Yesterday, Ophelia wrote about her ferret sipping from an abandoned
tea-cup, and going into a caffeine induced rampage. I can sympathize.
There are people in my life who have weighed in on the possibility of
slipping me the occasional valium. I drink a *lot* of coffee, like
most sober alcoholics I know. We need SOMETHING, fer crissake!

Anyway, her story brought back a memory that I thought some of you
might enjoy.

My Aunt Ann is a cat person. She always has a few. She lives way out in
the sticks, on what was one of my families two small dairy farms. As
anyone can tell you who knows the business these days, there no longer
*are* any small dairy farms. The government bought them out when it
became a choice between taking their deal or pouring the milk on the
ground. I remember rounding up the last herd for sale. Very sad, very
sad.

Anyway, the point is that she lives in a great place for cats. Fields
with birds and mice and other critters, lots of barn space and
outbuildings, cover for tasty rats and amusing snakes. It is cat
paradise. Long grass...wind in the trees...places to escape from the
rain. Her cats are indoor-outdoor, and come and go as they please.

My Aunt is a coffee drinker, too, but of the most peculiar variety. She
pours her mug half full of coffee, then she tops it up with half and
half. No sugar, but very little coffee, from my perspective. Over the
years I have accidentally sipped from one or two of her mugs, and it is
an absolutely *awful* taste sensation. That much half and half gives it
a waxy aspect that I really don't enjoy. I put milk or half and half in
my own cup, but not until it is, say, seven eighths full of *coffee*.
None of this fifty-fifty business. I don't know anyone else who takes
it that way. My Aunt always has two or three cartons of half and half
in the fridge.

Ann is naturally an energetic person, and she usually has so many balls
in the air at one time that she loses her mugs of coffee. In any given
day there will be a good half dozen abanoned mugs left sitting around
the farm house. Cats....like milk. They have even deeper feelings for
half and half. And when they find a tepid mug that is half and half and
not much else....well....a cat's wedge shaped head fits very nicely
into the opening of a mug. A mug is a nice, stable object to lap from.
They don't often tip over. And over time, a smart cat learns to tip the
mug, just a little bit, while holding it steady with that wedge shaped
head jammed into the opening. To get the very last drop. Think the
great Sphynx of Egypt with a big green and yellow mug on its head
reading "John Deere, Moline, Illinois."

On a good day, each of my Aunt's cats gets at least eight ounces of
actual coffee, lurking as a filler in the mugs of half and half. A good
healthy cat weighs what....ten pounds? That is a coffee achiever of a
kitty, all right. Meee-Yow. Coffee culture has become a part of feline
culture in the farm house. No cat actually *waits* for that tepid cup.
If it is cool enough to lap from, and you are dumb enough to put it
down where a cat can reach it it, you will almost certainly find a
sleek little house panther face down in your mug. I took to leaving my
mug on top of the refrigerator.

In my family, if the cat jumped up on the table and licked the stick of
butter, you always remembered to turn it over if company was coming so
the lick marks didn't show. Don't think we'd break out a new stick. And
in my family, you wrestle the mug of coffee away from the cats by brute
force, or give them a sharp hiss once you find them drinking. It's a
wonder we don't all have worms. Take it from me, you can't taste
moderate amounts of cat spit.

The ultimate absurdity of this feline caffienation was Wobbles. Wobbles
was from one of the litters that resulted when a pregnant barn cat
showed up, and my Aunt didn't have the heart to shoo her away. She was
half wild, but all of her kittens lived, and she just took off to parts
unknown shortly after she weaned them. One of her kittens was born with
some terrible neurological problem. Think CP (Cerebral Palsy) for cats.
He could never walk more than three or four feet without falling over
on his side. He was the only cat I have ever known that couldn't jump.
He didn't have the balance. Hence the name, "Wobbles." My Aunt found
homes for all of the rest of the littler, but she kept Wobbles, fearing
that he would be put down in a less understanding home.

You'd think a cat that couldn't jump might be a blessing. No tounge
prints in the butter from that boy. Well...yes and no. He couldn't
jump, but he could climb. Upholstered furniture was his favourite. Your
leg was a close second. And he was very much a lap cat. He would lurch
on over to where I was sitting on the sofa crocheting, and throw
himself against my leg, and wait for me to reach down and pick him up,
or pet him. Behaviorally, he was perfectly normal. There was a cat in
there. Impossible as it may seem, he even managed a few mice. But he
was a blackmailer. If you didn't reach down and pay him some attention,
he would climb your leg with his perfectly servicable claws. Everyone
loved Wobbles. He didn't know he had any problems. He had a very open,
sunny personality.

And Wobbles, like every other cat in the house, drank a lot of coffee.
Only, it didn't make him jumpy of jittery or mean, as it did the
others. Once he had had his full eight ounces of coffee (that took
drinking two or three of my Aunts abandoned morning mugs) he'd just lie
there, unable to walk at all. That much caffeine took away what little
feline co-ordination he possessed. He'd just lie down on one side, and
swish his tail, real fast. Thump. Thump. Thump. With wide eyes. He'd
follow you with his eyes as you went around the room. He was in kitty
voyeur mode, because he had drunk himself into immobility. He couldn't
walk. He couldn't climb. He just had to lay there, jazzing, until the
buzz wore off enough that he could lurch around again. Then he'd find a
safe place and sleep for a looong time....until late afternoon rolled
around, and my Aunt fired up the coffee pot again. I'd look at him
lying there and I'd think "Do I really want another cup of this stuff?
Look what it did to the cat. " And I'd get up, and pour another....

I loved Wobbles. Everyone loved Wobbles. And one day he wobbled away
into the unknown, never to be seen again. And when I reach the point
of caffeination where light starts to bend and I notice that gee...my
HANDS are shaking....I think of him. And pour another cup. Here's to
you, Wobbles. Salud.

Alexandra in MA

[Posted in FML 6261]