Oh, actually, I got it from John! He gets older cats who’ve lost their homes
because their owners are too old to care for them. He doesn’t want to deal with
baby kittens. Hopefully I’ll be in good enough shape to care for Brandy his
entire life, though since my brother and sister-in-law will be moving here from
Virginia, if I do go through physical changes making it impossible to care for
him, I’m sure they will, which is a relief for me. I worried about that,
especially given what I’m going through right now. Haven’t ever been this
debilitated except when going through radiation, and even then I could care for
Brandy. Once he’s gone will see about getting an adult cat from Island
(Alameda’s an island) cat Rescuers. Don’t think I can ever live without a kitty
again.
Linda G.
From: ourplace-bounce@xxxxxxxxxxxxx [mailto:ourplace-bounce@xxxxxxxxxxxxx] On
Behalf Of Devon Wilkins
Sent: Saturday, September 10, 2016 5:06 PM
To: ourplace@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
Subject: [ourplace] Re: A Cat Named No
Linda, have you already sent this to John Rae? He’s a real cat lover, you know.
I sent it to someone I know in Fresno, and another friend in Huntsville,
Ontario. A real cute story, and a very unforgettable animal. Devon.
From: ourplace-bounce@xxxxxxxxxxxxx [mailto:ourplace-bounce@xxxxxxxxxxxxx] On
Behalf Of Linda Gehres
Sent: September-10-16 7:34 PM
To: ourplace@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
Subject: [ourplace] Re: A Cat Named No
I just couldn’t resist sending it. Couldn’t imagine why no one had commented on
it as of Thursday when I tried to send it to the list but this morning got an
undeliverable e-mail notice so that explained it. The kitten who tries to be so
helpful really reminds me of Brandy as a kitten. Still can’t believe he
observed on his own the time I wouldn’t be using a cane when I went outside to
take the garbage out. He decided right then (and only for that day) to provide
me with sonar directions so I wouldn’t get lost outside. What a smart cat!!
He’s still smart but hasn’t tried that since, though at times he’ll meow at me
as I come up the steps. Now he’s become bla-zayabout it since he’s seen me go
up and down independently for years.
Linda G.
From: ourplace-bounce@xxxxxxxxxxxxx [mailto:ourplace-bounce@xxxxxxxxxxxxx] On
Behalf Of Karen Delzer
Sent: Saturday, September 10, 2016 2:32 PM
To: ourplace@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
Subject: [ourplace] Re: A Cat Named No
Aw'w'w'w'w'w'w'w'w, sweet wittw kitty!
Karen
on 01:55 PM 9/10/2016, Linda Gehres said:
A Cat Named No
By Valerie D. Benko
From Chicken Soup for the Soul: My Very Good, Very Bad Cat
Fun fact: Kittens learn to purr when they are about one week old.
The scraping sound of the laundry basket against the cement floor catches my
attention. I turn from the dryer just in time to see my black cat use his head
to push the basket to my feet. Satisfied, he sits tall with his broad chest out
and watches me with striking yellow eyes and two gleaming white fangs in his
trademark "smile." Bat fangs, we call them.
"Thanks, Wookie," I say, patting his head. At my touch, he rises to all fours
and drapes his tail over my hand.
Wookie is a helper cat. He thinks he must help with every task. He also thinks
his name is "No."
In this next instant, he is inside the dryer standing on the warm clothes I'm
trying to remove.
"No!" I say, as I reach in and pull him out.
When I run the vacuum cleaner, he is the only cat that doesn't run away in
terror. Instead, I have to vacuum around him as he refuses to move. Then he
follows me to the next room to sit in the way again.
"No!" I say, as I try to keep him away, but he hops over my leg and sits in the
middle of the floor, forcing me to vacuum around him once more.
As soon as the broom comes out, so does Wookie. He insists on checking the dirt
pile to make sure no stray treats or "toys" such as Q-tips or twisty ties have
been taken prisoner.
"Wookie, no!"
I try to block him with the broom, but he heaves his twenty pounds against it,
defeating my attempts, and steps in the dirt, spreading it around.
Satisfied, he walks away, trailing dirt behind him.
As I prepare the sink to wash dishes, I'm relieved he's gone, although the worst
he ever does at the sink is sit in the open window above it and meow at the
birds outside.
From the basement, I hear a loud, "Wookie, no!" from my husband.
He is trying to scoop the litter boxes, which has to be Wookie's number one
favorite chore to help with. From the time he was about two months old, he
either sits in the litter box while it is being scooped or grabs onto the
discard bag as if my husband is stealing the contents the cat so carefully
buried.
Despite all this, he is a keeper.
We rescued his mother and her litter when the kittens were a day old, moving
them out of the cold April air into a warm basement and clean blankets.
Every other day, we would change the blankets, and during one of those times,
when the kittens were barely two weeks old, I was lifting Wookie when he purred.
I paused and looked at my husband in disbelief. This was the third litter we had
cared for and the first time we had ever heard a kitten purr so young.
In my heart he was mine, even though we had decided not to keep any of them.
He purred every time I touched him. When his eyes opened and his wobbly legs
allowed him to explore, he would seek me out to snuggle against me while his
littermates played.
At night, he sleeps sprawled out lengthwise between my husband and me. At any
time of night, all one of us has to do is gently brush him with our hand and the
deep purrs lull us back to sleep.
For the first year of his life, I learned to prepare dinner with him under one
arm. I learned that he really shouldn't help with pumpkin carving after I found
gooey seeds stuck to his fur. I learned how to decorate a Christmas tree from a
cat's point of view. I needn't worry, though. If I get it wrong, he just
rearranges the ornaments, the tree skirt or the presents.
Wookie likes to help. Period. Whether it's ironing, dusting, filling a mop
bucket or cleaning out the refrigerator, he's the cat for the job. Every task is
exciting.
My thoughts at the kitchen sink are interrupted by a crash against the closed
window and a plop as soapy water soaks the front of my shirt.
"Wookie!"
The poor cat must have assumed the window was open and leapt for it.
He is drenched and covered in soap bubbles. I grab a dishtowel and begin rubbing
his fur to dry him. As I do, he looks at me with big yellow eyes, bat fangs
showing as he smiles and purrs.
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