At the moment, my
family consists of my two humans and me. Until last September, I had never been
an only cat.
Our family history is simple enough. In 1996, my human Brett adopted Keiko, a tabby about two years old, rescued from the RSPCA. He worked long and odd hours, and despite his best efforts, could not give Keiko all the attention she wanted daily. Keiko never liked other adult cats, so Brett decided to adopt an eight week old Siamese kitten, Chyna. Keiko initially tried to kill Chyna, but after a couple of weeks, Chyna became "her" kitten, and Keiko was extremely protective of her from that point forward. Two years later, they adopted my other human, who always says that her husband was a package deal who came with cats.
Keiko and Chyna were the best of companions for the next twelve years, when Chyna suddenly became ill and died. For the first month after Chyna disappeared, Keiko kept looking for her. Both Keiko and Brett were heartbroken, and it showed. So my other human agreed that they could adopt a kitten to be a new companion for Keiko, thinking it would be another rescue cat. However, Brett did some research, and he wanted a kitten with characteristics typical of a Siamese, but which did not look like a Siamese. He discovered the ocicat, part Siamese, part Abyssinian, part domestic short hair (tabby). Ocicats were not common enough to hope to find a rescue kitten, so I was adopted from a breeder.
At eight weeks old, I moved in, and it was not love at first sight with Keiko. When my humans reached home, Keiko stepped out the back door to greet them, and Brett showed Keiko the kitten he had just removed from the car. Keiko looked mildly curious, and I started hissing at her. Over the next six weeks, it became obvious that Keiko was going to ignore me as much as possible or else put me in my place, and I was going to continue to express my belief that I was the Queen of the World. The humans decided that I needed a companion my own age with whom I could run off some energy, and yet still provide some company for Keiko in quieter moments.
Enter "the boy." Washington Appomattox was my cousin by genetics, my brother by adoption. He was three weeks younger than me, and had a much more accommodating temperament. He may have been part dog, as his approach to life was "Do you want to play? No? Okay, I'll just go play by myself, or maybe find a new friend. You sure you don't want to play? I bet you want to play, don't you?"
Ironically, as soon as Washington moved in, Keiko and I became the best of friends, united in a common cause against "the boy." My human thinks that is because a) it is a known fact that boys smell, and b) Keiko and I could reach détente because I could assert my alpha status over someone else. Washington might have been bigger than me, but I usually won the fights.
Our family history is simple enough. In 1996, my human Brett adopted Keiko, a tabby about two years old, rescued from the RSPCA. He worked long and odd hours, and despite his best efforts, could not give Keiko all the attention she wanted daily. Keiko never liked other adult cats, so Brett decided to adopt an eight week old Siamese kitten, Chyna. Keiko initially tried to kill Chyna, but after a couple of weeks, Chyna became "her" kitten, and Keiko was extremely protective of her from that point forward. Two years later, they adopted my other human, who always says that her husband was a package deal who came with cats.
Keiko and Chyna were the best of companions for the next twelve years, when Chyna suddenly became ill and died. For the first month after Chyna disappeared, Keiko kept looking for her. Both Keiko and Brett were heartbroken, and it showed. So my other human agreed that they could adopt a kitten to be a new companion for Keiko, thinking it would be another rescue cat. However, Brett did some research, and he wanted a kitten with characteristics typical of a Siamese, but which did not look like a Siamese. He discovered the ocicat, part Siamese, part Abyssinian, part domestic short hair (tabby). Ocicats were not common enough to hope to find a rescue kitten, so I was adopted from a breeder.
At eight weeks old, I moved in, and it was not love at first sight with Keiko. When my humans reached home, Keiko stepped out the back door to greet them, and Brett showed Keiko the kitten he had just removed from the car. Keiko looked mildly curious, and I started hissing at her. Over the next six weeks, it became obvious that Keiko was going to ignore me as much as possible or else put me in my place, and I was going to continue to express my belief that I was the Queen of the World. The humans decided that I needed a companion my own age with whom I could run off some energy, and yet still provide some company for Keiko in quieter moments.
Enter "the boy." Washington Appomattox was my cousin by genetics, my brother by adoption. He was three weeks younger than me, and had a much more accommodating temperament. He may have been part dog, as his approach to life was "Do you want to play? No? Okay, I'll just go play by myself, or maybe find a new friend. You sure you don't want to play? I bet you want to play, don't you?"
Ironically, as soon as Washington moved in, Keiko and I became the best of friends, united in a common cause against "the boy." My human thinks that is because a) it is a known fact that boys smell, and b) Keiko and I could reach détente because I could assert my alpha status over someone else. Washington might have been bigger than me, but I usually won the fights.
 |
| Mera, Washington, Keiko and their human Brett |
For the next three
years, we were a family of five. Keiko died three years ago, after our first
year in Australia. She had diabetes, cancer, and old age. My humans think she
was 15 years old, but she may have been older. We missed her, but everyone
adjusted quickly.
