Bite Me: A Memoir (Of Sorts)

1-THE GENESIS OF MAX

Iwas four months old when the Younger Human brought me home; my memories of life before then are a wee bit fuzzy: I’m pretty sure my mother was a random outside intruder kitty and my father was probably some scuz-bucket tomcat bent on a little bow-chikka-bow-wow before wandering off into the night, leaving her wondering what the hell just happened, and where was that gourmet meal of half chewed rat and squirrel brains he’d promised?

All I really know is that in my not-forever-home I lived with friends of the Younger Human and I was having a spiffy enough time with them. They took me home to live with them when I was about three months old—I don’t know where they got me from, that’s the fuzziest of remembering—and they loved me like crazy. They wanted me. They played with me, had a red dot for me to chase, kept my dish filled with crunchy kitten kibble and made sure I always had enough water.

It was a comfortable place with nice people.

I probably would have stayed with them, if not for two things: they were young, and they didn’t have much money. I didn’t realize that and I didn’t care; I mean, who needs money when you’re having that much fun?

My life was all about fun. I was a high-energy ball of black and white fur, running around the apartment at top speed, pinging off walls (literally), and getting into things I should not get into.

That last thing? That was what began the mumblings of We need to think about re-homing Max.

I knew the rules: don’t bite anyone, don’t eat it if it’s not food, and don’t break anything.

Well, I assumed the things to not be broken were just things. No one ever explained that I needed to avoid breaking myself while I was busy exploring the world.

No one told me that the inside of a recliner was not a good place to play.

And certainly, no one let out any warning before sitting in the recliner...the recliner I had crawled inside of, just because it was a new place to play.

There must have been a lot of screaming (me) and wailing (them,) because it was late at night and they had to rush me to the nearest emergency vet. I was fine—better off than they were. They were 9 kinds of upset, while I was just annoyed that I’d been taken outside and away from my crunchy food and red dot.

They were happy that I wasn’t broken, but the resulting vet bill made them realize something: I was a growing bundle of non-stop energy and curiosity, and they didn’t have ongoing funds to get medical care for me if something truly bad happened.

If I got sick, I might have to stay sick.

If I got a chronic illness, I would need to see the stabby guy a lot.

I was going to need vaccinations and sooner rather than later, to be nootered.

They couldn’t afford that, not any of it, and they didn’t want me to suffer for it.

There were voices in their heads whispering warnings about sick and broken kitties, and they started listening.

Years later, I’d be grateful for that.

BY THE TIME I’D HAD my Adventures in Reclining, I’d seen the Younger Human at least a dozen times. At that point he was just That Really Tall Guy, but he really liked me and every time he visited he played with me as much as I wanted. I was comfortable with him and didn’t think twice about the fact that one day he was there for a very long time, waiting patiently as one of my people—the girl—was obviously in emotional turmoil.

I only half listened, because there was a red dot to chase, and dammit, I was going to finally catch that sucker and eat it.

My mom’s cat died in February, he said. Both my parents love cats and he’s just what they need. He’ll have a really good home.

He brought a really nice cage with him, big and roomy, and as I chased that red dot up a wall, I remember thinking that he was going to be a good person for a cat to have. He knew how to give good head rubs and did chin skritches with just the tips of his fingers, and he liked to play, even with feather toys. His future kitty would be very lucky.

They can afford anything he’ll need. If he gets hurt or sick, he’ll get the best care. I promise.

That red dot was almost mine! In fact, it was running for the cage, and I knew I could capture it in there, where it would have nowhere else to go. I dashed in after it, slamming my paw on top of it...

...and then the door to the cage shut, the red dot found a hiding place, and I couldn’t get out.

The girl was crying.

The red dot was gone.

And the Really Tall Guy was picking the cage up and heading for the door. Out the door was not someplace I wanted to go, because outside is no good. Outside means getting in the car, and getting in the car means going to the stabby place. I’d already been there. The guy there said I was fine! I didn’t need to go back.

This did not bode well for me.

HERE’S SOMETHING WORTH noting: the Woman initially did not want me. The Cat Who Came Before Me, Dusty, had gone to the Bridge earlier in the year, and the Woman didn’t think she was ready to accept a new cat. In fact, she was sure that she would never want another cat. There was a dog in the house, Hank, and he was over 100 pounds of Enough. She had visions of a pet-less life after he was gone and bringing another cat into the fold meant delaying that by as much as fifteen years or more.

I kind of understand that. I mean, the People were old, like forty years old, and they wanted to be able to go places and do things without having to worry about who would feed the furballs. I don’t hold that against her.

But the Man, he wanted another cat to play with. He reasoned that I would be the Younger Human’s cat and when he moved out, I would be going with him. So what’s the harm? Kitty needed a home, they had space; kitty needed vet care every now and then; they could take care of that, even after the Boy moved out. Kitty might wind up at the pound, where the outcome would be less than happy.

She took a deep breath and agreed that I could come live with them.

No one asked me, though. I was perfectly happy where I was, a place with two people who liked to play with me, where there was no dog, and where everyone wanted me.

During the entire ride to a place I did not want to go I let the Really Tall Guy know exactly what I thought about this turn of events. I wanted him to turn the car around and take me home, where my litter box and where my food dish were, and where I had apparently left the red dot.

