The Best Pets Pick Their Owners

The Best Pets Pick Their Owners

It was a gray ball of motionless fluff occupying the welcome matt at my front door. I looked down and it leisurely rolled its head around, slowly opened its eyes, yawned, uncurled its body, and stretched out. Lying with his belly exposed and head cocked to one side he seduced me into scratching its stomach. Tiny was a three-month-old kitten that had decided to adopt me.

The best pets are always the ones that pick their owners. For whatever reason the bond is immediate with no trepidation, hanging back, or cautious encounters. You both just let the games begin. Tiny was at ease with the relationship from the very beginning. He had the perfect attitude and was the quintessential narcissist if ever a cat could be. He was cute and he knew it.

He had long gray hair everywhere except for his paws and muzzle. His muzzle was white beginning between his eyes, extending down his nose, across his lower jaw, and into a proud chest that was always protruding and puffed out when he sat. His rear feet were white and between all of his toes long thick hair would stick out.

Tiny was the distillation of mischief in the venue of tomfoolery. I once had a hot tub in my back yard that I always used in the dead of winter during or after a snowstorm. Sitting in warm water surrounded by snow is a delightful interlude. The hot tub was covered with a gazebo and I had removed the center section of latticework so I could see the stars unobstructed.

I had wired the area with cable and would sit in the warm water and watch movies with an occasional glass of wine. When there was snow Tiny would get on top of the gazebo and follow me around the hot tub knocking snow on me with his paws. It was one of his favorite games. I would move to a different location in the tub and he would follow. When I had settled he would push more snow over the edge.

Tiny always extended everything to the limits of his abilities. Several months after the adoption we moved into a condo that had a deep stair well at the entrance. The ceiling was about twenty feet above the floor with an iron railing surrounding the stairs. I placed a living room sofa against the railing and hung a 30-inch pot in a macramé above the stairwell then planted a large spider plant within the pot. The pot was about four feet from the edge of the sofa and fifteen feet above the floor below.

For the next several weeks Tiny watched the plant from various locations. His curiosity was obvious. Something was up. You can classify me as skeptical to the proposition that animals don’t think or plan. Tiny confirmed the accuracy of my skepticism on more than just this occasion.

One night I was relaxing in my chair and noticed Tiny sitting on the floor in front of the sofa directly aligned with the hanging plant. He compressed himself into a deep crouch, kneaded the carpet several times with his front paws, outstretched his neck, and exploded in a hop-skip-and-jump. He launched into mid air from the back of the sofa, four legs spread, with his full attention fixated on the apex of the supporting macramé.

I witnessed an artfully executed airborne ballet. He soared across the expanse of open space between the sofa and the pot. Outstretched his front legs, extended his claws, and snagged the apex of the macramé. The inertia of his flight carried his tail and hind legs through and above his head. He let go and plopped flat on his back, all four legs straight in the air.

The explosion of force caused the pot to swing in a three to four foot arch that dissipated to a full stop over the next thirty to sixty seconds. Tiny’s only movement was to hang his head backward over the pots edge with ears pointing at the floor looking directly at me as if to say, “Did you see that?”

At that moment Tiny transcended from being just a cat to becoming the cat.

Over the next several days the spider plant was trampled to death. Tiny would sit on the sofa; jump to the pot, and swing until the pot stopped then jump back to the sofa again. After the pot again stopped from his exit he would repeat the process. I watched him play this game frequently. Finally I removed the dirt and dead plant, filling the pot with towels. Tiny began sleeping there and it became his favorite hangout.

Tiny stole my heart, became my companion, and provided many years of laughter and surprises. He was more than a pet he was my friend who injected comfort and delight into each day of my life.

Tiny’s most amazing exploit began about 2:00 AM one morning when he entered the master bedroom through the open deck door. He had been sprayed by a skunk and reeked. It was so bad I could hardly get close to him and he wanted to be as affectionate as ever.

I got out of bed, picked him up, escorted him to the bathroom, and gave him a bath that did nothing to remove the smell. The smell was making me nauseous. My wife remembered reading that washing something that had been sprayed by a skunk with tomato juice would remove the stench.

I dressed and went to the all night super market and purchased several cases of tomato juice. (With pets something that happens once will inevitably occur again.)

Tiny vigorously protested as I washed him with the contents of several large cans of the juice, then again with scented shampoo. After he was clean and free of as much scent as I could remove we used the blow dryer to finish him off. At the end he was fluffy and happy.

This scenario was repeated on many more occasions over the next several weeks. As time went by he would come home sporting a very faint scent of skunk. Eventually it became so scant that it required us to nuzzle him in order to detect any scent at all. It was never completely gone and one summer night I became acquainted with the reason why.

I have always loved to sleep out and have maintained that love for the stars and outdoors throughout my life. One night we were sleeping in the back yard and Karen awoke me about 3:00 AM, “Oh, my God don’t move!” she said in a desperate whisper. I looked up in time to see her dive to the bottom of her sleeping bag pulling the top securely closed.

I rolled to my stomach and raised my head. About two feet from my pillow was a baby skunk sitting, just as a cat does, looking straight into my eyes. I didn’t move. My imagination saw a scenario where the skunk sprayed me then ran through the open door of the house spraying everything in sight. I was petrified.

The skunk did not move. It twisted its head from side to side quizzically looking at me while moving to within about twelve-inches of my head.

I didn’t know what to do. Karen was at the bottom of her bag asking if it had gone yet. “No” I whispered. The skunk and I watched each other for several minutes. Suddenly I noticed Tiny sitting at the top of a four-foot retaining wall that divided the upper and lower half of the back yard. He was sitting and calmly watched what was taking place.

He was not agitated like most animals would be when finding a strange wild animal in his territory. He was completely at ease. It was like, “Hey Dad, I brought my friend home to meet ya.” Finally, the skunk stood up, followed the fence around the yard and left through the RV pad gate. To my surprise Tiny followed. It was as natural as two best friends cruising the neighborhood.

My only conclusion is that Tiny had made friends with a family of skunks and this small fellow was his new best friend. For as long as I had Tiny he carried that faint scent of skunk within his fur.

Tiny was a delight, he played, fetched like a dog and was happy and sappy the rest of his life. There was never a dull moment and I think he was a cat who truly thought he was people.