Summer in Southern California can be a brutal beast to endure - especially for those wearing permanently attached fur coats. And in the sweltering heat, even the most luxurious, silky of long-haired fur coats can become an almost unbearable burden.
Some can take solace in the coolness of temperature-controlled environments, but not all are so fortunate. And so must these poor souls endure the indignity of such things as baths, noisy fans, and even the occasional trimming.
Occasionally, more drastic measures are called for. These measures are rarely met with approval by those of the four-furred-feet nature, despite the obvious relief brought about by employing them, in the light of the overbearing sun.
And thus it is that with displeasure does our feline overlord Taro pace the borders of his realm. Bereft of his proud mantle and lordly mein, the mark of his pride in utter tatters, he goes about clad in only the barest vestiges of his former glory. His discontented ire is made known in a clear and loud manner, as he demands such signs of tribute as extra feedings and water hand-delivered in a clear, crystal decanter.
Still, all indications seem to confirm the lion cut has made him feel much cooler. Except for his temper. Ah well...
Showing posts with label Taro. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Taro. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
The Adventures of Taro: Taro and the Great Outdoors
When Taro is inside the house, he is generally a fairly well-behaved little bugger. He doesn't claw his people, he doesn't rip the furniture to shreds, he doesn't jump on the kitchen counter, and he doesn't poop in your shoes (usually, unless you've done something to REALLY annoy him). But somehow, once he gets outside, that all changes.
Well, at least it USED to change. He doesn't go out much, anymore. (You'll understand soon enough, I promise.)
Now, we never allowed Taro to wander the "great outdoors" (otherwise known as the fenced backyard) unsupervised. Sadly, we lost our previous four-furred-feets floofy-butt that way, and we were not going to ever take that chance again. So, we would always be out there with him in the yard, keeping him out of trouble, and keeping a wary eye on him at all times.
And we needed to - because he sure could get himself into trouble out there!
He tried to climb the grapefruit tree. He got about 4 feet high before my brother went and pulled him down. The brother got hissed at for it, but we figured it was better then clumsy-butt getting any higher and then realizing he didn't know how to get down.
Then he tried to get under the deck. That didn't work out so well, considering the small size of the space between the deck and the concrete under the deck, and the size of Taro's body. He was just able to squeeze his head and shoulders in, but that big butt of his ... weren't no way that was fittin in there, no sir.
This first time he was outside and it started raining, he thought the brother was using a squirt gun. He kept giving the brother SUCH a look!
And he was such an ORNERY cuss, too. Any little thing that was bad, he wanted to try. And when we told him no, he'd give us this utterly defiant look - one we'd never seen before. Ears half-back, eyes red, he batted at our sternly upraised finger with brazen denial, like a spoiled, tired child to a babysitter, "YOU'RE not the boss of me!"
Where had this aggression come from? we wondered, trying desperately NOT to chuckle. But we persisted, despite his displeasure.
From what information I've been able to gather, it's generally accepted that when it comes to the world beyond four walls, Ragdolls ain't the brightest kids in class. And after living with Taro, I have to admit: if he's typical of the breed, then they really should be indoor-only cats.
When we moved from that house to a different one. The family room was attached to the garage, which had an automatic door and a laundry area. But we no longer had a yard for him to explore, and kept him locked up in the house. He pretended to accept this, but longed for the freedom of wandering outside, as he'd seen other cats do through the window.
Until one day...
It was summer, and the days were hot - typical of a Southern California summer. In order to try to cool the house, we had opened the garage door, and propped open the door to the garage just a bit. The folks were watching TV in the family room, so no one really gave it much thought. After the evening breeze came in from the ocean, it cooled off enough, and we closed the garage door.
A few hours later, Mom realized she couldn't find Taro. We looked around, checked all his favorite hiding places. Nope, not under the bed. Nope, not behind the table. Not even hiding in his carrier. We couldn't find him.
Then we realized... he must have snuck out while the door to the garage was open!
We went and looked through the cluttered garage, but he wasn't there. Oh no! He must have gotten all the way outside! But he didn't know how to take care of himself outside! He might get run over! He might get attacked by a dog! Or another cat!
