Pookie

Pookie, part I
When Pookie showed up on our doorstep, I was outside saying goodbye to a visitor. Pookie walked around the corner of our house, up my legs and back and curled up around my neck purring madly. She was a scrawny runt of a cat, weighing in at barely 3 pounds. Pookie was an unremarkable gray tabby without a bit of white; completely without any redeeming characteristic other than pure, unadulterated adoration of her chosen humans. Even after twelve years of good feedings, living inside, having all her shots and being spayed, she never gained an ounce and always looked frankly ratty. Others thought she was ugly. I thought she was beautiful and loved her even when those 18 hell claws were inserted into my flesh.

She was also The Cat In Charge. When I walked into the house, wearing my cat boa, she jumped down, checked out the food and water situation, scratched in the litter box and promptly whacked the current Alpha Cat, AKA She Who Hates Me. Honest, that's her name. She Who Hates Me refuses to allow any human to look at her, much less pet her and she was born here. But the Queen was deposed and Pookie In Charge.

The Alpha Dog, Ursula, was good friends with Pookie from day one. She ignored Sophy the lab and thought Gunny, the Great Dane/Pit Bull mix was hers to command. If he was eating and she wanted what he was eating, he backed away from the bowl. Once Pookie had finished eating, she graciously allowed him to finish the rest while glaring at the other cats and dogs, daring them to go near the food. When Toby the Dog was dumped here, she quickly whipped him into shape, despite his obvious dislike of cats.

Pookie had 18 Claws Of Death. Trust me on that. I have scars up and down my back from when she'd climb up me when she wanted a ride around the house. I learned quickly that if Pookie wanted me to be sensible, sit down and make her a lap, by golly I'd better sit down and make a lap right then. Otherwise I'd have to endure her crawling up me to curl around my neck and purr.

She also made certain that none of us spent too much time on the computer by jumping on the keyboard and daring anyone to remove her royal cattliness from the keyboard. Another method was to sit in front of the monitor. It didn't matter if you removed her once or 1,000 times from either the keyboard or in front of the monitor, she'd just go back to where she chose to sit until you were an intelligent human and either filled the food bowl or made a lap.

Unfortunately she was an excellent teacher so now all the other cats will do the same thing and right now Cass-Purr is in my arms, hampering my ability to type, Linus is in front of the monitor (and he's a rather large gentleman cat), Daffy Taffy is draped across one side of the monitor, Cisco is draped across the other side of the monitor, Callista (who is now 25 years old and still going on well) is on top of the monitor as are Linus (Linux's twin), Akira the First and Akira the Second (also identical twins).

The first week she lived with us, I learned to check the refrigerator several times before going to bed. I also learned to check inside the dryer...the washer...the linen closet...I swear that cat could teleport to wherever she wanted to be. It didn't matter how careful I was about restricting her access to something, that cat would find a way to get what she wanted.

I made a spinach and mushroom lasagna one night. Since there was enough for another meal, I wrapped it up and put it in the refrigerator. About an hour later, I went to get something to drink and found Pookie in the middle of the pan of lasagna, eating her fill. I tried removing her from the pan, but she latched the claws of death around the pan and around the shelf. I'd get one set of claws undone and she'd latch on even harder with the others, growling the entire time while gobbling down all the food she could - and that little cat could put the food away! In the end I ended up removing the shelf, cat, lasagna and all, and putting it on the kitchen floor. She graciously invited the other cats to join her in a midnight snack. In the morning the pan was scoured clean and ready for the dishwasher. For some odd reason, I rarely need to use steel wool soap pads for cleaning pots and pans.

That pretty much set the tone of our entire life with Pookie. To paraphrase a song in the musical "Damn Yankees", Whatever Pookie Wanted, Pookie Got.

End of part I