Meet Ruby!
Someone has to
January, 1997
As we all know, there are only two meaningful activities in my life: complaining about graduate school and writing sappy things about my cats. What better way to continue in that sappiness than to write about the new kitty-presence in my household?
As you can probably tell from the picture, I'm not talking about Hank here. I'm talking about a cat who muscled her way into my life, even though she didn't really have any muscles at the time.
It all began when my next-door neighbors moved out. I remember this well for the two major events that accompanied their departure: First, they did something to their plumbing that caused my toilet to be backed up for the second half of July and all of August. Those who make it a habit to read my rantings will recall just how important indoor plumbing is to me.
The second major event was that they abadoned their cat and her three kittens. According to one of the other neighbors, they just left these four felines locked in the apartment when they left. Some kind soul heard the noise they were making, broke into the apartment, and let them out.
This was when they came into my life. They camped out on my front stoop, and the mom-cat spent the next week banging on my door, demanding food while her kittens played with each other and shared a hiding spot under the building with the neighborhood skunk. Needless to say, these cats were not the most appealing critters I've come across.
The mom-cat, who I later named
"Ruby" was definitely the ringleader. When I first met Ruby, she was
little more than an extremely angry pipe cleaner. She had a cold or
flu, infected eyes, ear-mites, fleas, intestinal worms, and was
severely malnourished.
Oh yeah, she was also in heat.
She really didn't have much going for her at the time. I probably wouldn't have given her any more note than I give to any of the hundred other strays that hang around the apartment, but I saw something special. Whenever I'd put food out for her and her kittens, she'd sit and watch patiently while her kittens ate their fill before she'd touch any food, even if that meant going hungry.
And she was very hungry, especially after the kittens were done nursing.
I realized that if I took them to the animal shelter, the kittens might have had a chance for adoption, but that mom would probably end up being put down. Her selflessness with her kittens touched me so much that I decided to adopt her, and to try to find homes for her kittens.
I spent the following two months trying to figure out why it was that I did this. At least six weeks of that time was spent with two to four cats locked into the bathroom (the one with the overflowing toilet), while Hank tried to squeeze under the door. (I thought he was trying to get to the other cats, but it turns out that he had something else in mind, as documented elsewhere.)
As it happened, finding homes for the three kittens was relatively easy. I found a family who were susceptible enough to guilt trips that they took all three.
I am told that these kittens are quite happy in their new home. If I were them, I wouldn't be so happy with the names they got, but I guess there are worse things to worry about in life (like being eaten by the neighbor strays).
First, there's "Thumbsley," who
was actually the last cat to be adopted out. I originally called him
somethign rather mean for his energetic spirit. Many have assumed that
the name I chose reflected some defect in his eliminatory habits, but
he was actually the first to make proper use of the facilities I
provided for him and his family.
He was later renamed to "Thumbelina" by his new owners, for his opposable thumbs, until the vet suggested that a more masculine name would be in order. This isn't the first time a cat from my household has met such a fate.
Thumbsley is apparently quite content in his new home, and busies himself with operating power tools, working out on the parallel bars and eating corn on the cob. He also enjoys dancing the "grapevine" (did I mention that he's also bipedal?).
The other two kittens are longhaired
cats, starting with Pooh. No one knows where her real name came from,
which is probably how it should be. For the time I knew her, she spent
all her time beating the crap out of her other brother. Sadly, both she
and the other kitten ignored Thumbsley most of the time. I think
Thumbsley probably wouldn't have lasted too much longer had he not been
rescued.
When Pooh wasn't busy playing with her brother, she was attacking her mother (which explains why Ruby spent a month hiding in the bathroom sink) or hissing at me. She also has a fondness for finding hiding places which do not exist in three-dimensional space.
Finally, there's Spudley. No one
knows where his name came from, either, but no one doubts that it's the
most appropriate possible name for him.
No one really knows what Spudley does, other than living up to his name.
But back at home, Ruby presented a special problem mainly because, unlike her children, I was actually trying to nurse her back to health. She needed ointment for her eyes, drops for her ears, pills for her worms, drops for her fleas, drops for her cold, and she needed to be fixed.
Her first visit to the vet earned her some notations in her chart that indicated that neither she nor I would ever be welcome at that Kitty Hospital ever again. At 7.5 pounds and nearly dead, she easily outfought three people and converted one terry-cloth towel into terry-cloth confetti. By the time the appointment was over, she didn't really look any better, but she'd seen to it that the vet, the vet's assistant and I looked just as bad as she did.
I'd like to detail the specifics of this incident, but to tell the truth, it happened so quickly and so traumatically, that I just can't remember exactly what happened. Well, it all started when they tried to take her temperature. She made a face that I'll probably never forget, and followed it with a retaliation that pain prevents me from remembering. This was replayed in microcosm over the next month as I attempted to administer her medicine. I ultimately decided that it was just a lot easier if I took it myself. My ears feel much better now.
Ruby has fared much better since that first appointment. In the first weekend after that appointment, she put on 1.5 pounds (as verified by the vet's scales). Unfortunately, she has kept that pace of weight gain ever since, and has recently started looking a bit like Sally Struthers.
For the first month she lived with me, Ruby was about the most ornery cat I've ever known, and she viewed me as little more than an elaborate can opener. The closest she came to affection was when she'd order me to scratch her face, which she required about 12 hours per day.
Although Hank was delighted to have a new pal, Ruby could find nothing but contempt in return. She would often interrupt whatever she was doing just so she could go find Hank and punch him in the nose for no reason other than the fact that he is Hank.
When she went into heat (about 20 minutes after moving in), her animosity toward Hank increased 10-fold when she discovered that Hank just doesn't have a clue as to what part he is supposed to play.
Hank's nose is now permanently scarred.
I was really worried that Ruby was going to be too difficult to keep. I was pretty sure of that the time she decided to signal to me that the cat box needed cleaning by attempting to use my foot as a substitute.
But, just as I was about to make other arrangments for her, something wonderful happened. I took her in to get fixed, and I think the vet accidentally sent me home with the wrong cat.
Ever since she's been fixed, she has been the most affectionate cat I've ever known, surpassing even Hank. (Hank wins on sincerity, but this advantage is cancelled by the fact that he keeps forgetting who I am.)
Ruby now spends her days purring, sleeping, and cuddling both me and Hank. Hank spends his days swimming, tracking kitty-litter into bed, and punching Ruby in the nose for no particular reason.
So, even though I never wanted to be a two-cat family, I have the best two cats I could ever imagine. Or, I will until the next time Ruby goes to the vet, and they correct their little mistake. In the meantime, Ruby sends her best wishes.
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