Panic, panic, PANIC!
We mobilized immediately, fanning out to comb the street. It was maybe 9:30pm. It was pretty dark. Armed with little mini-Maglites, we peered into bushes and called out for him, hoping he wasn't too terrified to respond.
Mom was nearly in tears. Dad told her to stay close to the house, in case Taro somehow managed to get home by himself.
The neighbor's cat came by, and noticed Mom's distress. He came close and looked up at her, as if asking her what was the matter, why was she crying.
"I can't find my baby, Taro," she told the cat. "He's gone."
And that's when something amazing happened.
The cat looked up at her, and then looked towards the back, where the garage door was. He walked a few steps, towards the garage, then turned back to my Mom expectantly. When she didn't respond, he did it again. Hesitantly, she followed.
The cat led her to a dark corner right next to the garage door - where we kept the recycle bins stacked. He went up to one of them and sniffed it pointedly, then looked at my Mom.
So she called, softly. "Taro...?"
From out of the darkness, a shaggy head slowly rose. Covered with leaves and dirty, face utterly frightened and relieved all at the same time, was a shivering Taro. He had got caught outside, all right - but luckily, he had not gone into the street, as we feared.
Mom grabbed the brat from his hiding place and took him inside, after much hugging and relief. For once, he didn't seem to mind the fuss. And the neighbor's cat got Mom's undying gratitude, and a can of tuna.
Since that night, Taro has no further desire to explore the great outdoors. He likes it much better inside, where it is warm and safe.
Thus ends the tale of Taro and the Great Outdoors.
Well, at least it USED to change. He doesn't go out much, anymore. (You'll understand soon enough, I promise.)
Now, we never allowed Taro to wander the "great outdoors" (otherwise known as the fenced backyard) unsupervised. Sadly, we lost our previous four-furred-feets floofy-butt that way, and we were not going to ever take that chance again. So, we would always be out there with him in the yard, keeping him out of trouble, and keeping a wary eye on him at all times.
And we needed to - because he sure could get himself into trouble out there!
He tried to climb the grapefruit tree. He got about 4 feet high before my brother went and pulled him down. The brother got hissed at for it, but we figured it was better then clumsy-butt getting any higher and then realizing he didn't know how to get down.
Then he tried to get under the deck. That didn't work out so well, considering the small size of the space between the deck and the concrete under the deck, and the size of Taro's body. He was just able to squeeze his head and shoulders in, but that big butt of his ... weren't no way that was fittin in there, no sir.
This first time he was outside and it started raining, he thought the brother was using a squirt gun. He kept giving the brother SUCH a look!
And he was such an ORNERY cuss, too. Any little thing that was bad, he wanted to try. And when we told him no, he'd give us this utterly defiant look - one we'd never seen before. Ears half-back, eyes red, he batted at our sternly upraised finger with brazen denial, like a spoiled, tired child to a babysitter, "YOU'RE not the boss of me!"
Where had this aggression come from? we wondered, trying desperately NOT to chuckle. But we persisted, despite his displeasure.
From what information I've been able to gather, it's generally accepted that when it comes to the world beyond four walls, Ragdolls ain't the brightest kids in class. And after living with Taro, I have to admit: if he's typical of the breed, then they really should be indoor-only cats.
When we moved from that house to a different one. The family room was attached to the garage, which had an automatic door and a laundry area. But we no longer had a yard for him to explore, and kept him locked up in the house. He pretended to accept this, but longed for the freedom of wandering outside, as he'd seen other cats do through the window.
Until one day...
It was summer, and the days were hot - typical of a Southern California summer. In order to try to cool the house, we had opened the garage door, and propped open the door to the garage just a bit. The folks were watching TV in the family room, so no one really gave it much thought. After the evening breeze came in from the ocean, it cooled off enough, and we closed the garage door.
A few hours later, Mom realized she couldn't find Taro. We looked around, checked all his favorite hiding places. Nope, not under the bed. Nope, not behind the table. Not even hiding in his carrier. We couldn't find him.
