A Tale of Two Kitties

This is what they looked like 7 months ago, with their sweet mamma, Skippy. Franky is the one belly up (half smashed and to the right of the sheer white one) and the black one to the right of him is our SammyD.

This is what they look like now…

I interrupted their nap.

It’s been an interesting phenomenon, getting to know my cats. I mean, I always thought a cat’s a cat’s a cat.

Ok, so maybe I just didn’t care before about what makes one cat different from another.

Now I care. I care because these guys are my roommates, my adopted brood. Maybe it’s because I put more effort into their welfare than setting cat food outside the back door. That’s the way I always did it in years past and that was fine.

But these guys,…  I bathe, brush, feed and pet them to their heart’s content. And I love that I know all of their idiosyncrasies as a result.

Franky is the one with the high IQ. He’s always the first to figure out how to open a door, climb a door, climb a tree, jump on the counter, climb in the hamper, or go to battle with Woody the dog. We only had to show Franky how to use the doggy door one time.

He’s the leader–the designated, Meower, when it comes to saying, “We’ve been waiting for hours for you to get up and feed us”. He’s a beautiful, blue eyed, playful feline who says “meow” in such a way every time I walk into the room, I know he’s saying, “Hi.” So I say, “Hi” back.

Franky thinks he’s a mime sometimes. He lets out this silent meow. He’s either a mime or he’s saying, “Read my lips. You know what I want.”

SammySam, on the other hand, is a sensitive bloke with a flare for drama.

For example:

He comes to the bathroom door when I’m getting ready for the day. He’s playing in the curtain that is our make-shift door (home remodel, remember). He’s nonchalantly appearing to be playing–with sound effects to boot–right up until I walk past him. As my foot comes off the ground, I feel both of his soft little paws lightly nab my ankle. It takes me a full step afterward to register what he’s done. I turn to look at him and laugh and he’s appearing like, “Who me? I didn’t do anything?”

Another example of his dramatic antics is about the tummy rub. Once Sammy has decided the conditions are right for belly rubbing, he’ll climb on your lap while you’re engrossed in a TV show, stand for just a second, and then suddenly flop over, roll onto his back, and sprawl out. It doesn’t matter where he is on your lap. When he feels it, there’s no stopping the drop and roll, even if it means half of his body falls off your lap.

Sammy hates being alone in the house. Alone outside, is a different story. That!, he loves. But then it did take him a whole month longer to figure out the doggy door than it did Franky…

Franky’s in the lead, climbing down the steps with Sammy so close behind they’re almost in contact. Franky shoves his nose out the doggy door and his tail follows; it’s one swift motion. There’s poor Sammy, stopped in his tracks, watching and wondering, “How’d he do that?”

We tried and tried to show him. Sammy just does things on his own terms.

Now he’s the last of the animal herd to come in the house. I guess he’s making up for lost time.

Today, my kitties are in a sad state. It was the day of the “N” word. Neutered.

I took them for a ride in the car yesterday while I went to WalMart so they wouldn’t freak out being in the car for the first time on their way to the Vet today. One time just didn’t cut it. They still hated the car today. Even more so on the way home from the vet.

Poor things are walking all tipsy-like. What’s more–they walk about 5 steps, stop and crouch. Walk 5 steps. Stop. Crouch. Fall asleep. They climbed down the steps to follow me outside, but when they followed me back inside, they made it to the third step from the top when they both stopped mid-stride. Stop. Crouch. “I… can’t… go… any… further… I’ll just…sleep… here.”

Anesthesia is the pits. Believe me, I know just how they feel!

Tomorrow they’ll be back to normal. I’m looking forward to the next belly rub drop and mime meow.

Next time I’ll tell you a sad tale about Woody’s very bad, no good, horribly awful day(s).

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