Cats In Clover Read online

  ***

  We found George in Karen's garden, picking his way on delicate paws among the tulips and daffodils and making playful passes at bumble bees. He had a short-haired dark gray tabby coat with black markings, the long, slim body, legs and tail of a Siamese and small dainty feet. One look at that aristocratic heart-shaped face, dominated by large green eyes and big ears and I fell in love.

  "Why are you giving him away?" I asked. I couldn't understand her parting with such a beautiful cat. Was there something wrong with him?

  Karen looked uneasy. "He gets into fights with his brother, Duffy."

  Duffy, very much like George and every bit as gorgeous, came around the corner of the house and strolled sedately toward us. He sat at my feet, his trusting little face tilted up. Are you a new friend?

  George vaulted a row of yellow tulips and landed beside me. Duffy retreated to a safe distance. George rubbed his cheeks against my calves, marking me as his property, and sat with his front paws raised, like a dog, begging to be noticed. I picked him up and he snuggled his head under my chin. In love for barely three minutes, now I was ready to commit myself to him for life.

  "Hasn't George been neutered?" I asked.

  "Yes, but he's very territorial."

  At this point I didn't care whether he was territorial or not. "We'll take him."

  "One last question," she said. "Do you work?"

  "Not any more. Why?"

  "George likes a lot of attention."

  "Don't they all!" I said. "Ben, bring the cat carrier in, will you?" I couldn't wait to get this elegant feline home and make friends with him.

  After George was in the carrier, I glanced up to see tears sliding down Karen's cheeks and knew she was worrying about whether she'd done the right thing.

  "He'll be all right, really," I said. "Would you like me to phone and tell you how he's doing?"

  She gulped, nodded and fled into the house.

  During the half hour drive to the ferry terminal, George complained nonstop, his tone demanding and indignant. Clearly he was a normal cat, used to getting his own way. It was a relief to leave him in the car and escape to the upper deck for coffee and a stroll.

  "I didn't know cats made so much noise," Ben said. "Is he going to keep that up?"

  "Not when we let him out of the carrier. He doesn't like being locked up."

  George cursed steadily for the entire five-mile drive from the ferry to our house. Ben held the carrier steady on his lap and glared at me as though the yowling were my fault. I ignored him. Ben was often snarly or gruff to hide his cream puff interior.

  I released George inside the back door and showed him the litter box in the laundry room before he trotted off to investigate the house. He must have sniffed every inch of it because two hours elapsed before he returned to the kitchen and graciously accepted a meal.

  At eight he announced that he'd had a very nice visit, thank you, but it was time he went home. He stood at the kitchen French doors and demanded that we open them.

  "You live here now," I told him.

  He glared at the door, then yelled at me. Filthy kidnapper! Let me out!

  To escape the circular argument, we went to bed early but sleep was impossible. George paced the hall most of the night, giving vent to a penetrating Siamese yowl. At the dawn of history, similar feline howls must have made our ancestors huddle closer to the fire. Between yowls, we could hear him scratching somewhere in the kitchen.

  "If he does this every night," Ben said, "one of us will have to go. And it's not going to be me."

  "He's looking for his old familiar surroundings. Cats are very attached to their territories."

  "Dogs get attached to people." Ben buried his head under his pillow.

  Next morning, we found the bottom three feet of the white net curtains over the French doors in shreds.

  Ben scowled. "Holly, look what your blasted cat's done. He's worse than useless, he's destructive."

  "He didn't mean to be; he just wanted to go home. That netting was due for retirement, anyway."

  "I don't care. If he scratched at the window, he'll scratch the furniture, too. If we keep him, you'll have to get his claws removed."

  "Never! He's an outside cat and he needs claws to protect himself. For grooming and balance, too."

  "You owe us for a set of curtains," Ben said to George, who was pacing, ears back, tail lashing in anger. And to me, "He hasn't used the litter box."

  "He's fine. Cats have twenty-four hour bladders."

  An hour later Ben was still fussing. "Maybe that woman lied when she said George was house-trained."

  "She didn't seem to be that kind of a person. You have an overly suspicious mind." But his comment worried me.

  "I don't want him to do anything on the rug," Ben said. "Maybe you should take him outside for a walk."

  "I didn't buy a leash. Anyway, cats don't like being controlled. He'll use the litter box when he's ready."

  Another hour passed. "I'll take him out myself," Ben said. "Can't be much different than walking a dog. I'll rig up a little string harness for him."

  Protesting, George was tied into a string harness and carried outside.

  Two minutes later there was a shout at the back door and I rushed to open it. Ben hurried in, holding the cat at arm's length, both of them with big, round eyes, like two startled owls. He put George on the floor and the cat bolted, trailing string, into the living room, where he disappeared behind the couch.

