Skimble

 Poor Skimble.

In the course of two weeks, he has gone from cock-of-the-walk, bold and brave cat of the house, the cat who taunted and teased the oh-so-patient dog... to cellar cat.

I'm not liking this, not at all.

My trainer assures me that starting basic training with Milo is the first and most necessary part of getting him to stop chasing Skimble, but in the meantime, it means leaving him dragging his leash around indoors and grabbing it as soon as Skimble pokes a whisker through the basement cat door.  Sometimes we aren't so quick on the grab, and chaos ensues.  I'm almost inclined to keep him tethered to a human at all times, but I'm the only human willing to do that in our house.

And so Skimble stays, as Victorian servants did, "below stairs."  He also goes outside, and that's a great relief to me... I know many people advocate for having indoor-only cats, but I wouldn't be able to live with myself if Skimble had only the basement right now.

Skimble came to us about two years ago after we lost my beloved torbie cat, Autumn.  One day she was fine, and the next she had lost the ability to walk straight, then to walk at all, then to see.  The vet could not determine what the problem was - it didn't mesh with anything they tested for.  Looking back, I suspect a brain tumor.  At the time, I was simply devastated to lose her... putting her down, the vet said, was the kindest option.  She purred as the needle went in.  I sobbed.

For some people, part of the grieving process means not being able to consider adding another pet to the home.  It's never been that way with me.  My beloved pets, I've always felt, would not want me to have a hole in my heart for some indeterminate amount of time.  It's never been a callous "replacement" of a lost pet, though I do understand some people might see it that way.  It's just that I've got too much animal love in me to bottle up, and I've never seen any point in waiting when your heart doesn't tell you to do so.

It was the end of the summer, the tail end of kitten season.  Our shelter was not, as it so often is, overflowing with kittens.  There were some at the stage I still considered "kitten," but they were barely socialized and hid from me when I looked into the cage.  One even hissed at me.  There were many, many adult cats... but I was really hoping for a kitten.  I only half-glanced at the cage containing the little orange cat; he didn't look, at first glance, like a kitten.  But he meowed at me, so I stuck my fingers through to give him an obliging scratch.  He reached his arm out to the shoulder, batting at me. He purred like a motor opened to full throttle, rubbing back and forth against the bars of his cage.  When I opened the cage, he leaped unhesitatingly into my arms, a habit he has never outgrown.  He purred louder - I hadn't thought that would be possible - and refused to be put down.  He also refused to be put back into his cage, pivoting and leaping back to my shoulder every time I tried.

I had been chosen.

While I filled out the adoption papers, the shelter volunteers filled me with helpful advice.

"He's got a ton of energy!"

"He likes to climb curtains... hope that won't be a problem."

"He's got personality to spare!"

I only later found out that Skimble, dubbed "Yankee" by the shelter, had previously been adopted, then returned a few weeks later for being too active and destructive.

I can see the destructive part.  Skimble has a perfectly good, giant-sized cat tree - he always has - but he's clawed our sofa to shreds.  Nothing we do or provide him with can dissuade him.  He is an equal opportunity scratcher.  He also scratches, as the mood takes him, the walls, the bedspread, and the cabinets.

He's also, frankly, a bit of a jerk to our Ariel-dog.  Never a cuddly buddy of a cat, Skimble will walk up to Ariel for no apparent reason and swat her with an claw-sheathed paw, particularly if she's napping where he wants to be.  Since the advent of Milo, however, I've noticed that Skimble seems to look at Ariel with new eyes - I saw him rub up against her the other night, as if to say, "I'm sorry I never appreciated you before!"

Skimble does enjoy a warm lap, particularly if I'm cozied up under my lap quilt, but he does not want to be stroked indiscriminately - petting is tolerated only on HIS terms, and he has no problems swatting, clawing, and biting a hand that invades his space at any other time.  But he will, on a fairly regular basis, still leap into my arms for a cuddle, like he did that first day at the shelter.

Skimble is nothing like my beloved Autumn cat, and I've never been tempted to compare them.  I've never held any of my cats up beside another, evaluating one on its merits as compared to its predecessor.  Skimble has always been a dashing, self-important cat who is very much a Cat's Cat.  From him, I've learned why some people might find cats quixotic or standoffish.  A great deal of him is stereotypically cat... Kipling's cat who walks by himself, and all places are alike to him.  Or T.S. Eliot's Rum Tum Tugger who "will do as he do do, and there's no doing anything about it."  That he loves me and my family has never been in doubt - but he loves on his terms.  And he's wonderful for that.

I am determined to make the living area of the house safe for Skimble again.  Milo WILL learn not to chase the cat if it kills me; on a few times, when Skimble hasn't run, Milo has whined, puzzled, but not instigated a chase.  I feel in my heart that it can be done.  It WILL be done.  And, when it is done, my fur-family will be complete and happy again.