Entertaining Angels

In my heart I know Samson is a pure spirit, and his affection for me is genuine and, obviously, unconditional. It was a humbling lesson from an unexpected mentor.

Although I try to keep my posts light and positive, I’m sure you realize that sometimes I truly don’t feel that way. Sometimes it’s because of fatigue and other side effects of chemo. Sometimes it’s emotional or psychological. Last Tuesday’s call from my doctor threw me for a loop, and my mood has been quite erratic. Truth be told, it was that way before the call; the call just made it worse.

When I started this blog, I did so with the intention of being completely honest about my feelings, even when they led me to behave in less than dignified ways. Something most people don’t know about me and are shocked to learn is that I have a propensity to curse. It’s a terrible habit, I know, that developed in part due to influences from my late husband, who was retired military and whose profanity tended to be casually prolific at times. John is the same way, as is my Private First Class son, Kohlson. For that matter, so is Keifer, and I blame other social influences in his case. I think it’s kind of a thing with military people, but like me, they can all temper it so that they don’t offend others who they know are sensitive to it and would be offended.

My stepdaughter Amanda and I have discussed this subject in the past, and I believe it was she who pointed out that studies have indicated that people who swear a lot may be more intelligent than their colleagues. Check out this article from the UK’s Daily Mail: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/~/article-3949986/index.html#i-b6cedfb4adf86051. According to the article, “Studies have shown those with foul mouths are more articulate and have a larger vocabulary than their peers.”

Not sure how much stock I place in that premise, but I think it’s fascinating and mildly amusing nonetheless.

As I hinted in my “Chemo Brain” post, I can release a tirade that would rival Joan Collins in “Mommy Dearest,” and last Wednesday night, I did just that upon a vulnerable creature whose capacity for understanding why I was so enraged is…well…unknown. I describe it as unknown because, as my fellow cat-loving friend, Melody, stated in a message to me recently, “We never really know what they are thinking and feeling, but you can always tell when they are feeling safe and loved at the same time.” My victim was my most beloved cat, Samson, and on this particular occasion, for a brief, unpleasant moment, I am quite certain he felt neither safe nor loved.

All of the cats have been impacted by Josephine’s introduction to the clowder, including Samson. Actually, his behavior was altered long before that when my son moved in with me last summer along with his two cats, Alfred and Loki. (Yes, there are two additional cats that I haven’t previously mentioned because they technically don’t belong to me; they are my grandcats.) Alfred has lived with me in the past, and there have been few issues or

altercations involving him. Loki is an exotic-looking, solid black, long-haired cat who was a semi-feral kitten when Keifer rescued him from the parking lot at the Tiger Point Walmart in Gulf Breeze a few years ago. Samson took an immediate aversion to him for some reason. He incites a fierce dominance in him, and Samson frequently attacks him and fur flies! Loki’s presence and now Josephine’s, I believe, has also provoked another particularly unpleasant feline behavior: spraying. Not to be confused with a litter box problem, spraying is a territorial issue. A spraying cat may back up next to a vertical area, like a cabinet or piece of furniture, his tail may quiver, and with little or no crouching, he sprays a small amount of urine.

Disgusting? Undoubtedly. In the not-too-distant past, there was no cleaner or disinfectant that could satisfactorily tackle and neutralize the strong ammonia smell that would permeate anything cat urine touched. If you’ve ever watched one of those hoarding episodes that features an animal hoarder, the technicians that go into those structures to clean them up must don complete bio-hazard gear to protect themselves. While spraying is a common problem that most cat owners will deal with at some point, it’s probably the most troubling for a homeowner because unless you’re a hoarder or a reclusive crazy cat lady, you want your home to be pleasant and inviting to guests, and it’s significantly more challenging to do if you have a cat that is marking in this way.

Patches, my little gray and white boy who passed away in November 2019, was a chronic sprayer, and as a result, spent most of his time as an outside cat until the last several months of his life. He routinely visited my neighbors, many of whom told me how much they enjoyed his stopovers. He had a microchip that was programmed to open my cat door that Roy installed in the wall of my garage. He was the only animal who could enter. I took that step after shooing a possum from my garage one too many times. The counter space at the back of my garage became a luxury cat retreat complete with a comfy bed and blanket, a space heater in the winter, a fan in the summer, and a water fountain that I kept fresh along with his daily meals.

