still slightly warm.

And then, after all that food, it was time for a rainy day nap.

A Cat Mama's Mother's Day

For most mothers, today was a day of cards, flowers, phone calls and dinner out on the kids. For me it was the usual: an overturned water bowl, eight litter boxes in need of scooping, seven cans of cat food to be opened, two broken up cat fights, and a hairball or two -- my Mother's Day presents.

All that said, being a cat mama isn't so very different from being a regular mama (except that I'll never have to put braces on them or send them to college).

My babies need regular meals and a warm bed (mine) to sleep in.

When they don't feel good or when they wake up in the night with a bad dream, they need a cuddle.

They ...

Ignore my requests for affection -- except when I'm trying to read or talk on the phone.

Leave their toys scattered all over the house for me to pick up. Their favorite toy, by the way, is the one their brother/sister is playing with.

Chase each other through the house despite my constant pleas and threats to stop.

Get into fights with their siblings and are punished with time outs.

Hate going to the doctor and have to be coaxed with toys and treats.

Refuse to take their medicine no matter how sick they are.

Are finicky eaters and much prefer junk food to anything with nutritional value.

Are jealous of one another and constantly compete for my attention.

Are devoted to one another and often conspire together against me.

Know when I am mad at them and do cute things to make me forget.

Know when I am sad for any reason and do cute things to make me forget.

Are always there for me.

Are my pride, my joy, my seven reasons for living.

And isnt' that what being a mama is all about?

Happy Mother's Day!