Then we realized... he must have snuck out while the door to the garage was open!
We went and looked through the cluttered garage, but he wasn't there. Oh no! He must have gotten all the way outside! But he didn't know how to take care of himself outside! He might get run over! He might get attacked by a dog! Or another cat!
Panic, panic, PANIC!
We mobilized immediately, fanning out to comb the street. It was maybe 9:30pm. It was pretty dark. Armed with little mini-Maglites, we peered into bushes and called out for him, hoping he wasn't too terrified to respond.
Mom was nearly in tears. Dad told her to stay close to the house, in case Taro somehow managed to get home by himself.
The neighbor's cat came by, and noticed Mom's distress. He came close and looked up at her, as if asking her what was the matter, why was she crying.
"I can't find my baby, Taro," she told the cat. "He's gone."
And that's when something amazing happened.
The cat looked up at her, and then looked towards the back, where the garage door was. He walked a few steps, towards the garage, then turned back to my Mom expectantly. When she didn't respond, he did it again. Hesitantly, she followed.
The cat led her to a dark corner right next to the garage door - where we kept the recycle bins stacked. He went up to one of them and sniffed it pointedly, then looked at my Mom.
So she called, softly. "Taro...?"
From out of the darkness, a shaggy head slowly rose. Covered with leaves and dirty, face utterly frightened and relieved all at the same time, was a shivering Taro. He had got caught outside, all right - but luckily, he had not gone into the street, as we feared.
Mom grabbed the brat from his hiding place and took him inside, after much hugging and relief. For once, he didn't seem to mind the fuss. And the neighbor's cat got Mom's undying gratitude, and a can of tuna.
Since that night, Taro has no further desire to explore the great outdoors. He likes it much better inside, where it is warm and safe.
Thus ends the tale of Taro and the Great Outdoors.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
The Adventures of Taro: Taro and the Tiger
Taro is the family cat. More properly, he is my mom’s cat. Or maybe more accurately, he is the divine cat overlord of the household, lord and master of all he surveys. Which is the entire house. And the people in it. And anyone who comes to visit. An adorable collection of floofy fur and various neuroses (results of a traumatizing kittenhood), all wrapped up in a 20-pound ball of quintessential catness.
In the early days, he was also a very nervous cat. Sudden movements by those pesky humans would sometimes result in a sudden cloud of loose fur manifesting in the space once occupied by a cat. And he was really quite agile – although he was a good 7 pounds, when startled he could literally jump up about 4 feet, do an amazing mid-air back-flip somersault, and hit the ground running in the opposite direction as fast as four furred feet would carry him. Ears back and claws out.
It was best not to stand in the way when he was startled.
He was also the MOST prideful cat we’d ever had. I mean, yes, I understand that all cats are inherently full of catty confidence and self assurance about their natural superiority over all other forms of life. But this cat, he just took the prize. And he didn’t like being wrong about things. And he HATED being laughed at. Which was probably a bad thing, ‘cause in our family we always laugh at each other.
This situation didn’t fit well with his little kitty sensibilities, and quite often he’d get his little kitty feelings hurt by the big mean humans laughing at some silly thing he’d done. And he’d be embarrassed about it as well. He typical reaction to the laughter would be to first try to pretend it didn’t affect him. At all. Taking an almost prim sitting pose, he’d pretend to groom his shoulder for a few licks. But that was about all the posing he could handle, because he’s also something of a hothead. All too soon, the snickering would get to him, and he’d loudly meow his displeasure at us and take off running for the parent’s room, there to sulk and nurse his embarrassment in private.
Which, of course, only made the mean humans laugh LOUDER.
(Yes, I know, we’re mean, mean humans. But I mean, honestly, when a cat passes gas in front of you, then whirls around trying to figure out where that strange noise came from, THEN whirls around AGAIN when he passes more gas, what can you do BUT giggle helplessly?)
