Cat-astrophe: The Sequel

In which we adopt a ghost cat.

In the past week, I've apologized to my husband many times for adopting a cat. I've apologized for taking him by surprise. I've apologized because it wasn't a kitten. I've apologized because it was so loud. I've apologized because we had to keep it inside for a bit, that it somehow found its way into our vents, and that it showed up on our bed last night when we had locked it in the basement. Well, I am now done apologizing for our cat. Mostly because I think it has made its permanent escape.

Guys, I don't even know what to say anymore. Somehow I adopted either a feline ghost or Harry Houdini's kitty incarnate. How do these things happen?

WELL, let's rewind and see. *Whirring of a VHS tape* (if you don't know what that is, I've included a link to a historical site that can explain it) and, roll film:

Me: “Blah, blah, blah . . . pick up a cat . . . ?”

Alex: “WHAT?”

And later . . .

Me: “We should probably keep it in the house until it gets used to us. Just in the back room/basement area. It will be fine. What could happen?”

I now cut to an excerpt from Willa Cat-her's diary.

Day 6: IT'S A TRAP! Having fully explored my limited spaces, I approach madness. I don't think they can hear my cries. If only I could get closer, perhaps then they would listen.

The long winding tunnels have brought me closer to the humans. I hear them, and know that they must hear me, but they still ignore me. I have formulated a plan that will get me out of here. This will be my last entry, as tonight while they are sleeping, I will make my escape. I think for good measure I will stop by and jump on them on my way out. Vengeance is mine . . .

So, as you can see, our cat was no ordinary cat. We fed it, gave it water, brushed it, and pondered the best way to get it to stay with us when we let it outside. We had plans to start feeding it on the back porch today and transition it to the great outdoors. Unfortunately, once we became aware that the scheming demon had somehow found her way into and out of our duct work, we knew we would have to change our plans . However, we didn't want to put her out at night, so we went to bed hoping that she would be okay until the morning. My last comment was, “I think she'll come out when we go to bed and turn off the lights. I mean, there won't be any sound or light to attract her anymore. She'll come out.”

And she did—just not the way she went in.

We had been asleep maybe an hour when we were awakened by the loud mewing that doesn't usually come from our closet. I was ready to chalk it up to a crazy dream I was having when Alex jumped up saying “SHE'S ON OUR BED!”

He was mad. And as he chased the cat, she ran into to Melody's room and woke her up, which just made things worse. And thus it was that once Alex got his hands on the cat, she went unceremoniously out the front door along along with all the psychology with which we had planned to gain her trust. It was, as this entire cat and mouse business has been, quite unfortunate.

This morning, in a final effort to win our kitty's affections—if she's not already back with her previous family—we put her towel, food, and water out on our back porch. We keep checking for her, but I think she's long gone. If that's the case, I don't think we'll play this game again until it's kitten season. That leaves us lots of time to think about what we've done.

The moral of this story is:

Don't spontaneously adopt a full grown cat as a means of getting rid of mice. You will only be astonished at just how easily cats (and therefore mice) can find their way around the inside of your house.

Darn cat.

Rice and Mice: A Cat-astrophe

Love can drive people to do some pretty crazy things. So can fear of mice. The first is why I got married and had a baby; the second is the reason I got a cat.

Yeah, that's right: a cat.

At the risk of offending—something I'm getting pretty good at doing—the cat people among you, I have always been a full-blooded dog person. (When faced with the question of dog or cat. Wider options allowing, I'm more of a fish person, actually.) I won't say I swerve to hit cats or go out of my way to kick them, but I just don't care for their attitudes. Also, their sixth sense that allows them to find and bother people who don't like cats has always riled me. But, desperate times call for desperate measures.

