Never Let the Old Guy Try to Fix Your Garage Door

I've got a lot of stories which happened before this one which I will go into later. But I wanted to tell about this one because it was so interesting.

There are these three things in the garage which Phil (the old guy) calls garage doors. Well, they're not like any garage doors I've ever seen before. These roll up on a roller outside of the garage and make horrible noises. Anyway, since I've lived here the noise in one of them has gotten progressively louder, with a couple of crashing noises thrown in. Last week Phil kept opening and closing the loud one. It would start with a "crash" "crash" "rumble rumble rumble" "crash" and then stop. Pretty much the same thing in reverse when he closed it. I watched him push a button, "crash, crash, rumble, bumble, rumble, crash, silence". Then Phil would say a bad word. Finally, after opening and closing it a lot of times, and running over to look at it closely, Phil got some tools out of the tool box . . . including a hammer. Then he would go back over, push the button, run to the garage door and as it opened he would hit parts of it with a hammer. He did this numerous times. After the numerous times, he would run the door and watch it. " Crash, crash, rumble, rumble, rumble, crash, silence" bad word. After trying this a few times he got out some kind of metal cutter and big pliers and hacked away at the door for a while. He tried the door, then hacked away. He'd try it again and hack away again. Finally, he did a real lot of hacking. The door was open . . . He pushed the button . . . the door started to close . . . the motor started to whine . . . the door jamed after closing only about a foot . . . the motor whined louder . . . Phil looked distressed . . . Phil started pushing the button, presumably to stop the door . . . the door whined on louder . . . the door motor groaned . . . then there was this huge crash, smash, crash . . . that seemed to go on for a while. The lights went out and the whole garage door mechanism came out of the wall and crashed to the ground outside the garage. I must tell you, it was pretty frightening. In fact I immediately jumped into the kitty litter and got low.

The next day a man came over and I heard Phil and him talking. He did a lot of measuring and I heard Phil say, "I don't care if we are tearing down the house, I want three new garage doors with openers . . . the doors that I have now suck!".

How (not) to Introduce a New Cat Into The Household

Phil (the old guy) told me he had found some great websites on how to domesticate a feral cat (more on these later) and how to introduce a new cat into a household which already has cats. One of the suggestions to allow the existing cats to get used to the scent of the new cat is to bring in an item with the new cat's scent on it and leave it in an area frequented by the existing cats. Phil bought me a new cat bed and decided to use my old cat bed to introduce my scent to his other cats, Chow Mein ("Chow Mein"? Where did he come up with a name like that?) and Pinot. So he takes my cat bed (I forget whether I had peed in it or not . . . I must have), and puts it up next to the cat bowls of Chow and Pinot. He scoops their favorite wet food into the bowls and sets them on each side of my cat bed. Chow and Pinot ran up to their food, sniffed my cat bed and then they both ran away. Neither one would come and eat until Phil removed my bed. Personally, I can't wait to meet the boys . . . I'm sure it will be an interesting day.

Revenge Is Best Served Ice Cold

After a couple of days, Phil (the old guy), started to get a little cocky. I studied his routine. At about 6:30 a.m. he comes down and takes me out of the cage and brushes and scratches me, which, I must admit, I like. Then he puts soft food in my bowl and puts me back in my cage and takes out the kit lit for a cleaning. Then he leaves. He comes back about an hour later for another brushing in his lap. Same at about 1:00 p.m. Then again a couple of times in the evening (plus more food). On day three I was ready to spring my trap. After the brushing in the morning, Phil decided to give me a personalized tour of the garage . . . holding me in his arms. Not being a "tour" kind of cat, I resisted but I got a tour anyway (from what I have later learned, this is typical of this guy). Anyway, I decided to spring my trap and end the tour early by taking a big, juicy bite out of his hand. Well I aimed for the hand but got a finger . . . and produced plenty of blood. The next thing I knew I was airborne, which was fine with me until I landed in a strange garage. Not having fully thought my plan through, I freaked out, looking for a place to hide while Phil said some not-to-nice things (remember, I'm only 2). Bleeding profusely, Phil apparently decided that catching me was more important than loosing a finger. We played chase around the garage for about a half hour until I made the mistake of holing up in the luggage. Trapped like a rat. Except that I realized I had developed a new power . . . the cat bite, and that Phil was afraid of the cat bite. Curses. He found a leather garden glove, put it on, and reached for me. Pittttttthhhhhhhh. I hate the taste of leather! Nevertheless, I latched onto the glove with my teeth which allowed Phil to pull me out with the other hand, grab me by the nap of the neck, sprint to the cage and throw me in. Was I proud that I drew blood? Hell yes I was proud. I had done my feral Catly duty and resisted to the bitter end. I'm now doing the time for my crime . . . in the cat box . . . with my butt facing the old guy.