Despite the fact that he was a boy, and smelled, and was not nearly as brave as me, or as good a hunter, or as quick, silent and invisible at escaping, or many other things, Washington and I were a good match. I ignored him until I wanted to pounce him, or steal the spot he had just warmed up, or become the center of attention for play time with the humans, or just generally bully him, and he kept coming back for more. As I said, he was probably part dog.
It turns out Washington's big, sloppy, loving heart had a congenital defect. The simple version is his heart did not beat properly, he ended up with congestive heart failure, and died last September just shy of four and one-half years old. This time my other human was the one devastated, because Washington was "her boy." Since then, we have all been trying to adapt.
"My human" is Brett, we bonded immediately. My "other human" and I did not establish the same connection. Oh, there is nothing particularly wrong with her, and she has proven to be eminently trainable, but mostly she belonged to Washington, and I was never as openly affectionate as Washington, so I left her to him.
But now there is just me and my humans. It was not obvious that I missed Washington; I was independent in all things. Yet things have changed gradually over the past few months. I have become openly affectionate, and my other human wonders if this is just a new expression of myself, or if it is because I saw what netted Washington the most attention.
I am a cat, I like warm spots. I have always snuggled up to people when I wanted to, but I have never been a lap cat. Over the past few weeks, every time my other human sits down, I have jumped into her lap and made myself comfortable. If she moves to another place, I immediately follow and repeat. The year that she worked from home, Washington used to climb into her lap and sleep while she worked, while I watched from the cat tree near her desk.
I stopped purring when Washington moved in. I have started again, as it seems to be a good way to get what one wants from humans. At least my humans seem to be more responsive to purrs than meowing, or at least purrs in combination with meowing. "The boy" had a very loud purr, and he was a master of manipulation with it.
Head butts on the bathroom counter first thing in the morning are a great tool to initiate a scratching and rubbing session. I started doing this about a month ago. It is something that Washington had done, but I never had. He used to extract up to 15 minutes of attention with "rubs and kisses" this way, and probably would have stretched those sessions longer some days if my other human did not have to insist on getting ready for work. Now as soon as the alarm rings, I run to the bathroom to initiate my own "rubs and kisses" session.
So I have started bonding with my other human, and she is trying to learn who I am and who we are as a smaller family. More obvious affection is the first step in our changing relationship.
Despite the fact that he was a boy, and smelled, and was not nearly as brave as me, or as good a hunter, or as quick, silent and invisible at escaping, or many other things, Washington and I were a good match. I ignored him until I wanted to pounce him, or steal the spot he had just warmed up, or become the center of attention for play time with the humans, or just generally bully him, and he kept coming back for more. As I said, he was probably part dog.
It turns out Washington's big, sloppy, loving heart had a congenital defect. The simple version is his heart did not beat properly, he ended up with congestive heart failure, and died last September just shy of four and one-half years old. This time my other human was the one devastated, because Washington was "her boy." Since then, we have all been trying to adapt.
"My human" is Brett, we bonded immediately. My "other human" and I did not establish the same connection. Oh, there is nothing particularly wrong with her, and she has proven to be eminently trainable, but mostly she belonged to Washington, and I was never as openly affectionate as Washington, so I left her to him.
But now there is just me and my humans. It was not obvious that I missed Washington; I was independent in all things. Yet things have changed gradually over the past few months. I have become openly affectionate, and my other human wonders if this is just a new expression of myself, or if it is because I saw what netted Washington the most attention.
I am a cat, I like warm spots. I have always snuggled up to people when I wanted to, but I have never been a lap cat. Over the past few weeks, every time my other human sits down, I have jumped into her lap and made myself comfortable. If she moves to another place, I immediately follow and repeat. The year that she worked from home, Washington used to climb into her lap and sleep while she worked, while I watched from the cat tree near her desk.
I stopped purring when Washington moved in. I have started again, as it seems to be a good way to get what one wants from humans. At least my humans seem to be more responsive to purrs than meowing, or at least purrs in combination with meowing. "The boy" had a very loud purr, and he was a master of manipulation with it.
Head butts on the bathroom counter first thing in the morning are a great tool to initiate a scratching and rubbing session. I started doing this about a month ago. It is something that Washington had done, but I never had. He used to extract up to 15 minutes of attention with "rubs and kisses" this way, and probably would have stretched those sessions longer some days if my other human did not have to insist on getting ready for work. Now as soon as the alarm rings, I run to the bathroom to initiate my own "rubs and kisses" session.
So I have started bonding with my other human, and she is trying to learn who I am and who we are as a smaller family. More obvious affection is the first step in our changing relationship.
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