We came home Sunday night and opened our kitchen cupboard looking for some dinner. What we found was a mouse stealing our rice. We'd known we had a mouse in our wall, but this made it all very real. I flipped. Alex kept telling me to calm down, but all I could think of were its little feet scurrying around and spreading diseases through my cupboard. I sat in the farthest room from the mouse's last known position and refused to believe that there was a mouse in my house. (There's nothing cute about mouses in houses, by the way. Dr. Seuss, I WOULD NOT WOULD NOT do anything with a mouse!)

After that, I got mad. How dare that mouse eat our food and live in our house? If only we had caught it before it discovered sustenance! Was it that my house wasn't clean enough? I would have cleaned my house better if it would have kept away rodents. And then I just got sad because I knew I could have kept my house cleaner (although, admittedly, this probably would have happened regardless of how clean things were). And as I sat and thought about all of the grossness I would now have to scrub away due to our furry little friend with the scurrying feet, I have to admit—I sort of shut down.

Once I had cycled through the first four stages of loss and grief, I was finally able to accept that we had a mouse in the house. It took at least a few hours of refusing to go into the kitchen for fear that . . . well, okay, I don't know exactly what I was afraid of, but I think it involved rodents infected with the Hantavirus jumping out of my cupboard and attacking me. Looking back now, I can see that was ridiculous, but it was real to me at the time. I also think it was made worse by the fact that Alex told me we were dealing with a black rat at least eight inches long not counting the tail.

This was an interesting experiment in psychology, because when I saw that mouse in our cupboard it was just that—a mouse. And it was brown. But after hearing that it was a large black rat, I started to think back and “remember” just how wrong I was. Yes, of course. It WAS black. And now that I think of it, it did resemble the rat from Lady and the Tramp (which, by the way, just caused me a bit of anxiety after looking at pictures of said rat). How did I not see it before?

Well, we (and by we, I mean Alex) set up a trap and caught the pest by the next morning. And when Alex showed me the little brown mouse, I panicked because WE DIDN'T GET HIM!

Alex assured me that we had. But we didn't! The one we saw was bigger and black; it was a rat! Wasn't it?

Nope. It wasn't. To quote Alex, “I only told you that because you were being . . . lame. I wanted to justify your fear.” Or feed it. Pfft. I had totally reprogrammed my memory to see what I thought I saw. Which totally happens a lot. See here for more on that.

Most of the time, I'm fine with pests. Spiders? I don't like them, but I can deal. Normal sized non-venomous snakes? I'd be a bit freaked out if one randomly found itself in my kitchen cabinet, but I feel like I would feel okay with removing it. Probably with my bare hands. But mice? Not okay. I think, as I've mentioned once or twice, it's their diseases and their scurrying little feet. Because they can scurry right up your leg and infect you with Hanta before you can say Jack Robinson. Gross.

Anyway, in between listening to just how disgusting I found rodents, my mom suggested some ways we could take care of this problem: Seal up our house, trap them, and get something that would eat them. I thought maybe we'd set a snake loose in our attic—or better yet—invest in a Basilisk, but after weighing the pros (no mice) and cons (finding one, explaining it to our guests—and in the case of the basilisk, possible petrification) of both these animals, my mom said she was actually meaning a cat. Hmm . . . a cat. It could work.

So, the very next day I was all over the local Facebook yard sale pages (like a mouse all over rice—too soon, too soon!) in order to find a cat. Then, I called Alex to ask if he could pick it up on his way home from work. He was a *little* surprised since it had only come up once, and we had interpreted the brief discussion completely differently. I came away thinking we had decided to get a cat, but he came away totally unsuspecting. And, now we have a cat. I like to think of it as payback for the whole rat incident.

We've been thinking about what to name it since it doesn't answer to its previous “name,” Oreo. I suggested that we name our cat Stevens (Hehe, Cat Stevens . . . never mind), but we actually think it's a girl. Which is why I just decided we could name her Willa Cat-her instead. But don't tell Alex, he is, once again, totally unsuspecting.

I guess that scores two points for cats: 1. They catch and eat mice. 2. You can name them anything--even things you wouldn't name your children--and they don't know any better.

Why CAN'T We Be Friends?