Alas poor Busy Kitty, I knew you well

I'm trying to catch up on the updates, but unfortunately the old guy travels alot and I don't know how to use the computer. This is all dictated to the old guy who types it for me.

I'm finally in my new "home". However, it's not a home, it's a cage in a garage. I've been here long enough to have several conversations with the old guy. His name is Phil and he seems nice enough. Anyway, after we got back from the vet, Phil put me in the cage in the garage. He told me I'll only be in the cage until he "tames" me and turns me into a house cat. Bad news for me . . . this could be a long time.

In the cage is a water bowl with water storage, a food dish with two food compartments, my cat bed that was brought down from San Francisco, a box with dirt in it and my Busy Kitty. I finally figured out what the box with dirt was for . . . but it still doubles as a comfortable bed.

My first day in the cage didn't go well. Phil was afraid to touch me because I growled at him. I refused to sleep in my bed. But the food isn't bad. They serve wet food here, and a lot of it, and I love wet food. When Phil left me he turned out the garage lights. I figured it was night which is my favorite time to play. The only play toy in the cage was my Busy Kitty. A Busy Kitty is just a strip of corrugated cardboard to be used as a scratcher. I saw it as a way to express my extreme displeasure. So, over the course of the night i destroyed it. I chewed it, I clawed it, I ripped it, I tore it in two, then four, then eight, then . . . well, I really can't count that high because the pieces were so small. Then I emptied the box with dirt, and threw as much of the Busy Kitts I could find into the box. When I heard Phil coming down the next morning, I jumped in the box and met him with my best cat frown. I don't think he was happy. That day he bought me a new kind of busy kitty made out of rope wound around wood. He says it's indestructable . . . well see about that.

Fingers, and Needles and pills, Oh My!

When you are a cat, in a cage, in a car, you really don't know what is going on. You can't see out. Of course you don't want to see out . . . you want out. So what does it matter.

Anyway, while we are in the car I finally find out what this is all about. I guess the pretty lady, the pretty little girl, and the 4 legged monster were moving away. So the old guy volunteered to take me to his house in Manhattan Beach. Great. I hate the beach!

We drove for a long time. Sometimes a face would present itself at the wire door. I ignored the face and pretended I was somewhere else. After all, I was on cat-strike!

After many hours, the car stopped, the new pretty lady got out, and the old guy started to drive again. Shortly thereafter, we stopped. The old guy got out of the car and picked up the cat carrier, with me in it, and we went into a room with some people. The old guy talked to a lady and then sat down with me next to him, in the cage. Pretty soon, a door opened, the old guy picked up the cage and we went into a small room. He put the cage on a table and then another lady came in. They talked about me. They were using words I had never heard before, and so I didn't know what they meant . . . doctor, rabies, fleas, blood work, disease, worms, blah, blah blah. I thought, "so what does this have to do with me?" Sometimes I think too much.

The next thing I know the wire gate opens, hands with plastic gloves grab me, I'm bundled in a towel, and off I go . . . without the old guy. Well, I had pretty much had enough. So I let whoever was holding me know what kind of work a feral cat can do on exposed skin and thin surgical gloves. The next thing I know, someone is running to get the old guy to come and hold me down with a towel over my head. While he held me down the following occurred: My body was poked and prodded with fingers, I had blood taken, I had two shots given, I had some kind of disgusting chemical rubbed on my neck, I was given two pills by the doctor who didn't have the guts to put her fingers near my mouth. Instead, she used some kind of long, saber toothed looking device to shove the pills down my throat. Wow. And I thought being thrown in a cage and driving for 6 hours was bad. This took things that suck to a new level!