It’s sometimes difficult to determine just why a cat will spray, but it’s usually due to a stressful situation for the cat, and the introduction of a new cat into an established clowder can definitely create stress. There are diffusers which release synthetic cat pheromones that mimic naturally occurring ones that supposedly soothe a stressed-out cat. There are medications, both over-the-counter and prescription. The most effective way to deal with the nasty habit is to thoroughly clean and deodorize any spots where a cat sprays with a biologically natural, odor-neutralizing cleaner that doesn’t contain ammonia.

I knew that one of the cats had been repeatedly spraying in my bathroom along the side of the tub. The urine would often pool under my rug, which is machine washable, thankfully, as well as my shower curtain. I think I’ve tossed them into the washing machine dozens of times over and above the normal once per week regimen that I practiced. As infuriating as it was, unless or until I actually saw the culprit, I couldn’t be certain which cat was the offender. That was until last Tuesday evening when the brazen creature did it right in front of me.

I was preparing to climb into bed for the night, and I wasn’t looking directly at Samson when he went into my bathroom. In fact, I was lost in thought about, I have no idea what, when something made me turn my head to see what he was up to. There he was, sidling up to the edge of my tub, his tail quivering as he released a small spray against the shower curtain. My response was instant and irrational.

“Samson!” I screamed. He immediately stopped what he was doing and dashed from the bathroom. My bedroom door was closed, so he had nowhere to go, and I quickly grabbed him, pressing him into the floor as I secured my grip on him.

“What the #*!”

With my right hand, I scruffed the loose skin at the back of his neck into my clenched fist. His head yanked back in an unnatural angle; his eyes squeezed into narrow slits from the force of my grip, and his canines protruded like vampire fangs from his stretched-out mouth. I pulled him upward and whirled him around so his eyes were inches away from my own and continued to scream at the stunned animal.

“What the #*! is wrong with you!?”

With my left hand under his hindquarters, I spun around and carried him, scruffed and immobile, into my bathroom where I thrust his face towards the offensive puddle of piss on the bathroom floor, screaming all the while about how that could not happen and threatening to butcher and skin him to add him to a pot of stew if he did it again. When my anger began to subside a little, I tossed him unceremoniously out of the bathroom.

In the time it took him to land on his feet and take refuge under the bed, remorse began to well up inside me.

Oh my gosh, I thought. What have I done? Samson was acting out of instinct, probably because he feels like his position in the clowder and with me has been threatened by Josephine the interloper. He’s lashing out the only way he knows. He’s always been an attention-hog, and my attention has been significantly divided for the benefit of acclimating Josey. And one of the most interesting aspects of the situation is that Samson seems to actually like her! He swipes at her now and then, not aggressively, but more as a warning, but he never attacks her or chases her the way he does Loki.

As I practically ripped the shower curtain from the hooks on the rod and wadded the rug into the crook of my elbow, I stomped out of the bedroom to the washing machine where I once again arranged the items so the machine would spin smoothly without banging like a shredded tire thwacking the pavement. Stomping downstairs, I retrieved my SCOE 10x Super Concentrated Odor Eliminator from under the kitchen sink along with a rag and a roll of paper towels and marched back upstairs to thoroughly saturate my bathroom tub and floor with the cleaner. My hands were shaking as I sprayed every surface and wiped it down with the rag. Slowly, my rational mind began to emerge from some dark recess of my brain to which it had retreated during my tirade, and I took deep, cleansing breaths as I stuffed the dirty rag and paper towels into a trash bag. I was still angry with Samson as I washed my face, brushed my teeth, took my evening meds, and climbed wearily into bed. No sooner had I pulled the covers over my lap than who should hop up next to me, completely intent on demonstrating his undying devotion? My little black panther, Samson.

He crept up to me and stepped onto my lap with his front legs, nosing my face gently with his own.

And I lost it.

I started to bawl, and as I did, I pulled his head close to my face and buried my forehead against his head. He didn’t pull back. He didn’t resist. I drew my head back and gazed at him, wondering how in the world he could act so forgiving after I had yanked him around the way I had. Did he even know why I was upset? I doubted it. But this gentle, affectionate, loyal creature was standing there on my belly, gazing at me in the innocent, adoring way that captures my heart, and as I stroked his head, he calmly curled up on the covers beside me and started to purr quietly as though nothing…had happened…at all.

This is an example of the divine nature of cats. Maybe not all of them, but definitely this special feline. Maybe he is an angel in disguise. In my heart I know Samson is a pure spirit, and his affection for me is genuine and, obviously, unconditional. It was a humbling lesson from an unexpected mentor.

I anticipate that things will settle down eventually, and I will deal with whatever comes along, just as I do this unfathomable condition I have. My feline companions bring me back to my better self, and what can be more divine than that?