Once upon a time my computer died so I couldn't write any blog posts for awhile. This was a most unfortunate event. Luckily, it magically came back to life (by means of my husband, not a fairy godmother) and we are now living happily ever after once again.

Which is good, because once again, I have something to say.

This entry is going to cover some things that I've tried to say previously, but haven't explicitly stated. This time, I would like to just come out and say what I've been thinking, rather than alluding to it. Please continue reading, as these same thoughts could be affecting you or someone you know and love.

My problem is this: I'm a Stay-at-Home-Utah-Mormon-Mother.

Actually, that's not the problem—at least, not to me. My problem is that there are some people who think this is a problem. I keep encountering people (sometimes other Mormons, even) who get all uppity about Utah Mormons. Also, people who think Mormon women are being oppressed. And don't let me forget the disputes about stay-at-home moms. If you are unaware of how these criticisms go, the gist is that we're all weak people with nothing to say, oblivious of the unfortunate way we've all been made from cookie cutters. We've been pushed into our current roles because we have no other options. To those perpetuating these myths I say: You're wrong. Please stop.

I take great issue with all of these views because, to the untrained eye, I fit this mold. To those looking at conditions and statistics instead of people, I am one of THOSE people. I grew up in a small Utah town. In fact, I've never lived outside the state of Utah. I'm the oldest daughter in a rather large family who has never really “gone astray.” I am also the mother in a loving two-parent home, who chooses not to work outside the home in order to care for my daughter. To the casual observer, the only thing that sets me apart from the rest of the “Happy Valley” Mormons is that I don't live in Happy Valley. (And I don't have a white picket fence around my yard. Also, a dog. I don't have a dog, either.)

Anyway, the purpose of this entry is not to gripe about how I'm being judged by people who don't know me. It's to tell the world—or at least, those brave souls that will stumble across this—that even though I may look like all the other cookie-cut Mormons, it's not because I don't have any other viable options. I am educated. I don't stay at home with my daughter because I couldn't get better work. I CHOSE to live this way. Just as I have chosen to accept the gospel of Jesus Christ. Yep, I was born and raised in this church, but I have also tested it (Alma 32:26--43).

You can show me all the reasons not to be a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I had someone try to do that to me yesterday. I say try because, in actuality, I was more aware of the arguments against my religion than they were. I could have compiled a longer, more comprehensive list than the one with which I was presented because I have seen and heard many arguments as to why I shouldn't believe what I do. I'm not living in a spiritual vacuum—although, admittedly, if there were such a thing/place, it would be in Utah—I've encountered opposition. And if anything, examining their criticisms has made me into more of a believer. There are reasons I am who I am. If you would like to hear them, I'll tell you. If not, that's fine, too. But please stop relegating me and those like me to a few measly labels.

I'd like to rally a cause—the force of so-called cookie-cutter Mormons. Rise up! (Sorry, little BYU joke, there . . . ) Because, if I were were a betting man—er, woman—I would bet that they, like me, are more than they appear. Following a somewhat upsetting experience in which my attempts to befriend members of a different faith failed because their tenets discouraged interacting with “nonbelievers,” I have become sensitive to just how detrimental divisions based upon differences can be. So you're not a Mormon? Okay. Let's still be friends. Grew up outside of Utah? Great. You probably have some powerful experiences to draw from. You're a man? Thank you for the things you do that I can't. You're a hardworking mother who's balancing a career while raising your family? Can you offer me some tips for time management and efficiency?

So, you're different from me in some way? That's cool. Let's stop judging one another and start learning from one another.

In a beautiful talk highlighting our faith and its foundation, our previous prophet, President Gordon B. Hinckley, had a wonderful quote for those with beliefs that differ from ours: “To these we say in a spirit of love, bring with you all that you have of good and truth which you have received from whatever source, and come and let us see if we may add to it.” I would, in this same spirit, echo to the wide variety of individuals in the world, these same sentiments. I'll bring the good that I have, and you can see if you can add to it.