Now, back when I was in college, I got my mom a framed poster of a white tiger, laying down among some foliage, seemingly gazing a little off to the side of the camera. Mom liked the poster, and we had it hanging in the living room for a couple years before Mr. Floofybutt came to live with us. It’s a pretty good photo. The poster itself wasn’t too big, maybe like 18” x 24” in size. This poster remained on the wall until the quake in ’94 knocked it down. Dad propped it up against the wall on the floor for a while.
It had been there for a few days before Taro noticed it.
So one day, the family is gathered in the living room watching TV together. Taro decided that he would deign to enter the room and grace us with his presence, and paced gracefully into the room, head and tail held high in regal elegance. He noticed something off to the side, and kind of glanced at it, then turned his attention back to see if his majestic entrance was being suitably appreciated by the masses.
I guess it took a little while for the neurons in this little self-importance-bloated kitty brain to fire, because all of a sudden his eyes went REALLY WIDE and he did a double-take.
It was the tiger poster on the ground.
Now to be fair, the poster was half-hidden behind a large speaker. And, at that angle, it ALMOST looked like it could be a VERY large cat, laying there. But still.
We tried to stifle giggles as Taro’s floofy fur began to puff out, and his posture immediately changed from imperial presence to intense wariness. Crouching, he moved slowly to the side, as if trying to avoid direct eye contact with this interloper, while still “checking out” the competition.
Then he came to the edge of the poster. And blinked his blue eyes. And realized his would-be opponent wasn’t a cat at all, but a two-dimensional representation of one. His posture immediately relaxed. Then tensed again, as behind him his family erupted in laughter.
We tried not to laugh. Honest. But... you have to admit it was just too funny.
He looked at us with wide, hurt eyes, as if unable to understand why we’d find his momentary terror so utterly entertaining. Then he blinked and sat, trying to ignore us and the world in general, as if we all didn’t matter to him in the slightest. But as usual, he could not long maintain this pose, and so he fled, an accusatory meow trailing behind him like a emo teenager’s angrily shouted “I HATE YOU” to a parent after being lectured and grounded.
Mom felt so bad, she went to try to comfort his offended sensibilities. While the rest of us continued to giggle.
And thus ends the tale of Taro and the Tiger.
In the early days, he was also a very nervous cat. Sudden movements by those pesky humans would sometimes result in a sudden cloud of loose fur manifesting in the space once occupied by a cat. And he was really quite agile – although he was a good 7 pounds, when startled he could literally jump up about 4 feet, do an amazing mid-air back-flip somersault, and hit the ground running in the opposite direction as fast as four furred feet would carry him. Ears back and claws out.
It was best not to stand in the way when he was startled.
He was also the MOST prideful cat we’d ever had. I mean, yes, I understand that all cats are inherently full of catty confidence and self assurance about their natural superiority over all other forms of life. But this cat, he just took the prize. And he didn’t like being wrong about things. And he HATED being laughed at. Which was probably a bad thing, ‘cause in our family we always laugh at each other.
This situation didn’t fit well with his little kitty sensibilities, and quite often he’d get his little kitty feelings hurt by the big mean humans laughing at some silly thing he’d done. And he’d be embarrassed about it as well. He typical reaction to the laughter would be to first try to pretend it didn’t affect him. At all. Taking an almost prim sitting pose, he’d pretend to groom his shoulder for a few licks. But that was about all the posing he could handle, because he’s also something of a hothead. All too soon, the snickering would get to him, and he’d loudly meow his displeasure at us and take off running for the parent’s room, there to sulk and nurse his embarrassment in private.
Which, of course, only made the mean humans laugh LOUDER.
(Yes, I know, we’re mean, mean humans. But I mean, honestly, when a cat passes gas in front of you, then whirls around trying to figure out where that strange noise came from, THEN whirls around AGAIN when he passes more gas, what can you do BUT giggle helplessly?)
Now, back when I was in college, I got my mom a framed poster of a white tiger, laying down among some foliage, seemingly gazing a little off to the side of the camera. Mom liked the poster, and we had it hanging in the living room for a couple years before Mr. Floofybutt came to live with us. It’s a pretty good photo. The poster itself wasn’t too big, maybe like 18” x 24” in size. This poster remained on the wall until the quake in ’94 knocked it down. Dad propped it up against the wall on the floor for a while.
