This post is the first in what I hope to be a series, about the adventures of my new cat, Stitch, who joined my family on January 20, 2011. Stitch is a grey tabby, part manx, tom cat, aged approximately a year.

Two days ago, when I crawled out of my warm outdoor den and wandered down to find my owner -- and subsequently torment her by winding around, and around, and around her legs -- I had no idea how my life was about to change. I watched my caretaker leave quite pleased with the bits of scratching I'd managed on her ankles, and knowing I'd suitably driven her batty once more. For a few hours I observed the chickens, inspected the goat about to kid, and generally surveyed my territory.

And then they arrived. The blonde lady who I can always bank on for a few good pets, and the little blonde boy who giggles at me. I made them follow me to my den, and then I decided they could indulge and pet me. Ahh! She even picked me up. Scratched me under the jaw -- heaven, I tell you.

Only then, we were walking beyond my normal territory, into the unknown, over where the dogs bark and I know going there is risking certain death. But she's got the back of my neck, and she's no longer petting, she's holding on tight. I can't move! And why is there a rooster with us too? Am I going to that place where the chickens go to and don't come back. Maybe this isn't such a good idea after all...

Within moments I find myself sitting in a vehicle on the lady's lap. Not so bad after all. It's warm here, and purr, I'm getting the scratching of my life.

Then, we're moving... and the world is spinning, and... holy Bast! I have to get out of here now! I tried, valiantly, to escape through the floorboards, and even managed to wedge myself between the door and the seat so she had to pull over and move me. I thought for certain she'd open that damn door. But no. She's oblivious to my attempts and determined to keep me here. I finally give up and bury my head under her elbow, resigned to the fact we're going somewhere. The chicken doesn't seem overly distressed. Maybe that's because his carrier has been turned upside down and by the two boys sitting beside him, and he's more concerned about losing tail feathers than our destination. He's a chicken after all.

And I really don't give a damn about chickens. What matters is that we get out of this steel box.

At long last we stop. The door opens. I see a moment of freedom -- only to have it taken away by being scruffed once more. She means business. She's not letting go, no matter how I try to claw my way to freedom in the brief instant where she opens the gate to the drive and loosens her hold on my neck a little.

Despite my protests, I find myself back in the truck and moving again. A few short yards later, we're stopped and now it's snowing on me. I recognize the scents of farm, my ears perk as I sight the barn. Again, however, my hopes are dashed when she mutters, "No, Stitch (who's Stitch? Last I knew my name was Damn Cat.), you can't go there, the dogs will eat you."

Sound advice, in my opinion. Inside the house we go. And whoo-boy, this is exciting! I've never been inside before. There's all kinds of scents. Something yummy, a few more of my superior species, an underlying aroma that suspiciously resembles dogs, and there's a whole lot of space in here.

She sets me down in a room full of toys, but it's a bit more intimdating than I want to let on. In search of a few minutes quiet time I seek solitude in the bathroom, where I'm planning on regrouping and finding my courage to investigate. The house falls quiet. I can't hear dogs, and I don't see the little blonde boys.

Wonder what's going on with the chicken?

A little while later, I hear voices. "Stitch? Stitchy-kitty (c'mon, really?) where are you?"

"Mrrph." It's the best I can manage. The finger waggling indicated she must be talking to me, and those scratches are too darn tempting to ignore. Back we go to the kitchen and we're sitting on the floor, when four other felines come up to investigate. I'm much more comfortable with my back against the wall, and crawl out of her lap to tuck into the corner.

There, I meet the psycho twins. These two cats -- Merlin and Razputin I've now realized -- would like me to believe my life is in danger for being here. Their ferocious growls might carry weight if they weren't three-legged and lacking claws. I turn my nose up. They aren't worth my time.

The Elmer character shows merit. He at least is polite in his sniffing, and hasn't raised his voice to me.

