Everybody Dance Now!

Today is Lydia’s tenth birthday, and it’s time to get the party started! I am not the only one who celebrates the birthdays of pets. New statistics indicate that 24 percent of pet caregivers “of a certain age” commemorate the human-animal bond by means of birthday cakes, balloons, and party favors.

I recently jumped on the cupcake bandwagon, so Lydia’s party will consist of pink-frosted cupcakes, complemented by new catnip toys for her, “the orange boys,” and L.B. and Alvar.

When we first met Lydia at our neighborhood pet adoption shelter, in October 2000, she went by the name of Kirstie. She weighed less than 5 pounds and hid in the back of the carrier, far from public view. But we found her because we were destined, I think, to adopt her. She did not know what to expect when we brought her home to meet the one and only Lucius. We never could have estimated how much she has enhanced our lives.

From Day 1 at our house, Lydia was every bit the rambunctious tomboy. Of course, she looked and vocalized like a girl, but she smelled and acted like a guy. She simply could not keep still. Today, Lydia is my fair lady who weighs about 9 pounds and loves to give orders. With Lydia, there is never subtlety. On her nightly rounds, she fine-tunes her already trilling meow as she implores us to go to bed (she prefers the 9:30–10:00 p.m. time slot). During the day, she catches up on her beauty sleep. If I come home from the office for a lunch break, I always know I can look for her dozing on the bathmat in the bathroom, close to an antique mirror. That way, when she awakens, she can admire her dainty self. She does this a lot.

Lydia looks terrific for her age, especially given that she is the human equivalent of 70. Now it’s time for me to cue the music, light the birthday candles, and serenade Lydia with her favorite song.

“Everybody Dance Now!”

Query of the Day: Did you r.s.v.p. to Lydia’s birthday party?

Wellesley Girl

I was interested to hear recently that select colleges and universities in the United States are now allowing students to bring their pets from home to live with them on campus. Way back when at Wellesley, men were barely allowed to step foot inside the dormitories, where they had to respect a “knock-twice” system to give fair warning whenever entering the girls-only restrooms. These ancient statistics contribute to why it is difficult for me to imagine my still all-female alma mater “allowing” guys and cats and dogs to live with the coeds.

I wasn’t a Cat Lady at Wellesley. I studied art history and never attempted to take courses in veterinary science at Boston University, the school in closest proximity to Wellesley that offered the discipline. When I said good-bye to our cat Fluffy, at home, and entered Wellesley as a freshman, I don’t remember thinking about her much, much less pining away for her. I am not proud of this fact. Naturally, if I could turn back time, I would head for college only on the condition that Fluffy accompanied me every step of the way.

It has been thirty-two years since graduation, and if I return to Wellesley as a continuing-education student, I will need to rent a van that accommodates our four female cats, their toys, and their litter boxes. Actually, I think that one of our cats, in particular, is best suited to join the subspecies classified as a “Wellesley Girl.”

Miss Tommie has all of what I remember as being the vital ingredients. She is serious and reserved. She does not like to call attention to herself. She is attractive, but not glamorous. She never would wear tons of makeup or gaudy jewelry that clinks in the dark. She would strive to be an original, never a copycat.

And when Miss Tommie graduates from Wellesley, she will fulfill her manifest destiny and grow up to become a Cat Lady, just like her mother. How did I go from Class of ’78 to Cat Lady 24/7? That is the question that often stumps me and, I’m sure, would intrigue my former art-history professors.

Query of the Day: Would you/do you bring your cats to college?

The Hand

Based on my daily intake of snail-mail and e-mail messages, I have concluded that the summer season will continue to heat up with renewal notices and reminders. Following the call to action that Walgreens issued to Lucius, I received a postcard from Dr. O. alerting me that it is time for Brooke to receive her yearly vaccination. Brooke, you might ask?

Last year, during the Memorial Day weekend, I found a petite brown-tabby stray cat whom I named after a friend who is an editor and an art-book publisher. The heat index that weekend was deadly already, and I worried that Brooke would not survive in such a dehydrated and fragile state. Dr. O. let me board Brooke at the veterinarian’s office at a reduced cost until I could find a permanent home for my then-latest rescue kitty. Brooke became Bella Brooke last July, when a museum colleague here lent a helping hand and adopted her. The two are living happily ever after in a spacious garage apartment, and I periodically receive glamour shots of Bella Brooke as proof positive.

Dr. O.’s postcard provided the perfect excuse for me to look at some photos that a friend had taken of Brooke. I never miss an opportunity to stoke my memories of cats I have encountered before. I remember then being struck particularly by one photo used in a flyer that I circulated to feline-friendly people.

I call this photo “The Hand” because it conjures multiple meanings. On one hand (pun intended), there is the King Kong effect–the seemingly oversized hand (and I have small hands proportionate to my 5’ height) embracing the tiny head of a darling cat. On the other hand, there is the broader, humanitarian impulse of reaching out to help others. For an editor, taking a red pencil to a manuscript, or making on-screen changes to text files qualifies as a bona-fide assist. The hand discreetly aids the writer in refining his or her true voice. The Cat Lady extends a hand to help those who technically cannot speak for themselves and articulate their desires. Perhaps the only variation on this helping-hand theme is how you define a “creature in need.”

I happen to think that cats and authors are in the same camp: They need tender loving care and our circumspect intervention, and they also crave affection from Cat Ladies and editors, respectively. In some cases, the Cat Lady and the editor merge as one living creature.

Query of the Day: How do you define a creature in need?

Organizational Skills

I heard this morning that 32 million people will hit the road during the Memorial Day weekend. I will not be among them. Because of the number of cats living at Catland, it is difficult to find someone–other than my husband—who will take care of all ten of them. As a result, a “couples vacation” is a figment of my imagination.