It had been there for a few days before Taro noticed it.
So one day, the family is gathered in the living room watching TV together. Taro decided that he would deign to enter the room and grace us with his presence, and paced gracefully into the room, head and tail held high in regal elegance. He noticed something off to the side, and kind of glanced at it, then turned his attention back to see if his majestic entrance was being suitably appreciated by the masses.
I guess it took a little while for the neurons in this little self-importance-bloated kitty brain to fire, because all of a sudden his eyes went REALLY WIDE and he did a double-take.
It was the tiger poster on the ground.
Now to be fair, the poster was half-hidden behind a large speaker. And, at that angle, it ALMOST looked like it could be a VERY large cat, laying there. But still.
We tried to stifle giggles as Taro’s floofy fur began to puff out, and his posture immediately changed from imperial presence to intense wariness. Crouching, he moved slowly to the side, as if trying to avoid direct eye contact with this interloper, while still “checking out” the competition.
Then he came to the edge of the poster. And blinked his blue eyes. And realized his would-be opponent wasn’t a cat at all, but a two-dimensional representation of one. His posture immediately relaxed. Then tensed again, as behind him his family erupted in laughter.
We tried not to laugh. Honest. But... you have to admit it was just too funny.
He looked at us with wide, hurt eyes, as if unable to understand why we’d find his momentary terror so utterly entertaining. Then he blinked and sat, trying to ignore us and the world in general, as if we all didn’t matter to him in the slightest. But as usual, he could not long maintain this pose, and so he fled, an accusatory meow trailing behind him like a emo teenager’s angrily shouted “I HATE YOU” to a parent after being lectured and grounded.
Mom felt so bad, she went to try to comfort his offended sensibilities. While the rest of us continued to giggle.
And thus ends the tale of Taro and the Tiger.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
The Adventures of Taro – The Arrival
Taro arrived at his new home, not as a cute little double-handful of kitten fur, but as a wide-eyed, terrified armful of nervous floof. It was only to expected, really – he was rescued from an over-crowded household (two humans, a dog, and a pot-bellied pig), and an abusive owner to boot.
He had been found in the remains of a plastic shopping bag, abandoned on the side of the road, about 8 months before his eventual adoption by a real family. His original owner had not been too enamored of this handsome fellow, and had in fact named him "Tako" – Japanese for "octopus," with a slang meaning which translates roughly to "stupid idiot" or "dumbass." Even as a kitten, he had some issues with digestion, and his little kitten poopies had a rank odor – they stunk to high heaven and beyond. A trip to the litterbox to make his deposits were met not with approval (as in, "hey, the little guy is using the litterbox instead of pooping in my shoe, what a great cat"), but with shouts, and cursing, and at least on one occasion kickings.
Yes, I said kickings. As in, full contact, halfway across the room kind of kicking.
Finally mean kicking dude decided to get rid of this "nuisance." He complained about the cat to my father, who was at the time an auto mechanic – a good-natured man with a deep compassion for animals. Dad offered to take the cat, rather than let him go to the pound – or worse, get dumped on the street. The man (and I use the term loosely) agreed.
Dad had to bring the furball home without a carrier, as mean kicking dude did not have one. Nor was mean kicking dude willing to wait for another day, so that my dad could have at least gotten one of those cardboard carriers. And a car. But no, mean kicking dude couldn't wait, and so Dad had no choice but to bring the little furry-boy home on a motorcycle, tucked into the dubious safety of a tightly-belted, zipped leather jacket. Dad took the surface streets for the 20+ mile trip, going slow and making sure the not-so-little guy was safe the whole way. It took him about 3 hours to get home that night. Maybe longer.
Our first reaction: "That's not an 8-month old cat!"
Indeed, he didn't appear to be a mere 8 months old. For one thing, he must have been at least 7 pounds already. At the time, we had only ever had smaller cats, and had never had a cat larger than maybe 10 pounds full grown. This guy was already large, and we were sure he must have already reached adult size. Little did we know he'd grow into a 20+ pound behemoth of floofiness.