Then... the dogs come. In an effort to make myself as small as possible, I remain where I am currently hiding, under the kitchen chair. If the damned twins would shut up, I might actually succeed. Crap! That big monster has noticed me. And blech! she licked me. Tatum, she's called, obviously doesn't understand the cat-dog relationship -- a lesson Elmer is happy to teach her when she repeats the same process to him.

I think I could like this Elmer chap.

My night passes rather smoothly. Save for the lady with the soft hands and even softer voice, I'm left pretty much alone to establish myself. I found the food -- admittedly with her aid -- and mowed down half the bowl. Interesting enough, she leaves food out all day long. I'm going to gain ten pounds here, I know it. But if the twins are the only threats I have to worry about, I'm not to terribly worried about weight gain.

Morning, however, is a whole new venture. The children are up. The taller one is searching for me. It's simply a glorious moment when he runs upstairs to tell the lady I'm gone. She doesn't seem to buy into this theory, however, and he returns to look some more. It's her who finds me later, and her, "Good morning, Stitch", at least deserves a polite, "Mrr."

She'll figure out what it means, I'm sure.

I'd just settled into the impression this place wasn't quite so bad and dismissed my initial introduction to the toybox, by being locked inside it, as just bad luck. I have nine lives. So now I have eight. And the woman seems to be some sort of guardian angel.

Only, she left to tend to "the filly". I know what this is from my former place. A horse evidently lost its marbles -- though they don't possess many anyway -- and needs medical attention. I'm back in the bathroom, dozing, when two giggling monsters arrive to wash their hands. Pretty dull and boring, though it's rather cute how the oldest one helps the youngest. Brotherly love.

Then all hell breaks loose. I'm not entirely certain what I did that Bast felt it necessary to punish me, but before I could blink, one of those monsters scoops a bowl full of water out of the toilet and douses me on the head! What the hell? I gave myself a bath. I'm fairly certain I don't stink -- and that's cold stuff! I can't run away -- the door's shut.

I hear the nice lady talking in the other room about a leaky roof. I'm praying, but she doesn't seem to know I'm in immient danger of drowning. With no options left to me, I tuck my head between my paws, and play dead. It works for possums, I'm out of options...

When I think I can't possibly get any more wet, the door bursts open. The monsters stop, stock-still, terror written on their faces. The lady erupts. Hauls them out of the bathroom, and puts them in separate chairs. I'm still too dumbstruck to make an escape, and am sitting in the same place, soaked to the bone, when she comes in to mop up the mess. Evidently she had no idea I was in here. "Oh, Stitch! Poor, kitty."

The softest warmest towel I've ever known descends on me. Poised on the closed toilet seat, she rubs and rubs, and rubs. Matted hair begins to separate and fluff. Grateful beyond all imagining, I purr in thanks. My eyes round out to their normal state of curious observation, and it is one immensely satisfying moment for all cat-kind when she sets me down on another dry towel and storms into the kitchen to give the monsters what for about being mean to the cat.

It's now night. I haven't seen the monsters since. I'm holed up for another day. The twins won't talk to me, that Tatum creature is absent, and Elmer is asleep on the chair. Raistlin, has decided I'm not worth his time. I can respect that. He's the senior around here.

I've been assured, however, through Raistlin's actions, that this place can't be all that bad. All of my feline friends flock to the lady. Merlin seems to have some sick obsession with dogs -- that's where Tatum must have gotten the impression she can lick what she wants. (I told you they were psychotic!)

We'll see how the rest of this week pans out. That corner behind the television is looking more and more interesting, but for now, I'll stay here in the kitchen, well away from the bathroom, and wait it out.


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2 Responses so far.

  1. Too cute! We have a kitten that tortures my toes. The little stinker has sharp claws. He likes to wait till I'm sound asleep and then attack my feet. He gets me even through layers of blankets.

    I nominated your blog for the Stylish Blogger Award. You can pick up your award here: :D

  2. Penny, thank you!! Sorry I'm delayed, my time is alternated between editing at the technologically cut-off farmhouse and brief trips into the city to handle pressing needs.

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