Cat on a Sexually Confused Tin Roof

We have three cats. I know, that sounds like a lot of cats, but I figure I don't qualify for crazy cat lady status until we have 15 or more. And, it really was an accident. "How does one accidentally end up with three cats?" you may ask. Its a fair question.

I have one male orange tabby who is about 6 years old. He is a big old marshmallow of a cat; meaning, he is a lover and not a fighter. However, fight he does if necessary. He has tangled with raccoons, possums, dogs, other cats, and something that bit right through him but miraculously did not snap his spine in two. The vet actually keeps a wound file on him. Recently, he was bitten and since it wasn't a particularly bad bite, I thought I could treat it myself. It healed just fine, or so I thought. Several weeks later, his leg swelled up and it was found that he had an abscess that had been festering below the surface of his seemingly well healed wound. It was bad. He had to have surgery to the tune of $1200. That's TWELVE. HUNDRED. DOLLARS.

People have said, "If that was my cat, I'd have had to let him die." and "There's no way I would spend that kind of money on a cat." and "You've got to be kidding me." with a look that would have been more appropriate had I said that I recently purchased some Oceanfront property in Oklahoma.

But my kids love him and he loves them. When my youngest had surgery in February, Chester was extremely concerned. He crawled up beside him on the circa 1995 teal green sofa and watched over Diminutive One until he came out of the anaesthetic stupor. Even then, he rarely left his side except to eat or drink. Here is how they spent much of the next two weeks:



Just prior to all of this, our other cat, who is a young male orange tabby, slipped out when my kids opened the garage door to get out their bikes. Our garage is attached, and the door leading to the garage from the house was left ajar. I'm not pointing fingers, but I'm pretty sure someone under five feet tall was the culprit, which rules out three of the four of us. Bo has escaped before, but never stayed gone longer than a few days. He has a micro chip, a discerning palate, and an extremly indolent nature, (saying he is "lazy" is like saying Liberace is "effeminate") so we never worried about it too much. But this time, he stayed gone and after exhausting every avenue to find him, we had to face that he had probably met with a bad end somehow.

The kids were inconsolable. Pre-pubescent one was heartbroken at the loss of his bed buddy and Diminutive one was wracked with guilt.

During their bereavement, we had to return to the vet to have Chester's stitches removed. And there in the lobby, in a cage that was ridiculously gargantuan for its tiny occupant, was a scraggly, scrawny 10 week old carbon copy of Chester. He had just arrived from the Fulton County Animal Shelter, which was bursting at the seams with cats and kittens, and was desperately farming them out to Metro area veterinary clinics hoping to find them a home. From the beginning, it was clear that he had sass. Though he looked bedraggled and forlorn, his playful spirit asserted itself as we watched him play.

Of course my children immediately commenced begging. They played upon my guilt and exploited their grief by proposing that a new kitten would help them get over their loss. He came home with us later that day. We christened him "Leo" because he has the heart of a lion. When confronted by an unamused Chester, who is roughly 32 times his size, he did not run or cower. He puffed up every hair on his scrawny little hide and stood his ground.

Of course, shortly thereafter, Bo reappeared looking none the worse for wear after being gone nearly a month. Voila. Three cats. All male. All orange tabby. Each with their own unique personality.

Bo, being only a year old, had always tried to engage Chester in the kind of juvenile horseplay that young males of every species seem to love. But Chester, the venerated elder, usually declined, except on rare occasions when the thought nobody was watching. If ever he was caught actually playing, he would stop immediately and nonchalantly saunter off, as if to give the impression that the very idea was laughable. He would all but snort in derision. Needless to say, Bo was delighted to find that Leo was more than happy to run and jump and fight and play. They became fast friends.

Soon I noticed that sometimes, Bo would feign oblivion as Leo stalked him, and then open himself up to attack. Once "caught" he would simply lie still while Leo gnawed on his jugular. He would roll over and expose his belly, encouraging Leo to eviscerate him. Then he would turn the tables and pin Leo beneath him. With a lick, he would release him, and then obligingly become the prey once more. I realized he was teaching Leo to "hunt".

When we first brought Leo home, he would overeat to the point of being ill. He bolted his food and then wailed piteously until it all came back up in much the same condition as it went down. Bo began monitoring Leo's intake. When he felt that Leo had reached maximum capacity, he would gently nudge him from the bowl. Leo has not vomited for several weeks now. Obviously, the lesson has sunk in. Thank goodness, because we were all growing weary of being constantly on the lookout for piles of steaming, orange, gelatinous cat vomit.

Recently, I found the two of them basking in a patch of sunshine near the kitchen door. Bo was bathing Leo. I have never seen a male cat bathe another cat. He started at the ears, and worked his way down methodically, pausing occasionally to worry dilligently at a particularly grimy spot. Tranquilized by the rythmic lapping, desperately fighting to stay awake, Leo's eyes drifted shut and his head drooped, only to jerk upright a moment later. That happened time and time again. It was so much like a human child that I had to laugh. I can't count the number of times I stroked my own children just so, and watched with weary satisfaction as they lost the battle against sleep.

Just the other day, Bo got out again. I wondered if we would ever see him again. To my surprise, he was at the back door the next morning, anxiously peering in. The first thing he did was go in search of Leo. He would not eat or drink until he found Leo asleep in a laundry basket upstairs. He sniffed, he licked, and apparently satisfied, he headed downstairs for a hearty breakfast.

The only conclusion I can draw is that Bo believes he is Leo's mother. What else would cause a male of a species known for it's solitary and independant nature, to lavish such care and attention upon a companion? Is it possible that the absence of male reproductive organs is causing some kind of gender identity crisis? I really don't know. But if he starts sitting down to pee or flirting with the brawny mouser next door, I'm calling someone.

((picture coming soon))