My favorite cat of all time was named Spike. Having owned a few cats in my time, tabby coloured, fluffy beiges, black and white, grey stripped and all greys, mostly males, I have a familiarity with cats and their behavior that makes me secure in saying Spike was a fine example of the feline species.
Spike’s introduction to our home took no time whatsoever. Bouncing around in the back seat of our car as though car travel was second nature to him, he continued to bounce into the house, his tiny black tail straight up in the air as though his whole body was on happy alert.
Over the years, I learned to watch his tail for indications of his mood: quick flashes of the tail meant he was suspicious of recent human behavior, straight up usually accompanied a direct line to your hand for a pat or more extensive stroking, slashing back and forth on the ground indicated his hunter mode was fully engaged.
Once in the house for the first time, he found the couch and happily jumped up and down straight into the air and back as kittens in delight do. He had found home and home was never to be the same.
The proverb “curiosity killed the cat” almost came true with him before his first year was out. Someone left a fishing rod, complete with worm on the hook, dangling within reach. I woke with my husband’s plaintiff cry “come quick, Spike has a hook in his mouth.” He loved the scent of fish and later would prove a very able fishercat, graciously bedecking our door with the remains of his catch. At this moment however I was concerned for his safety.
He frolicked around the room, prancing and jumping as usual, except whenever the line proved too short. Then he yowled in pain as the hook dug into the side of his mouth. Alarmed and distressed I called the vet and organized a family party of two, my son and I to carry Spike to the vet. That wise man took plyers and while we held the kitten down (his fame as a wild cat in the vet’s office was to grow from this experience over the years) the vet snipped the metal hook , injected some protection against infection, and off we went.
Spike grew and loved the outdoors. When he first with us some home renovations involving large mounds of dirt made me uneasy about letting something so small and so black loose in the yard. I spent some time every day taking him with me as I sat in the shade of a tree and pulled a stick through the grass. That kitten leapt and crept, stalked and grabbed the stick as it slid through the green grass, his tail straight up and his body a mass of joy. If eyes speak, his told me of love and wonder and gratitude.
When other duties pulled me, and him, inside the house, he sat at the back door and cried like a child, “please let me go out again, please.” I kept this schedule with him until I felt sure neither the workmen nor I would forget or fail to see him, then let him out on his own for the first time.
He crept back seven hours later, so tired he was unable to make the full curl of his body before he just fell on the floor and slept like a baby through until the next day.
More adventures with Spike will follow.