(For anyone interested, we're certain he is part ragdoll, which would explain the size. Ragdolls don't reach full maturity until they are about 4 years old, and at full weight males are about 15-20 pounds. Just a little fun fact for cat lovers.)
We noted immediately that he was a very jumpy boy. He poked around the house very cautiously, and if any of us moved too fast, he'd either cringe and freeze in terror, or take off running so fast as to break the sound barrier, as if afraid he was going to get beaten. The noise of a soda can being opened was enough to send him jumping 4 feet straight up into the air, where he'd perform an amazing mid-air somersault and take off running in the opposite direction as soon as his four-furred feet touched the ground. And when he jumped, you could hear the force of his jump echo through the floor – it was just like striking a taut drum.
His poops smelled God-awful, but he was so terrified of getting beaten for pooping that he'd literally poop-and-run, trying to put as much distance between himself and the litterbox as he could before the stench hit. And the sound of a plastic grocery bag would instantly result in implosion of cat hair, as almost instantaneously relocated himself to a safer (ie. bag-less) part of the house. He would never hiss or scratch, just run away in terror.
This immediately made the family extremely angry at the former owner, and we all set about doing our best to help the poor little guy adjust to his newly improved living circumstances.
In any case, the first item of business was a new name. We weren't about to be calling the poor boy a "stupid ass" for the rest of his life, that was for sure. And thus Mom bequeathed the name "Taro" upon him – close enough to his original "name" so as not to confuse him too much, but definitely less derogatory. (Of course, nicknames since that time have come to include: Taro-imo (taro root), Potato-boy, Floofy-butt, and Stinky-butt - but all meant in a caring, amusing kind of way.)
The next item of business was his shots. The original owner claimed that he'd taken the cat in for his first round of shots already, but didn't have the records. So when Mom took him in to the vet the week his arrival, the vet gave him what should have been his 2nd set of vaccinations.
But we found out to our horror that the guy probably lied, because Taro got very, VERY sick. He was feverish, and weak, and could barely walk. The vet told us to keep a very close eye on him, keep him comfortable, and make sure he had plenty of water. If he stopped drinking and eating, we were to bring him back IMMEDIATELY.
Mom was frantic with worry. We'd had the little (?) guy not more than a week or so, and she was afraid we were going to lose him. So she stayed with him all night in the kitchen, where he rested on the linoleum floor, and just gave him as much love and attention she could.
I think that time, more than anything else, was a turning point for Taro. Somewhere in his little kitty brain, he came to understand that this new home wasn’t like he last one. That these humans wouldn’t hurt and torment him.
It wasn’t an instant transformation though. He was still a jumpy cat, so often he’d become scared and he would scamper off in mortal fear for his life, all for a rustled grocery bag. It took a lot of reassurance and gentle support before he wasn’t terrified by the family laughing at something on the television, or someone opening a soda can. But we persisted, and in time, he changed, and grew, and became the cat he was meant to be.
A big, arrogant, short-tempered, self-important, bossy, but good natured cat.
But then, isn’t that why cats are so great?
He had been found in the remains of a plastic shopping bag, abandoned on the side of the road, about 8 months before his eventual adoption by a real family. His original owner had not been too enamored of this handsome fellow, and had in fact named him "Tako" – Japanese for "octopus," with a slang meaning which translates roughly to "stupid idiot" or "dumbass." Even as a kitten, he had some issues with digestion, and his little kitten poopies had a rank odor – they stunk to high heaven and beyond. A trip to the litterbox to make his deposits were met not with approval (as in, "hey, the little guy is using the litterbox instead of pooping in my shoe, what a great cat"), but with shouts, and cursing, and at least on one occasion kickings.
Yes, I said kickings. As in, full contact, halfway across the room kind of kicking.
Finally mean kicking dude decided to get rid of this "nuisance." He complained about the cat to my father, who was at the time an auto mechanic – a good-natured man with a deep compassion for animals. Dad offered to take the cat, rather than let him go to the pound – or worse, get dumped on the street. The man (and I use the term loosely) agreed.
