I’m experiencing my 2nd dose of grand-cat-parenting this week. Yes, that’s an official word for empty-nest parents whose adulting children have a cat instead of kids.
Bee is adorable.
Or at least I remember her as an adorable, cuddly, little kitten. She was born in the jungle on the hobby farm.
She was the runt, aka, the only kitten of the litter and was rescued by my youngest who said, “I can’t leave her here, she’s ours now.”
The day she ventured out of the garden to meet me, I fell in love with her, too. Ever so cautiously she headed out of the weeds. She was so alert to everything moving around her. She’s still like that, only she’s bigger now.
Her, first-time ever to cat-mommy-hood, momma built a nest in the garden and made their home right next to the chicken coup. She was born last spring, at the same time a batch of ducklings hatched. It’s no wonder that Bee’s alert to strange noises. I blame the ducks and crazy chickens for Bee’s fear of loud noises. It has nothing to do with her not loving me for my awkward play efforts.
We couldn’t help but fall in love with Bee. She quickly fell in love with our daughter, too. It was destiny that she’d become part of our family and leave the farm life behind.
A year later, she’s a petite cat-like her momma was.
But, for me, as a parent of geriatric fat cats, who play/lay around our house, I’m not used to a pace like little Bee has. It is what I’d call a holy ball of terror with claws pace. She’s fast with the draw and claw moves.
Sure, she looks all innocent and sweet, especially when she’s pausing to contemplate her next move. Look at those claws – they were big way back then, now they’re longer and razor-sharp. I have wounds to prove it.
I’ve retained my warped perception of what she’s supposed to still be like. She couldn’t have grown into a one year-old cat already, could she?
As I look down at the war wounds on my hands, the scabs remind me I better catch up fast if I want to stay alive this week. Bee loves to play rough with humans and toys, she’s just a toddler after all.
I’m proud that I made her first toy from scratch. She fell in love with it the first time she saw it. She’s since destroyed its ears, whiskers, and its tail is no longer soft and pliable. But, damn, that’s just fine with me. I’m so tickled she still enjoys playing with it. It might be my ticket to stardom if I keep playing with it with her. It’s a memory connection from our beginning together.
Me: “What if she doesn’t like me?”
Qsprout: “Oh, Mom, she’ll be fine. Just play with her, toss her mouse around, or run up and down the stairs, chase her like another cat would do, and she’ll chase you, too. It’ll be fine.”
Those tips looked easy to perform when demonstrated. No blood was drawn, and the bundle of joy turned into a calm little-exhausted puddle of fur on the floor.
That was my goal as I stepped into the door yesterday.
Bee appeared happy to see me when I arrived. She even came up to me and did a cute version of a purr meow sound, “Birrrip”. That’s a good sign – so I thought.
She moved away and stared at me from across the room. “Birrrip.”
Me: “Okay, let’s give the play techniques a try, be patient with me.”
I tried my daughter’s techniques in my own inefficient kind of way. Not only did I get all winded going up and down the stairs as I chased her, (or she chased me), but I also exhaled each time I stopped just to catch my breath. I must have sounded like a large duck or chicken hissing at her because she responded in kind with glaring eyes, hissing, and pouncing lunges with her front claws extended. She’d roared to protect her turf.
Me: “Yikes – ouch, Bee, that hurts, stop.”
Bee: “HISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!”
Me: “Oh, shit…Here Bee – here’s a toy, don’t attack me, chase the mouse instead!”
Flashbacks of the mother duck and chicken encounter ran through my head. I can’t blame Bee for not wanting a stranger-danger visitor in her house.
She’ll warm up to me, I know she will.
I left the adorable stay-away-from-me ball of fur – exhausted from chasing me around the place – with a fresh bowl of water and headed out the door to go home. When I got home I showed Mr. my war wounds.
Mr.: “I know, she attacked me, too. Aw, but that’s a lot of wounds, you poor baby. Get over it, she’s fine, you’re fine.”
Me: “I know she just misses her people, and we smell like our pets, no wonder she’s not a fan of me/us – yet. I just need to stop making scary exhale noises when I play with her. Maybe I should make her a new mouse?”
Mr.: “Uh-huh, she’s fine, stop worrying.”
Day 1 down, Day 2 ready to go, I might just wear gloves…and I’m going to bring my camera, too. She’s so darn adorable, I can’t wait to get photo shots to frame or to carry around in my wallet to show everyone. Okay, it’ll be on my phone. I already took a bunch of Snap Chat micro-videos to show she’s alive and biting/scratching her way to loving me.
All is well in our cat-grand-parenting world.
The mouse toy you made is very cute!! And your description “geriatric fat cats” is the best.
Thank you, Esther – you know doubt understand cats :-)!
Adorable holy terror! Remember, Shelley, mother cats discipline offspring with a swipe across their face. Even when I did so slowly and gently, my kitten got the message quickly. Repeated if needed. And of course, I emphasize totally gently. Still, they know!
Thank you for the tips, Ellen! I’ll give those a try. She’s quick with the draw when she sees hands coming, we’ll see who wins the pay-attention moment! 🙂
P.S. The mouse is so cute I want to get down and play with it!
Thank you, all the cats I’ve made them for have loved playing with them!
I enjoyed reading. The pictures are nice.
Thank you, your thoughts are appreciated!