Ricky: A Cat?

Wed., April 30, 09:14 AM

When I read about cats’n’apples’ “Baby” cat, I knew I had to include this story.

One day in the summer of 1984, somebody’s cat had kittens. The kittens were unwanted, but I guess “somebody” wasn’t entirely ruthless. Rather than destroying the kittens, he left them at the church.

An altar boy, coming early to prepare for the morning mass, investigated a squeaking from one of the pews. Here he found a basket with four tiny kittens, so new that their eyes weren’t even open yet.

The boy brought the orphans home to a house full of cats and dogs. His mother and sisters took over round-the-clock care and feeding of the babies. Using bottles designed for premature infants, they swaddled the squirming babies in washcloths while they fed them. The kittens grew rapidly, opened their eyes, and joined the menagerie.

Three of the siblings were placed in new homes as soon as they were able to care for themselves, but it was harder to find a place for the fourth kitten. He was strange looking, with a questioning expression and extra toes on all four feet, which made him seem very clumsy. Rather than mew, he chirped. The bundle of orange fluff was an appealing little thing, but they really couldn’t keep him. He loved being held and cuddled – all the time. He was too mischievous to be left unattended. He and one of the dogs made a game of galloping back and forth through the hallways during the night, disturbing everyone’s sleep.

That’s when I entered the picture. I worked with the boy’s mother, and my kids loved cats. Although we already had a very satisfactory cat, she was more aloof than cuddly, and the kids were excited about having a kitten who liked to be held.

My friend brought the kitten to the office, where we learned how well he could amuse himself. We shut him into an empty room with a ball of crumpled paper to play with. He batted it around and chased it, having a wonderful time. When he batted it into a corner where he couldn’t push it any further, he picked it up in his mouth and carried it to the center of the room, where he could begin again.

(They never saw the rest of the game. At our house, we watched him play the same way and, when he couldn’t get his head into the corner, he would pick up the ball of paper with his paw, stick it in his mouth, and continue.)

My daughter (now M.D.) met me at the office with a blanket so she could carry the baby home. She picked him up and began trying out names, since no one had yet found one that stuck. He seemed to be comforted by the clicking sound of Rick-k-k-k, so he became Ricky.

The orphan made himself right at home. He found the food bowl right away, and the water bowl we’d been told he would need; and he dutifully scratched the floor every time he ate. Missy, our other cat, didn’t drink water, but she was pretty peeved about anyone getting into her food. I had expected Ricky to need kitten food, but he tucked right into the adult stuff.

He also found Missy’s litter box, and, thank goodness, he knew what to do with that. Missy will not tolerate anyone else in her box, and she began going outside. We were afraid to let Ricky out, because we were sure he would get lost.

Of course, he did get out one day and he did get lost. For three days there wasn’t a sign of him, and the kids, who loved him immediately, were sure he was gone for good. He was too young (and possibly too dumb) to have learned the way home.

They searched for him every day after school, and my son found him in the nearby woods and joyfully brought him in. Ricky was so glad to have found his people again that he wouldn’t let Son out of his sight and wailed loudly whenever Son left the room. The anguished “wowoww” was an addition to his chirps.

Eventually Ricky played outdoors like any other cat we had. He usually came in when it was time to eat, though he got lost at least once more. Son came home to find Ricky “wowing” in front of the house next door and carried him home, saying, “This is the right house, stupid.” We couldn’t decide if Ricky was brain-damaged or just untaught. We still wonder whether he “imprinted” on humans or dogs, since he was being nourished by humans when he opened his eyes and he always played with dogs.

There wasn’t any doubt that Ricky, if not stupid, was certainly a bit confused. He did some cat things, like grooming and scratching the floor, although for a long time he scratched after eating as well as after using the litter box. But his “doggy” behavior was a mystery, particularly his puppylike affection. He liked nothing better than to be held, licking us in appreciation. He would run to play with birds or squirrels, always surprised when they fled, and he ran beneath flying birds with a look that said, “How come you won’t play with me?” He seemed to like dogs. But he was very much the territorial cat, and woe betide any strange cat or dog who came into our yard.

