"Goodbye, My Sweet Little Kitty"

We no longer have an outdoor cat. My husband delivered her to the county SPCA.

Everyone is kind of sad but also relieved. I am surprised that I miss the cat, since I really didn’t like her. It was hardest for my husband, I think, who is not only an animal lover, but who also feels a strong sense of responsibility for the welfare of animals. He kept wanting to explain to the SPCA staff that she wasn’t a cat that he had adopted and then decided to abandon, and that her plight as an indoor cat turned into an outdoor cat was not our fault.

We are pretty sure that she was once an indoor cat, since she seemed to be spayed (she had a ridge on her belly that seemed like a scar) and declawed. So someone once cared for her.

We didn’t mind keeping her as an outside cat, though we weren’t sure we were doing the right thing when the weather turned bitter cold last year. But my husband and the squeaker fed her and gave her water, and my husband cut a hole in the garage wall so that she could take shelter there. She seemed happy and affectionate. She would follow my husband and the squeaker around outside, and she loved to be petted and scratched. In the evening, she would lounge on the kitchen windowsill. The pipsqueak always looked for her eagerly when we stepped outside, repeating what was his very first word with enthusiasm: “Cat! Cat!”

But when the April biting incident was repeated in the middle of the summer, we knew she could not stay. Though the first incident seemed like it could have been a fluke, the second was very similar – a completely unprovoked attack on a child who was not even interacting with her, and a deep puncture wound as a result. We called several no-kill shelters, but they said they had no more room for any animals. However, they said that they might have room in the fall.

So we waited, for her sake, even though it risked another bite. We were sure that taking her to the shelter would mean that she would be euthanized. And then there was a third incident, in which the squeaker was only scratched because his papa intervened fast enough to prevent the bite that seemed imminent.

We could wait no longer. The squeaker was terrified of the cat and terrified to be outside where she might be lurking. Our 8 acres of woods became useless, because the squeaker was too afraid to play outside. He would cry and whimper when he caught sight of her. We were afraid to turn away from the squeaker even for a second because we knew we had to be ready to protect him.

We called the no-kill shelters again, and still they refused to take her, even without knowledge of the biting. It had to be the SPCA. So my husband put on some long leather gloves, preparing for an unpleasant struggle, only to find that she was willing to allow herself to be tucked into the cat carrier. We took the squeaker outside to see her off, and he peered through the grate and said softly, “Goodbye, my sweet little kitty.”

And that was that. It was hard to see her go, despite the biting. She did seem to think she was playing with the squeaker. But we could not let it go on. And everyone is happier, except the pipsqueak, who still searches for her with a puzzled expression when we step outside.

The Squeaker's Many Identities

Today, the Squeaker has his second day of preschool.

Wednesday, the first day, seemed to go well. I think he had fun. We tried to resist asking him lots of questions because I remember being irritated when grown ups did that to me, especially while I was trying to relax after a new experience. So we didn’t find out much from him.

But in the evening, when I was getting dinner ready, the squeaker suddenly said, “I don’t think my teachers really like imaginations.”

“Why not?” I asked him in surprise.

“Because when I told the kids that my name was Mama Dimetrodon, they said I needed to use my REAL NAME for the day.” He seemed quite put out about it.

I tried to explain that while all the kids are getting to know each other, it probably is important for him to be himself.

The funny thing is that on the preschool registration form, there was a question that asked if there was anything we wanted them to know about our child. So I wrote a long explanation of the squeaker’s tendency to immerse himself in some fictional identity, and I noted that sometimes, I have to ask him to be himself instead of whatever other identity he has assumed. For example, if I ask him to put on his shoes, he might tell me that he is Bilbo Baggins, and that Bilbo doesn’t wear shoes. Then I need to ask him to momentarily become himself. Usually, he complies, if a bit reluctantly.

I hope the teachers have a sense of humor!

Look, Mama! The Hand of Sauron!!

The pipsqueak is tired of crawling. He’ll actually move around the edges of the room so that he can remain standing while holding onto the walls. However, he can’t stand on his own yet, so I don’t know how imminent walking is.

I am pretty sure that he says cat, duck, ball, and bye bye. He’s gotten kind of attached to his stuffed duck, which seems like poetic justice since I teased my sister about her baby’s attachment to his toy duck, which he drags through his food and carries around in his mouth (I nicknamed it Biohazard just to bug her, as is my Big Sister obligation).

The pipsqueak’s hair is getting crazier and crazier. I can’t stand the thought of cutting those sweet curls, but tangles are beginning to be a problem.

The squeaker starts preschool a week from today. I am so excited that he is going to meet some other kids at last. I really want him to have some friends. He is very worried about making friends, though.

He asked me if he can be mean to the kids if they are mean to him first. I wonder what prompted such a question. He hasn’t really been exposed to mean kids.

We took him to the Pennsylvania Renaissance Faire this weekend. I found it more kid-friendly than the Maryland one. Navigating a stroller through the grounds of the MD one is almost impossible, but the PA one is paved.

The best moment was when he shouted, “Look, mama, the hand of Sauron!!” in the weapons shop. And indeed it was – a replica of Sauron’s hand from Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings films.

The squeaker knows his stuff! He has become a Lord of the Rings freak. He greatly enjoys the films, which his papa watches with him and edits a bit. At first, we were hesitant to have him see the films. But he seems to have a clear sense of fantasy vs. reality (though he was convinced that the tiny lizards being sold as baby dragons at the Renaissance Faire really were baby dragons), and he loves stories – and the art of storytelling – more than I thought a 4-year old was capable of. I don’t think I’d want him to see modern-day violence – guns violence, for example – but the violence in the LOTR is generally fantastical (and his papa edits out the really rough bits).

I hope he will fit in at preschool. He is such a quirky little kid – my quirky little kid.