But I began fantasizing (well, maybe that’s too evocative a word) this morning about how I could best organize all of the cat food so that a catsitter could feed the felines with ease. I take the routine at home for granted. A scoop from a jar at the far left of the kitchen counter; two scoops from the jars in the center; and two scoops from the two jars at the right of the counter. The same pattern is in place in the garage apartment. All of the Fancy Feast cans are stacked neatly and segregated according to the cats’ morning and evening fine-dining regimes. I never consult a to-do list, I just dole out the goods.

I suppose I could tap my editorial skills and rearrange the jars of dry cat food according to alpha listings, from left to right: Dietetic Maintenance, Purina Organic, and Science Diet Light and Science Diet Sensitive Stomach. Or I could rearrange the jars according to color-coordinated themes: small food particles (terracotta brown) grouped at left, medium-size food particles (reddish brown) in the center, and large food particles (ochre-yellow) at right. Or I could leave things as they are, already organized to my liking, and continue to recite my routine in my sleep.

Query of the Day: Will you travel with your cats this weekend?

Spontaneous Remission—Not!

Lucius has received a friendly reminder that the time has come to renew his Walgreens prescription card. In case you think I am kidding, check out the form letter signed by Walgreens’ Senior Vice President of Pharmacy Services.

If you need to buy prescription drugs for your cat, the Walgreens savings club is the way to go. With tiny insulin bottles costing $100 a pop, every penny counts.

The renewal notice coincided with my recent discovery that Lucius was avoiding his nightly dose of insulin. Gone were the evenings of his arriving on cue, eager to be poked in the butt, to put it bluntly. Much as I firmly believe that Lucius speaks to me, I couldn’t quite interpret his silent rejection of the medicine. Diabetes has ravaged his body, making him look very haggard and terribly thin. He needs insulin like many of us crave caffeine in the morning.

I called Dr. O. and shared my concerns. She explained that a very small percentage of cats go into what is termed “spontaneous remission.” Once she checked Lucius’s blood-sugar level, she confirmed that he had joined this minority. Had I not been suspicious and continued to give Lucius his insulin injections, per Dr. O’s previous orders, he would have probably overdosed and could have fallen into a diabetic coma.

That was then, several weeks ago, and this is now. Lucius’s blood-sugar level has reached the high-warning mark, and twice-daily injections are standing appointments on his schedule. I have advised Lucius to contact Walgreens immediately and to sign up for another year of helpful savings. I only wish there was a feline-only prescription club that sold certificates guaranteeing nine lives of perfect health for my special little man.

Query of the Day: Does your cat belong to a savings club?

Looking for Us

My sister, Marcy, gives me an annual subscription to “Kovels on Antiques and Collectibles,” a monthly newsletter for people who like to collect as well as deal and invest in antiques. In this month’s edition, Terry Kovel writes about “Fated Finds,” the objects that seem to appear out of nowhere but with a specific purpose, that is, they are searching for a new owner. She comments specifically on visiting an antiques fair and noticing a silver and citrine brooch by Ada Husted Anderson, known as “Andy,” with whom Ms. Kovel had worked long ago as a teenage counselor at a camp in Maine. Apparently, the brooch had Ms. Kovel in mind, and she obliged my taking her treasured find home to join other pieces in her jewelry collection.

I think often, and have blogged previously, about the relationship between art and antiques collectors and Cat Ladies. There are many similarities that fall into the broad category of love and obsession, and sometimes of sacrifice. The fundamental differences, at least to me, lie in the calculated moves of an owner to strategically collect and trade objects, compared with the irresistible, often unpredictable ticks of the caregiver’s heart to put compassion first above addictive instincts.

The already uncomfortable temperature here has kept stray cats out of my line of sight. I suspect they are hiding underneath cars or houses to seek shelter, or wherever they can protect themselves from the sizzling heat and oppressive humidity. But, like Ms. Kovel, who felt that fate intervened when the Andy-designed brooch appeared for sale one day, I am willing to bet that the stray cats of summer will find me, very soon.

Query of the Day: How many of your cats found you?

Big-Name Artists, No-Name Cats

I always enjoyed reading William Safire’s “On Language” column in the New York Times, especially when he regaled readers with tales from the “Gotcha! Gang.” Editors often have a field day catching inconsistencies and pointing out glaring omissions. As an editor for art books, I focus on the language used to describe artistic creation, and a point of entry is often the title of a work of art. Perhaps something is in the water (or the meow mix) because I keep finding images of artworks whose titles leave a lot to be desired by this Cat Lady.

Pablo Picasso did not seem to have any difficulty keeping his mistresses straight, yet in this painting he apparently chose not to cite the name of the cat held by one of his mistress-muses, Dora Maar. Alice Neel’s granddaughter, Victoria, surely had named the cat she held somewhat awkwardly. We know that a calico is always female, and I wonder if the notoriously argumentative Ms. Neel disapproved of the cat’s name? Could the name have been too conventional for the nonconformist artist? And then there is the quiet image by Otsuji Kiyoji of Ishimoto Yasuhiro on the streets of Kyoto. As Mr. Ishimoto approaches the lens of his tripod camera, a nameless white cat (though wearing a collar, hence presumably belonging to someone) gazes up at the photographer studiously at work.

What’s with these big-name artists and no-name cats? Although it is impossible to rewrite history, editors and Cat Ladies can make the case for equal naming opportunities for artists and felines. Won’t you join me?

By the way, if you are interested in reading more about Alice Neel and Ishimoto Yasuhiro, the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston, has recently published two major books that break new ground in presenting the respective careers of these artists. Visit www.yalebooks.com and buy your copies today! Just close your eyes when you read the captions accompanying the artworks illustrated here.

Query of the Day: Can you help me find the names of these cats?