From time to time stray cats would decide to sojourn with us; Ricky tolerated them all except MacGyver. MacGyver was a pretty black and white cat who had evidently been on his own a long time and hadn’t much house cat experience. (We finally had to stop letting him in the house, because he didn’t know how to behave.) MacGyver, an unaltered male, smelled like one. Ricky had been neutered at six months, and he didn’t like the smell of this guy. Missy didn’t like him either, but she just stayed out of his way. Ricky was willing to fight for his territory, as the neighbors’ dogs found out to their misfortune.

He loved us all and expected to be loved in return. In fact, he demanded it, putting his feet on our knees and rubbing us with his head until he was petted and scratched. Having learned that scratching on a door would get it opened for him, he scratched whenever he was on the wrong side of the door, which was most of the time. We began leaving the bedroom doors open, rather than be awakened by Ricky’s scratching. Of course, he woke us up anyhow if he was lonely, by licking and nuzzling and little love bites; sometimes he would be appeased by food, but usually he wanted someone to play.

Missy was as bewildered by this behavior as we were. The imperial cat, she occasionally tolerated affection but usually ignored us except at mealtime; her attitude seems to be that she allows us to live in her house as long as we provide sustenance. She ignores Ricky too, which may explain why he looks to his people for cuddling.

Ricky is now ten years old, and he’s still the funny affectionate cat he always has been. In addition to his chirp and his wail, his vocabulary now includes a conversational “r-r-r-ow?” which he will continue if I answer him. He’s still always on the wrong side of the door, but occasionally he can use his funny paws to pull one open. He’s still clumsy, but with an air of “I meant to do that!”

But he’s an “old” ten. He’s very skinny despite all the food he consumes, and his eyebrows and muzzle are now all white. Twice in the past year he has needed medical intervention when what looked like a simple wound became a raging infection. “Only ten years old?” asked the vet, “are you sure?” Yes, we’re sure; remember, the kittens found on that summer day were so new their eyes were still closed. Old Rick has lost a lot of weight, and the doctor is sure there’s something the matter with him – heart, liver, or kidneys. Do I want him to do the blood work?

Well, no. My current budget makes even feeding pets a luxury, and there really isn’t any extra money for extensive testing. But there’s another reason why I’m not going to have him tested. Ricky may look like an empty bag of bones, but he doesn’t know he’s sick. He’s still the mischievous, affectionate cat he always has been. (Given the chance, he’ll steal a hamburger off the table – and expect to be praised for his cleverness.)

One of his favorite resting places is on the roof of the car, and believe me, no one helped him up there. Not only is my car often covered with pawprints, but on snowy days he leaves a wide track when he slides down the back window. (Ricky the otter?) It’s not unusual to be awakened by the sound of galloping in the hall (yes, galloping!), followed by the opening of my door and a bump as he leaps into the bed, where he sniffs around till he finds me and begins purring loudly. When I can feel his little heart beating so rapidly, I remember that he’s not healthy – but it doesn’t seem to bother him.

Despite the weight loss, the only difference I can see in his behavior is that perhaps he sleeps a little more. (But so does Missy, whom the vet pronounced as being healthy for her age.) When he’s awake, he runs and jumps and protects his territory fiercely.

He likes to sleep in dark enclosed places, and I have learned to keep my lower cabinets closed tightly. But one day I found him in an above-the-counter cabinet I had left ajar. That kind of gymnastics doesn’t indicate a sick kitty to me.

When discomfort becomes too much for him, we’ll put him to sleep gently. But for now, I don’t see any reason to subject this loving, contented pet to the discomfort of a barrage of tests that will only tell us what we already know – that he’s growing old and wearing out. It happens to all of us. As long as he continues his happy-go-lucky self, we’ll enjoy his company.



This was always our favorite picture of Ricky. The windowsill was narrow, so he used all his funny toes to hold on to the screen.

To be continued)