Muzzy
Part 2: Home installation
See part 1 here: White paws are important.
During that summer, I almost forgot that we had adopted a cat. The fiance and I made a round trip around the Earth, going to Vietnam, then going back to the U.S. When we were not traveling, we were packing, moving, and unpacking to make the transition from our solo bachelor pads to a shared apartment. Somewhere in the middle of that process, we got this book from a used bookstore:
The book was what it looked like: cartoon instructions on “how to have a cat” in guidebook style, like what you see in the booklet that comes with your vacuum. I needed to educate myself on the subject. The book was helpful. In Chapter 2, “Home Installation,” it had these headings:
- Preparing the Home
- Recommended Accessories
- How to Hold a Cat
- Initial Introduction
- Selecting a Name
It was very straightforward. I followed the instructions faithfully — I’m that kind of persons who actually read instruction manual and follow it. I prepped the house, acquired all the accessories (a 2-page list with descriptions of what they are for and illustrations), and studied how I should hold a cat and introduce him to this new, bizarre, scary environment of my cul-de-sac, air-conditioning apartment. Per instructions, the fiance and I turned the laundry room into a kitty nursery. We were going to confine the cat in this room until he would be used to that area. Then we would slowly introduce him to the apartment, one room at a time, with “a heightened level of supervision.” We had selected a name, Muzzy, after a cartoon character of my childhood. The name happened to be “short and end with long ‘ee’ sound,” as the book suggested. If that wasn’t the case, I wouldn’t be surprised that we reconsidered it.
The day came. We drove to the shelter with a carrier, inside it lined a soft, freshly washed blanket. We brought the cat’s paperwork. I worried a little. What if I don’t know how to hold him? I had held a cat maybe twice in my life, and in one of those times, the kitten had escaped my hands and climbed onto the fiance’s head. I had certainly never put a cat into a carrier before. “I should have looked that up on YouTube.”
But when we arrived, the girl at the front desk only needed to know the name of the cat. She went to the back for a minute and came back with a tabby in her hands. She nodded toward the carrier, “Is that what you will carry him in?” The fiance said yes and opened it. She stuffed the cat in, locked the gate, and said “You’re done.” We exchanged some minimal pleasantries with her, then left.
The cat was quiet the whole way home. We brought him straight into his laundry nursery, and closed the door to let him know it was all his. Of course I couldn’t contain my excitement, so I checked on him every 20 minutes (the book didn’t say I wasn’t allowed to do that). The first time, he was in the cat bed we had bought for him. The second time, he hid in the carrier. The third time, the food bowl was empty. We filled it up. The fourth time, the food bowl was empty again. Either he hadn’t had enough to eat at the shelter, or he was one of those creatures who eat when they are stressed.
Perhaps he appreciated that we filled his food bowl without asking why, the next morning, he came out of his hiding spot and hauled himself up to my lap. He was small, though not as tiny as the first time we had seen him two months ago. He was only 4 month old. He couldn’t hop on my lap, so he clawed his way up, and even that didn’t hurt because he was so small. Once he managed it, he purred.
Purring is a sound that, unless you have a cat, you don’t know what it is. You might run into a cat on the street or at a friend’s house many times and still never hear a cat purrs. (Google later informed me that cats purr when they are relaxed and comfortable, or when they are very stressed and helpless. A temporary human is not likely to produce either reaction.) Purring is a soft, rumbling sound that seems to come out from the cat’s entire body. It sounds like a vibrating phone, except it is not startling and choppy. It’s sweet and soothing. Sitting there with Muzzy in my lap and hearing him purr, I thought he liked me alright.
One day after moving in and perhaps one week before we expected it, Muzzy wanted to explore the house. Now that he was out of the laundry room, I could see him more clearly. He was lanky and clumsy. The way he climbed on the couch looked like a short human climbing out of a swimming pool, slippery and exhausted. His coat was tabby and white with no transition between the two colors. The color ran down on his legs and ended unevenly above his paws, giving him mismatched socks. He followed me like a tail. When I went to the bathroom, the little white paws reached under the door, trying to find me.
Being a 4 month old kitten, Muzzy’s daily agenda was: eat — play — sleep — repeat. We got him some nice toys from Petsmart, only to realize that he preferred random strings and pens he found around the house. He was getting good at jumping, so we started moving furniture around, trying to make it hard for him to jump on certain pieces (the piano, for example). That lasted for a week, then we gave up. He was so good at jumping at that point, he could glide up any objects 3 times his length: piano, bookcases, coffee table, chairs, shoe shelf. If one jump didn’t get him there, a couple of them would do the trick. He had a 3D mental map of the place, and he always found a route to get to where he wanted.
All of that energy for jumping must have come from somewhere. Though he stopped cleaning his bowl after every refill, he maintained a good appetite. When food coma arrived, he slept like a cinnamon twist: his head on one side, his legs on the other. Other bakery-based sleeping positions that Muzzy developed were: the Tabby Doughnut, the Two-Color Croissant, and the Fluffy Ciabatta Loaf. While he slept, I started taking pictures of him and posted on Facebook. I was officially a cat owner.
(to be continued)
