The true adventures of Woody the super siamese cat.
Three true stories you'll love.
It was Halloween night, my most un-favorite holiday of the year. Even as a kid I wasn't comfortable with the whole deal. Something weird about dressing up like that, who knows, but my kids had a tendency to agree with me on this one, and at twelve and fourteen, decided they'd just stay home and hand out treats to the little kids.
We had a huge bowl full of candy and the obligatory skeleton taped to the door when the first group of tricksters headed up the driveway at a trot, screaming and laughing, pushing each other to get to the door first. I figured they were first graders, judging from their size and the proliferation of 'little mermaids' and Star Wars characters. Grinning
adults hovered at the back of the group, the perfect combination of parental vigilance and childish delight.
My kids had more in store for the tricksters than just a handful of candy. Woody was going to dress up as Aunt Jemima.
Woody was a sealpoint Siamese cat with huge blue eyes and a very friendly disposition. By this time he was well into his teens and silver hairs sprinkled his chocolate face. He and the kids had grown up together and he'd participated in 'dress-up' games all his life. Woody believed in passive resistance. He didn't bite, he couldn't scratch, and all the yowling in the world never seemed to help. Therefore, in all situations that had to do with doll clothes, or small people,
for that matter, he just went limp.
Now imagine, there was Woody, a long red and white checkered scarf wrapped around his tummy, over his shoulders, under his chin, ending in a bow on top of his head, the two short ends of the scarf sitting perkily between his ears.
It was now showtime. As the doorbell rang, my son sat Woody right in front of the door, and then opened it.
The kids got about halfway through the chant when they saw Woody. They started to point at him and giggle. The giggles soon built to a roar.
As the kids screamed with laughter, Woody went limp and fell directly forward on his chin. He just lay there, not moving a muscle, flat out on the floor. There was dead silence for a second, and then the children burst into hilarious laughter at the 'collapsing' cat.
Word spread around the neighborhood that ours was the house to visit. Woody really got into the spirit of things, too, varying his repertoire by falling to either side, and once, in a moment of overzealousness, right over backwards.
That only happened once, though. It was just too undignified to lay there like that and Woody valued his dignity. It was about all he had left.
Woody and Richard
It was hot. The August sun burned down on our farm, turning the lawn brown. What looked like miles of corn turned gold in the fields; before long, it would be harvest time. The leaves on the rose bushes drooped dispiritedly and even the birds were quiet. Everything looked tired.
I had to iron, no two ways about it. The clothes basket sat accusingly in the corner, heaped, running over. I couldn't ignore it another minute, so I dragged the ironing board out onto the veranda, positioned the TV just so, and turned on the iron.
All the animals were dozing. The horses had gathered together under the huge elm tree, head to tail, swishing their tails to rout the flies on their faces.
Richard, my English Setter, was sprawled out on the grass, snoring. Woody, normally an indoor cat, was curled up in the only sunpile on the otherwise shady veranda.
I was halfway through my sixth shirt, deeply engrossed in Another World ~ that Rachel ~ when I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. The commercial came on and when I glanced around, sure enough, Woody was gone.
He was a seal-point Siamese cat with huge deep blue eyes. Woody could be quite adventurous, once proudly bringing me a baby rabbit so young its eyes were still closed. When I reached down to take it from the mighty hunter, he growled at me and backed up, dragging the rabbit all over the room. It took almost ten minutes to pry it loose. Enough said!
For the most part, Woody was the king of passive resistance. He was very good with the kids; he had no choice, really, he'd been declawed at six months. Adhering to the adage that 'resistance is futile', he found that simply going limp was his best choice. The kids played dolls with him, pushed him around in the carriage and dressed him in all manner of undignified doll clothes. He was the definition of the word long-suffering.
Anyway, he wasn't on the porch. Being practically defenseless, I had to find him. It was at about the same time that Richard was gone, too. I stepped off the veranda and looked down the driveway just in time to see Richard dragging Woody towards the bridge that spanned our little creek.
Richard pulled the still unprotesting cat to the edge of the bridge and dropped him over the side. I could hear the splash as he fell into the brook. Then Richard jumped in.
Racing down the drive, screeching my head off, I hurried to the edge of the stream and started to wade in.
There was Woody, spitting mad and no longer passive, swimming around in a circle, with Richard in hot pursuit. Whenever Richard could get close enough, he'd reach his paw out and sink Woody. He'd disappear under the swirls, and then come shooting up out of the water like a rocket.
Well, they both saw me at about the same time. I fished my poor cat out of the water, holding him to my chest, while he yowled at the top of his lungs. I called Richard every name in the book, plus some I made up along the way.
The dog was grinning from ear to ear. What fun. Woody made a fine replacement for the ducks that used to inhabit the stream. He'd played 'get the duckie' for so long, they'd all decamped in a body one morning, leaving him bereft of amusement.
Woody made a great replacement duckie.
Okay, so you agree; cats are cool, right? Definitely, they are cool. Way cooler than dogs. I mean, dogs drool, cats rule. Right? Especially Siamese cats.
Okay, we are finally on the same page here. That always helps.
Now, if there were a 'coolest' cat contest, and you had a cat with a cool story, what would it be about?
What would your 'coolest cat' entry be?
I feel confident in saying that my story will beat yours, hands down. Of course, that is solely my opinion, but since I'm the only one with a vote, I win. Ah, but I digress.
Woody was about ten by this time. He'd been around the block a couple of times and nothing, absolutely nothing, phased him. Woody had been a city cat, a condo cat, a farm cat, and before it was all over, a traveling cat. You really had to step out of the box to impress Woody.
But of all the things he was, most of all, he was a '70's cat, a study in nonviolence and passive aggression, collecting many citations for valor over the years.
On the outside, he was a crusty old veteran, used to having things his way and running a tight ship. He kept the dogs in shape and narced on the kids with dependable regularity.
He had one soft spot, though. Babies. Baby anythings; it didn't matter. Over the years he'd welcomed kittens, puppies and the odd rabbit that happened to survive the kids 'loving' arms.
It was a cloudy Saturday afternoon when my husband volunteered to disc the back pasture for the horses. It was springtime and the pastures were ready to be turned over.
Halfway through the field, the tractor came to an abrupt halt. I could see my husband jump down from the tractor and look under the drag. His body language told me it was a 'critter' emergency. We'd had a lot of those over the years, and I was prepared.
We scooped up the baby 'possums that were evacuating the pouch of their newly deceased mother, put them in a pillowcase and carried them home. We dragged out the old playpen that we'd kept for whatever reason, and snuggled the babies into a mound of warm blankets. They were still nursing, so we took turns feeding the two surviving babies. Confident that they were well fed and would at least survive the night, we went to bed.
Fresh smells of coffee roused me, and as I wandered down the hall, I remembered our tiny visitors. I peeked around the corner and peered into the playpen. There, curled up in the corner was Woody, the mighty hunter. Nestled to his tummy and nursing like crazy were two silver gray 'possums, little rat tails twitching with contentment, happy for the comfort if not the nourishment.
Woody opened one sapphire-blue eye and looked at me. 'Wow,' he said succinctly. 'Oh, wow.'
I knew exactly what he meant.