  "He panicked," Ben said. "Sniffed the air for a minute, then took off like a streak. If I hadn't had the string wrapped around my hand he'd have been long gone. I had a hell of a time picking him up."

  He undid his belt and lowered his jeans. "See what he did? I hope I don't need stitches." There were four red slashes across his thigh.

  Oh, dear, I thought, this is not a good beginning.

  "He was probably frightened. This is strange territory to him. I'd say he was trying to get away from you so he could go look for his home."

  Ben grunted and asked if we had any peroxide. This was not the time to tell him any more of my war stories about cats; he was too busy living his own. I hoped George would do something endearing before Ben lost his temper.

  I finished dabbing peroxide on the scratches, which I noted had barely broken the skin. So much for needing stitches! I wondered if Ben would charge the cost of Band-Aids against George's column in the budget.

  Ben pulled up his jeans. "Holly, if that cat messes on the rug, we're taking him straight back to Victoria."

  George stayed behind the couch and I worried about his bowels, his bladder and Ben's edict. By noon, I'd coaxed him out and cut off his nifty string harness. By three, to my intense relief, he'd used the litter box twice.

  When we settled in the living room after supper, George sat at my feet and stared into my face for a few minutes. Apparently deciding I was a reasonable substitute for Karen, he curled up on my lap and purred while I stroked his soft, silky coat and admired his tiger markings.

  "Why did he pick your lap to sit on?" Ben demanded. "I'm the one who took him for a walk."

  I decided not to remind Ben that cats don't like being taken for walks. "He knows I'm a Cat Person."

  I wished George had sat on Ben's lap. Ben would never be able to resist that green-eyed little face purring up at him. But George was not yet ready to forgive Ben the string harness.

  Ben examined the scratches on his leg and gave George a resentful glance. "I just had a thought. Why did that woman want us to take George and not Duffy?"

  III-Assuming the Throne

  Karen's reasons for giving us George instead of Duffy soon became obvious. George seemed to have an almost insatiable need for love and lap time; the moment I sat down he was up on my knees, wanting to cuddle. He followed me from room to room, talking and scolding, as if he couldn't bear to let me out of his sight.

  "Is he going to be like this forever?" Ben grumbled.

  "I'm sure
it's temporary." I crossed my fingers behind my back. I'd learned from experience that cats believe they own their owners, but George was taking things to extremes and it worried me. I kept telling myself he'd settle down once he bonded with us. Meanwhile, I had to persuade Ben to go along with George's eccentricities until he fell in love with the cat himself. "Once he forgets his old territory and feels at home, he'll relax."

  "I'll believe that when I see it."

  George was determined to prove that the house was his kingdom and we were his servants, bound to obey his every wish. By the third day I was calling him King George the Magnificent. Ben, whose hobby was the study of ancient Rome and who liked to show off in Latin, called him Georgius Felinus Rex. His giving George a nickname seemed a good sign.

  Like most cats I'd known, George was a creature of habit and demanded punctuality in his slaves. If I wasn't out of bed when the sun lit the eastern horizon, George reminded me of my duties by yowling in my ear. If that didn't work, he'd try to dig me out from under the blankets or tickle my face with his whiskers and purr loudly. Cats are stubborn, but I'd never met one this persistent. No matter how many times I threw him off the bed, he was back in ten seconds, intent on getting me vertical.

  "Why don't you put him in the hall and shut the door?" Ben asked.

  "Once I'm on my feet and walking, I'll be wide awake. Which means I'd never get back to sleep so I might as well stay up. George will still get what he wants."

  I didn't mind too much because Ben and I had agreed sleeping in could wait until we had the buildings and garden shipshape. Still, six o'clock did seem a trifle early.

  "Just ignore him," Ben murmured. "Maybe he'll get tired of nagging and go away."

  Before I could think of a reply less profane than the one on the tip of my tongue, Ben drifted off again. The man could sleep through anything, including a radio blasting the morning news into his ear. Even more annoying was the fact that George nagged me, the understanding, helpful Cat Person, but never Ben, the one who really needed training.

  A few days after George arrived, we shifted our bed and dressers to one of the three attic bedrooms in preparation for the eventual renovation of the main floor. The King's efficiency as an alarm clock soon proved to be considerably less than that of the bird population.

  Starlings had found a way into the enclosed storage space under the roof slope and built nests there. The nestlings rose even earlier than George and woke us at first light, yelling for worms until the alarm shrilled at seven and startled them into silence. The parent birds gave them morning running lessons, too, and it sounded like each baby starling weighed at least fifty pounds. The thunder of tiny feet and the anguished squawks when they apparently fell over something we'd thoughtlessly left in their way guaranteed that we were awake long before we wanted to be.