Over and over I begged him. Take me home. I want to go home.

He talked to me while he drove me away from the girl who had been crying and told me a bit about where I was going, but I was determined to not listen. I caught the words dog and she doesn’t think she wants a cat and that was enough.

Take me home; take me back to the crying girl.

At four months old, I didn’t need the drama of a dog that might decide I was a sweet four-pound snack and I really didn’t need a Woman who didn’t even want me. What was I going to do with someone who didn’t want me there? It was bad enough that I was going to have to tiptoe around some giant gas-filled furball, but to have to tiptoe around a human who was likely going to be the one upon whose thumbs I would rely?

The crying girl wants me! Take me home!

He kept right on driving, talking to me like he didn’t understand what I was upset about.

That car ride felt like it took forever even though the world was zooming past my window. He slowed down to let some guy with a gun wave at us—he explained that we would live on an Air Force Base, and those guys were there to protect us—and that’s when I started listening.

Seriously? I get to have armed guards?

That might not be so bad.

But still...I wanted to go home.

He turned a corner and I started paying attention to things out the window. There were trees, lots of them, and we drove past a giant field with short people who were running around, squealing and laughing. We went past houses that had cats sitting in the windows and dogs in the yards, and I had to admit, it all looked very nice.

Those houses were definitely bigger than the apartment, and it occurred to me that I would probably have a lot of room to run around. Maybe even enough space to avoid the dog.

This Really Tall Guy was very nice to me, and he had always played with me. He’d never gotten mad at me or said something that made me think he wasn’t nice. He praised me every time he was around, telling me what a mighty hunter I was and how amazed he was at how fast I could run and how high I could jump.

At the very least he appreciated me.

The house he stopped in front of was huge, with lots of windows I’d be able to look out.

There was a fence I could see, and I thought—I hoped—that maybe the dog stayed outside a lot.

The crying girl told this Really Tall Guy to take me because it would be better for me in the long run, so maybe this was going to be all right.

Or, it would be, if not for the fact that someone in that house didn’t even want me. She might have said it was okay, but that was only because she was outvoted.

If they’d strong-armed her into it, she might even hate me.

People who hate cats do mean things to them. I knew that because I watched a lot of TV when I wasn’t climbing into things I wasn’t supposed to.

The Really Tall Guy got out of the car, and I began to get seriously, seriously  scared.

Dog.

Unwanted.

Dog.

Unwanted.

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that being scared gave way to feeling panic. My heart started pounding so hard I was afraid it was going to wiggle up my throat and out my mouth, and it took monumental effort to not pee all over everything.

I just want to go home.

Please.

As the Really Tall Guy opened the door on my side of the car, the front door to that house jerked open, and the first person out the door was a chubby woman in jeans and a sweatshirt.

I think I held my breath.

Dog.

Unwanted.

Dog.

Unwanted.

Unwanted.

She doesn’t want me.

He grabbed my cage and pulled it out of the car, nudging the door closed with his knee. Life went into slow motion, the cage lifting higher, the door slamming shut, and this female person who didn’t want me stepping out of the house.

I cried a little, I admit it.

Please take me home. She doesn’t want me. The crying girl wants me.

But then her eyes went a little wide, she smiled brightly, and in what sounded like a breath laced with wonder and gratitude she gushed, He’s so beautiful!

She might not have wanted me before, but with one look, she was in love with me.

THE DOG.

Was.

Huge.

The dog was so big that I wasn’t sure if he was actually a dog or if he was a mutant horse, some radioactive bag of flesh and fur that was passing himself off as a member of the canine family. I’d seen dogs on TV; they were yappy little things trying to talk people into stopping for knock-off Mexican food by whining in Spanish about wanting tacos. Sometimes they were sniffing the ground looking for drugs and guns and half eaten pieces of hot dog or they were jamming their noses into peoples’ crotches, but they sure as hell weren’t this.

This dog outweighed me by at least a hundred twenty pounds and he was straining to get at me. I was certain he wanted to eat me, but the Woman had him on a leash and I was still inside that cage. We were in the living room where everyone was staring at me and the dog was whining and pulling, wanting to get a lot closer than the five feet or so she was keeping him back.

This is my life. I am going to live in a cage while he tries to figure out how to open the door so that I become kitty cacciatore. I’m the lone display in their freakish little zoo. They’re going to plump me up, and then let him have me.

I did what any reasonable cat would do: I puffed up to make myself bigger, and I hissed at him. I hissed loud, and I hissed hard.

The people laughed.

The dog, though, sat down and stopped whining, and he just looked at me.

I’ll cut your eyes out with my mighty claws, I warned him. And then I’ll eat them for breakfast.

He snorted at me.

Later it occurred to me I should have used a different threat because that one came back to bite me in the asterisk, but for the moment, it worked. He was content to just sit there and look at me, and the Woman kept a firm grip on that leash.

It’s okay, Max, the Woman said softly. Hank likes kitties. He just hasn’t seen one in a while. He won’t hurt you.

That was easy for her to say, being practically twice his size. She didn’t have to worry about him snapping that gigantic mouth around her head and ripping it off in one snappish bite. He did look fairly intelligent, at least as intelligent as a dog can be, and he probably did what she told him to; if she told him to back off, he would.

Still...I