Finally, I was put back in the cat carrier, into the car and the old guy drove me to the place where I still am today. He parked, took the carrier out of the car and into a big dark room with lots of stuff in it. He put the carrier next to a big cage, opened the door, and shook me out. The coward, he didn't even have the guts to try and touch me! In the cage was food, which I vowed to never eat, water, which I vowed to never drink, my cat bed, which I vowed to never again sleep in, my busy kitty, which I vowed to destroy, and last, a box with dirt in it, about which I didn't have a clue. So, I walked into the box with dirt, curled up with a nasty look on my face, and continued my cat-strike!

Beware of Old Guys Bearing Gifts . . . and Pretty Ladies, Too!

Occasionally, along with the pretty lady and little girl, an old guy would come into my backyard. He always seemed to be mowing the lawn or trimming the bushes and so I just figured he was the gardner. Sometimes he would play with the pretty little girl. He seemed nice enough. Anyway, slowly I got to be friends with the pretty lady and I would let her pet me and brush me. I loved to play in my yard when she was there. One day the old guy showed up when I was letting the lady pet me and so I let him give me a small scratch on the back and then ran away. Little did I know then, I should have kept running.
One Sunday in June the old guy showed up and did some gardening. Then he sat very still in the yard and I went over to him and let him scratch me. He knew all the right places and I even purred. That day he also fed me. In fact he gave me lots of food and treats. Then, late afternoon he brought down a funny looking box with a wire gate on it and put it next to my bowl. After he left I sniffed it out. It smelled pretty harmless.
The next day, June 22, early in the morning, the old guy came down with lots of food. He never did this before and so I was a little suspicious. But, I was also very hungry so I went over to check him out. He put food in the bowl and put my bowl into the box. He must have thought I just fell off the turnip truck! I stayed in the bushes . . . but I was really hungry so I walked over to sniff. The old guy, who obviously wasn't very smart, only put the bowl half way into the box, so I could stand outside and stretch my neck to the food and eat. Then he scratched my back and reached in, of course I ran. He then moved the food all the way to the end of the box. Since I was still really hungry I came back over. I had to step into the box to eat, but I could keep one hind leg out, and my tail. All of a sudden I got a bad feeling and started to run. The old guy, who along with not being very smart, isn't very quick either, started to close the gate but I threw myself against it and growled and hissed. He pushed, I growled, I hissed, he relaxed and I ran out. Needless to say, there was no way I was going to let the old guy feed me again.
About an hour later, the pretty lady came out with food. Of course she was my friend and so I went over to her. She pet me, she scratched my back, she picked me up, she threw me in the box, she closed the door. I was busted. Bummer!
The next thing I know, the old guy carried the box, which he called a cat carrier, to the car and put me in the back. I had some food and water, but no way was I going to eat, drink or poop. I was going on a cat-strike baby! The next thing I knew, another pretty lady got in the car (funny, she kind of looked like the pretty lady that always fed me) and the old guy started the car and we all drove away. I thought, "wow, it's only 7:00 a.m. and this day already sucks. At least things can't get much worse." How wrong I was!

My first blog

Hi. I'm Minette the cat. I'm a black short haired cat with two golden eyes. I was born about 2 years ago in San Francisco, in Noe Valley. I don't remember much about my early years except that sometime in 2008 I meowed my brains out in a backyard in Noe Valley. A pretty woman, who obviously loves cats, heard me and put out a bowl of water and food in the yard. I never cared much for people, but I love food. So I figured I'd stay around a while and see what developed. Sure enough, everyday, the beautiful lady and a pretty little girl would fill my food bowl and water. Also, the pretty lady would talk softly to me . . . even though I wouldn't ever let her or the little girl see me. I loved to hide behind the plants and watch them. Sometimes when I was eating I would look up and see the pretty lady and little girl watching me from the window. I ignored them. The next thing I knew, there was a nice fluffy cat bed under the stairs where she stored the lawn mower. It was soft and warm, although mostly I liked to lay in the cool dirt behind the plants. As time passed, I would tease the pretty lady and little girl by poking my head out of the plants. If they looked at me I would disappear. We played this game for many months. As more time passed, I began to trust the lady and little girl more and more. I would actually let them see all of me, and eventually I let the pretty lady, but not the little girl, pet me. Life in San Franciso was good. In fact I wouldn't have changed a thing except for the four legged giant that lived with them. I would have sent him away. But he didn't get out much in the back yard. Yes, everything was perfect until Monday, June 22nd, a day that will live in infamy.

Take It From Here, Ompa

I've created this blog for the proud new caretaker of my feral cat, Minette. You can post all your crazy cat stories here Ompa!