  "As soon as those babies leave the nest," Ben growled, "I'm going to starling-proof the eaves so tightly not even a fly will get in."

  George was neither disconcerted by the new locale for our bedroom nor distracted by birds he couldn't see. He resorted to new tactics to get me out of bed. He threw things off my dresser. He scratched his head with his hind leg, causing his ID tag to rattle noisily. Finally he stretched up full length, extended all eighty claws, and ripped the wall beside the bed.

  Though the wallpaper was old, stained and due to be replaced eventually, this was too much for Ben. "That cat is not going to tear the house apart whenever he feels like it. You'll have to do something."

  For a week I kept a plant sprayer full of water beside the bed and used it on George every time he scratched. The sprayer was discarded the night when, half asleep, I held the thing the wrong way round and sprayed myself so copiously I had to dry my hair and change my pajamas.

  Ben stopped laughing long enough to say, "I thought you were going to clip his nails."

  "I will. First thing tomorrow morning." I'd been putting it off on the pretext that I was too busy but, in fact, I hated the job. It was all too easy for me to walk a mile in George's paws, and the thought of someone forcing me to sit still while she cut my fingernails was repugnant.

  "Good! Then we can sleep a little longer."

  "How? Our starlings scream at dawn, roosters crow next door and Cal hammers nails at eight in the morning."

  "Gotta get the workshop built fast so I can get started on the garden."

  The voice of sweet reason rolled over and went to sleep. I lay there indulging in nostalgia over our condo in Victoria, so well insulated we couldn't even hear the woman next door play her violin. Sure I liked animals, but did they have to talk so loudly? Where was all the country peace and quiet I'd been told so much about?

  Next morning I carried the nail clippers and George to the couch. We snuggled and purred at each other until he was half asleep. By the time I'd finished his right front foot, he was struggling, but I persisted. When the left foot was done, he flounced away, stopping once to give me a look that said he'd sell me back to the slave dealer if I tried that nonsense again.

  Later I sat bleary-eyed in my studio, snatching a couple of hours at the computer to start a new short story instead of running errands for Ben and Cal. As I stared at the monitor, a traitorous thought occurred to me. Would Karen agree to swap Duffy for George? Immediately a wave of guilt swept through me. How could I even think of giving up a cat as affectionate as George? Besides, we belonged to each other now. Feeling sentimental, I typed 'mother and son.' Then deleted it. Tyrant and slave was more like it. I headed for the phone.

  Karen recognized my voice as soon as I said her name. "You're not bringing George back, are you?"

  "No, but I would like to know why you gave us George instead of Duffy."

  She sighed. "George is very aggressive and demanding. Duffy isn't. They're the first cats I've ever had and I just thought George needed someone who'd know how to deal with him. I sure don't."

  "Have you had them since they were kittens? I'd like to learn something about George's history."

  "No," Karen said, "only about six months. But I have Marilyn's phone number. I got the cats from her."

  Marilyn sounded curt and distracted at first but thawed when I told her what I wanted to know. "Those cats haven't had an easy life. Duffy's all right, he rolls with the punches, but George has a different personality. I wanted to keep them but my mother had a stroke and I've got all I can do to look after her."

  I sympathized and she went on. "For one thing, the kittens were taken from their mother far too early. Duffy may have looked on George as his security blanket but George didn't reciprocate. Then the first owners abandoned them when they were six months old. They spent several weeks on the street, starving."

  Poor little George! It was heartrending to think of him thin and hungry, his lustrous fur dull, seeking warmth and food and love and having every door shut in his face. When I was six, my parents had accidentally left me at a campsite because they were in hurry to get my sister and her broken arm to a hospital. They were back in minutes but at the time those minutes seemed like years. "So George became aggressive and attention-seeking because he was insecure?"

  "I think so," Marilyn said. "They'd been in eight different homes by the time I got them, which didn't help."

  "No wonder George is insecure. Cats need to have a permanent territory. How old is he? Karen wasn't sure."

  Marilyn thought for a moment. "About five, I think. Are you planning to keep him?"

  "Definitely. Now that I know why he's so possessive perhaps I can convince him that I'm his forever."

  "I doubt if he'll get over all his bad habits," Marilyn said, "but one can always hope."

  She wished me luck. I hung up and said to George, who was batting at the telephone cord, "We have two hurdles to overcome, Your Majesty. You have to trust me to take care of you forever and we both have to convince your other slave that you're worth at least ten dogs."

  He nuzzled at my chin and purred. I decided to regard that as a good omen.