Amy Newmark - Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Cats Done It Again!: 20 Stories About Those Goofy, Mischievous Cats--from Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Cat Really Did That?

Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Cats Done It Again!

20 Stories about Those Goofy, Mischievous Catsfrom Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Cat Really Did That?

Amy Newmark

Published by Chicken Soup for the Soul, LLC www.chickensoup.com

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Front cover photo courtesy of iStockphoto.com/Maravic (Maravic)

Photo of Amy Newmark courtesy of Susan Morrow at SwickPix

Cover and Interior by Daniel Zaccari

Distributed to the booktrade by Simon & Schuster. SAN: 200-2442

ISBN: 978-1-61159-310-5

Changing lives one story at a time

www.chickensoup.com

A Cat Named Icky

My relationship with cats has saved me from a deadly, pervasive ignorance.

~William S. Burroughs

O ne morning in early spring a scruffy-looking, shorthaired, gray-and-white cat showed up on my front porch. I really didnt want to adopt a pet, so even though the cat was friendly and way too thin, I did not feed, pet, or encourage him in any way.

Regrettably, the cat didnt take the hint. After he hung around for a few days, I broke down and scratched him between the ears. I put food and water bowls on the porch. Evidently, that convinced the cat he was home, and he never left.

The next week, after a visit to the vet, I allowed him to move into the house. I named him Ichabod, because for some reason he reminded me of Ichabod Crane from The Legend of Sleepy Hollow so the named seemed appropriate.

Unfortunately, my three-year-old niece couldnt pronounce Ichabod, so she shortened the cats name to Icky and thats the moniker that stuck.

A cat named Icky.

It was mid-May by the time winter finally released its frozen grasp that year, and I started working on preparing the flower and vegetable gardens every afternoon when I got home from work. Icky was my constant companion in the garden, following me around as I weeded, hoed, and pruned. Every day, after a short while outside, Icky would fall asleep in the warm sunshine and continue to nap until I called him inside for his dinner.

That spring the garden was invaded by snails. Well, maybe invaded is the wrong word considering the speed at which snails move, but the newly forming vegetation was besieged by the slimy critters. They nibbled the nasturtiums, bit the begonias, gobbled the gladioli, and devoured the daisies, all while sluggishly slithering along at, well, at a snails pace.

It was frustrating that I couldnt stop the slowly creeping creatures. I plucked snails off the pansies, flicked them off the forsythia, rinsed them off the rutabagas, and even squashed a few on the squash. It did no good; every morning, there were more snails.

I called a local gardening center and asked for an environmentally friendly way to alleviate the infestation. They suggested placing shallow bowls of beer around the garden. Supposedly, the odor of the beer would attract the snails. They would sip the liquid, become inebriated, and slide into the bowls, leading to their demise. I felt a little guilty but I was desperate enough to give the idea a try.

The next afternoon, I stopped at the market to buy a six-pack of cheap beer and some shallow bowls. As soon as I got home, I put out my defensive weapons.

That evening, like always, I called for Icky to come in and eat. Usually he hurried in the door, but not that evening. I stood on the front porch and called a few more times. When Icky did not appear, I slipped on my shoes and went out to search for him.

As I was wandering around the garden, Icky suddenly stumbled out from between two rosebushes with his tail drooping. He shook his head, turned in a circle, and fell forward onto the ground. He meowed loudly as he got back up on wobbly legs. Something was obviously very wrong, and I rushed to Icky, scooping him up in my arms. He purred loudly as he cuddled against me and attempted to lick my cheek.

One whiff of the cats breath and I knew.

Oh, no, I groaned. Icky, youre drunk!

A quick inspection showed what had occurred. Most of the beer-filled bowls I had left out for snail traps were empty. I didnt know a lot about cats, but I assumed this was not good.

Should I administer some aspirin? Make a pot of strong, black coffee? Perhaps a cold shower? What was the best remedy for a blotto feline? I had no idea, so I called the vet.

Oh, dear, said the vet. Beer can be toxic to cats. How much did he drink?

At least half a bottle, I explained. Hes really plastered.

Well, just try to keep him calm. Hopefully, hell sleep it off in a few hours. Just watch for vomiting or diarrhea.

Hes already sound asleep on the couch, I said. He had no interest in food when I brought him in, so Ill just let him snooze and keep an eye on him.

Icky didnt move from his spot on the couch all night. Luckily, after a good nights rest, he recovered in time to join me in the garden the following afternoon. As far as I know, he has never imbibed again.

Icky continues to wander in the yard with me while I garden, and I continue my battle against the snails. Needless to say, I never attempted the beer-baited traps again.

Nowadays, I use bowls filled with a sugar-water-and-yeast mixture that works similarly to the beer to help control the snails but doesnt intoxicate my cat.

David Hull

One Click

Way down deep, were all motivated by the same urges. Cats have the courage to live by them.

~Jim Davis

H annah, a college girl who fostered strays, walked out of her apartment one day to discover a tiny orange kitten lurking at her door. She thought he was feral because he quickly ran away. The next day, the kitty returned. This time, he scratched at the door, so Hannah assumed he was hungry. He even rolled over, revealing his fluffy, white belly, and produced a purr so loud it was almost an exaggeration. Next came a pitiful, manipulative meow, as if pleading for a meal. Of course, kindhearted Hannah fell for it and fed him.

Eventually, Hannah took the two-month-old tabby to be placed for adoption at the Humane Society of Dallas County Dog & Kitty City. They named him Cheeto.

Thats where I came in, broken-hearted from the loss of our beloved Squeaky, a cat who had graced our lives for seventeen years. I was getting older, so I was looking for a maintenance-free kitty, if there was such a thing.