Pickles & Dimes

The ad said simply: “Free to good home – part Siamese/tabby mix.”

I wasn’t allowed to keep a cat in my apartment at the time, but that didn’t stop me.

One look at you and I was mesmerized by your beautiful, big blue eyes.

I brought you home, where you prowled around the perimeter of my basement apartment, glared at me, and hissed constantly for the first week.

You slept under my bed and avoided all attempts at contact. You sat in the bathtub, staring straight ahead – as though you were riding a bus – and became surly whenever anyone needed to take a shower.

I came home during lunch one day and after checking to make sure you weren’t in the tub, I locked the bathroom and did my business. As I washed my hands, my oddly tilted mirror reflected you sitting ramrod straight behind me – blocking my exit.

I don’t think I’ve ever been more frightened of you.

Over time, you settled in and even slept with me in bed, but only for a few minutes at a time. You had other things to do, like systemically shred cardboard boxes, or make out with decorative throw pillows, or spend hours napping in linen closets.

I moved into my next “apartment,” a single room right next to the train tracks, which you escaped one night in order to visit, while I ran frantically all over the grounds searching for you and crying, only to have you walk in the open door hours later, as if nothing was wrong.

You began your early-morning vocalizations, which are nothing short of torture for the sleep-deprived, and I resorted to water spraying and pillow throwing until one time your insistence that I get up THIS INSTANCE was warranted when I discovered an apartment unit across the complex grounds was on fire.

You enjoyed hiding in out-of-the-way places, like the top of the refrigerator, where you would gently tap me on my sleep-fogged head when I was grabbing a glass of water at two in the morning, or under the comforter on the bed.

I moved into an apartment on the first-floor of a house with a yard. You enjoyed sitting outside in the grass, wearing your collar and harness, smelling the breeze and watching traffic and amused pedestrians go by. I’d have to come out every few minutes to untangle your leash because you had skillfully wound it in intricate patterns around the tree trunk.

One time, you escaped from your leash, and horrified, I chased a cat I thought was you for 15 minutes before returning back home and finding you sitting on the back step waiting for me.

You are a fiercely independent cat. Affection is on your terms only. You have many pet peeves: you hate to be petted while you’re bathing yourself.
 
You hate when we pant like a dog. You meow loudly at us to stop and if we don’t, you lunge at our face and try to bite our arm.

You hate having your pooch or back paws touched. Hate. But you love being brushed.

 
You know the words, “NO!” “Treat?” “Outside,” and “Play?” You also know the difference between your name and “Flabby,” “Crabby,” or “Blabby.”

You love playing tag, and run up to me to tap me on my ankle to indicate it’s time to play. I laugh so hard during these games, because you take them so seriously and your eyes get all wide when I tag you back, as though you are thinking, “How DARE you!” Even though you can see my head sometimes when I’m hiding, you don’t attack until I look you directly in the eyes. When I tag you and you’re not ready for it, you stare intently at my ankle until I leave it undefended, and then you pounce and bite me.

You think you’re invisible when you hide under the shower curtain, even though your tail and back paws are clearly visible.
 

You carry around an old, grungy, drool-encrusted rabbit’s foot that your previous owners gave me. You groom it lovingly and drag it to wherever we are in the house, doing your weird, long, drawn-out meowing that you only do when you’re dragging things. Sometimes you drag other things around the house and leave them for us to find, like mini Beanie Babies, long shoelaces, a stuffed baseball and a wet kitchen sponge.
 
You don’t care at all for people food, and will sniff it and then leave your jaw hanging open all creepy-like, but will scale my body like a rabid monkey to eat lime popsicles, grapes, apples, sour gummi worms, pretzels, and candy corn. You get fresh water with ice twice a day, but yet you insist of drinking it from here:
 

Here:
 
And here:

You used to pee in the kitchen sink. You stopped after we got Sunny. I think that after years of being a solo cat, you got lonely.
 
You’ll never admit you like her, but you do. I don’t think I’ve seen you happier or more content.
 
Happy eleventh birthday, you ankle-biting, tag-playing, night-caterwauling, blanket-kneading, drooly, rabbit’s-foot-dragging, sun-loving, hair-on-the-couch-shedding freak.