The Cats In My Life

Psych

A cat was always around for as long as memory goes back. But of all the cats from those childhood days, one stands out above the rest — Psych. Short for Psycho. And he earned it.

Psych was wild. He attacked without warning, drew blood without remorse, and seemed to enjoy every second of it.

One afternoon we walked a few blocks to a nearby baseball field to play. Psych followed. An open field offers no refuge when a cat is hunting, and that’s exactly what he was doing. He chased us down, one by one, biting and scratching until he was satisfied. My sister Norma’s friend Jackie was with us that day, and she got the worst of it. That was Psych’s idea of playing — all fun and games until something darker took over.

Jackie ended up at the doctor’s office and never quite got over her fear of him. We, on the other hand, loved Psych anyway and kept taking the abuse.

One night he was crying outside the bedroom window, so we snuck him in — knowing full well it was forbidden. He repaid us immediately. Silently. All we could do was cover our faces and try not to make a sound. That night taught what it means to scream silently. Jo, Norma and I took turns peeking out from under the covers to track him, three kids held prisoner by a nine-pound beast. By morning, when Psych had finally worn himself out, the damage was done — arms scratched, dignity questionable, but somehow the love for that cat still intact.

Toby

Toby was my son Mikos’ cat. He moved with us from Santa Barbara to Whittier, to the Valley, and finally to Orange, where we call home today. Mikos loved that cat.

We were planning a short weekend getaway to San Diego. As I pulled into the driveway, Toby caught my eye. I figured he’d run out of the way — they always do. But for some reason he ran toward the car instead. I had no idea what happened until I noticed Toby in the bushes, shaking his head. When he turned, half of his face was gone.

I called Mike screaming — “I ran over Toby’s face!” Mike rushed home and we scrambled to find Toby before Mikos got home from school.

Mikos found him first. We rushed Toby to the vet and were told he needed reconstructive surgery and would be on pain medication for the rest of his life. The rest of his life ended that day.

Blanca

Blanca was our next cat, but she had a habit — urinating in shoes. Most unpleasant doesn’t quite cover it.

Once, Mike was getting ready for a trip and pulled out his suitcase. Blanca had gotten to it first. I remembered reading that baking soda would clean it up and kill the smell. What a mess that turned out to be. Mike’s black suitcase was now covered in white powder — and still smelled like cat urine.

Barney Bernard

Barney Bernard Ciriza was one of my favorite cats. Mike, however, had major issues with him — and for good reason. Barney Bernard sprayed everywhere and eventually lost his indoor privileges entirely.

One evening Mike and I were on our way to a party when I asked him to stop at the store so I could pick out a birthday card. When I got back to the car, Mike was shirtless. I didn’t know what to think, so I said nothing. Then he asked, “Do you know why I’m not wearing a shirt?” I answered, “No, not really.” He said, “Because the cat pissed on my shirt.” Needless to say, we were late for the party.

Then there was Halloween night. Some amateur Satanists failed at an attempted animal sacrifice. Barney Bernard came home with his chest torn open about four inches. The vet stitched him up and sent him home. Barney Bernard being Barney Bernard, he survived.

He didn’t survive what came next. Barney Bernard died on the same day Mikos graduated from college. Our friends from Colorado were in town and fed him tripas — Spanish for cow guts. He fell victim to a coyote not long after, and the thought still lingers that the smell of those tripas got my cat killed. I cried for days.

Mookie Mariano

Shortly after Barney Bernard’s death, Mike and I went to a pet store and came home with Mookie Mariano. Mookie loved us and showed it in his own way — birds, rats, and rabbits, delivered with great pride.

He was the smartest of all our cats and had one rule: entry through the upstairs bathroom window only. Late one night, half asleep, I heard him crying outside and let him in without thinking. He walked in carrying a rat the size of a huge raccoon. We cleared out of the room so Mike could set up traps. For three days that rodent ate carefully around every single one of them.

I finally posed the question to Mike — “What if the rat is pregnant?” That did it. Mike went upstairs to take matters into his own hands. For about fifteen minutes I heard slamming and banging. He finally came back downstairs, proud as a man could be, prize catch in hand.

After fourteen years, we had to put Mookie down. He had developed an abscess that made eating too painful. The vet prescribed medication, but Mookie refused to take it. The abscess won.

The day I took him in to be euthanized, I was in tears. I looked at him and said, “Mookie, you were a great cat.” He looked back at me, and I know — if that cat could talk — I would have heard, “Was?”

That day I made a decision. Every cat from that point on would be an indoor pet.

Maxine Mew

For years we shared our home with two cats, both belonging to our daughter Sonja. How they ended up permanently with us is no mystery to anyone who knows how these things go.

Maxine, the pesky one, was Sonja’s college cat. When Sonja moved back home for a season, Maxine simply stayed. She was nineteen years old and suffered from a peculiar contradiction — devouring her food only to lose it all moments later. She was not a spiritual creature, and when her time finally came, she would most likely spend the rest of eternity in purgatory.