Dad had to bring the furball home without a carrier, as mean kicking dude did not have one. Nor was mean kicking dude willing to wait for another day, so that my dad could have at least gotten one of those cardboard carriers. And a car. But no, mean kicking dude couldn't wait, and so Dad had no choice but to bring the little furry-boy home on a motorcycle, tucked into the dubious safety of a tightly-belted, zipped leather jacket. Dad took the surface streets for the 20+ mile trip, going slow and making sure the not-so-little guy was safe the whole way. It took him about 3 hours to get home that night. Maybe longer.
Our first reaction: "That's not an 8-month old cat!"
Indeed, he didn't appear to be a mere 8 months old. For one thing, he must have been at least 7 pounds already. At the time, we had only ever had smaller cats, and had never had a cat larger than maybe 10 pounds full grown. This guy was already large, and we were sure he must have already reached adult size. Little did we know he'd grow into a 20+ pound behemoth of floofiness.
(For anyone interested, we're certain he is part ragdoll, which would explain the size. Ragdolls don't reach full maturity until they are about 4 years old, and at full weight males are about 15-20 pounds. Just a little fun fact for cat lovers.)
We noted immediately that he was a very jumpy boy. He poked around the house very cautiously, and if any of us moved too fast, he'd either cringe and freeze in terror, or take off running so fast as to break the sound barrier, as if afraid he was going to get beaten. The noise of a soda can being opened was enough to send him jumping 4 feet straight up into the air, where he'd perform an amazing mid-air somersault and take off running in the opposite direction as soon as his four-furred feet touched the ground. And when he jumped, you could hear the force of his jump echo through the floor – it was just like striking a taut drum.
His poops smelled God-awful, but he was so terrified of getting beaten for pooping that he'd literally poop-and-run, trying to put as much distance between himself and the litterbox as he could before the stench hit. And the sound of a plastic grocery bag would instantly result in implosion of cat hair, as almost instantaneously relocated himself to a safer (ie. bag-less) part of the house. He would never hiss or scratch, just run away in terror.
This immediately made the family extremely angry at the former owner, and we all set about doing our best to help the poor little guy adjust to his newly improved living circumstances.
In any case, the first item of business was a new name. We weren't about to be calling the poor boy a "stupid ass" for the rest of his life, that was for sure. And thus Mom bequeathed the name "Taro" upon him – close enough to his original "name" so as not to confuse him too much, but definitely less derogatory. (Of course, nicknames since that time have come to include: Taro-imo (taro root), Potato-boy, Floofy-butt, and Stinky-butt - but all meant in a caring, amusing kind of way.)
The next item of business was his shots. The original owner claimed that he'd taken the cat in for his first round of shots already, but didn't have the records. So when Mom took him in to the vet the week his arrival, the vet gave him what should have been his 2nd set of vaccinations.
But we found out to our horror that the guy probably lied, because Taro got very, VERY sick. He was feverish, and weak, and could barely walk. The vet told us to keep a very close eye on him, keep him comfortable, and make sure he had plenty of water. If he stopped drinking and eating, we were to bring him back IMMEDIATELY.
Mom was frantic with worry. We'd had the little (?) guy not more than a week or so, and she was afraid we were going to lose him. So she stayed with him all night in the kitchen, where he rested on the linoleum floor, and just gave him as much love and attention she could.
I think that time, more than anything else, was a turning point for Taro. Somewhere in his little kitty brain, he came to understand that this new home wasn’t like he last one. That these humans wouldn’t hurt and torment him.
It wasn’t an instant transformation though. He was still a jumpy cat, so often he’d become scared and he would scamper off in mortal fear for his life, all for a rustled grocery bag. It took a lot of reassurance and gentle support before he wasn’t terrified by the family laughing at something on the television, or someone opening a soda can. But we persisted, and in time, he changed, and grew, and became the cat he was meant to be.
A big, arrogant, short-tempered, self-important, bossy, but good natured cat.
But then, isn’t that why cats are so great?
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