I've always been a cat-lover. Knowing this, my husband gave me a cat for my birthday the first year we got married. She was a stray taken in by a sympathetic coworker of his who simply could not provide her a permanent home.We quickly learned that this cat was not your typical shy, retiring wall-flower, content to sleep in sunbeams, purr on your lap, and watch the world from the window.
No. "Jazz," had a taste for the street life. She lusted for freedom. Action. Fresh air. But most of all? Blood.
We did our best to convert her to the joys of the indoor life. We bought toys and catnip. We played games with yarn and laser pointers. Our family even came with a ready-made playmate -- a 75-pound dalmatian. For two and a half years we attempted to contain her inside our various apartments, and pursued her doggedly when she managed to escape. Which she did. Often.
She utterly refused to be tamed. Instead, she began a tenacious campaign to win her way outside. First, she stalked the exits of our homes, taking advantage of every unguarded moment.
Second, she created her own indoor fun. She chased the aforesaid 75-pound dalmatian around the house, attacking his spots as if they were bugs. She scrambled to the top of our Christmas tree, tossed the tree-topper to the floor, and then leaped to the floor, trailing Christmas lights and half the ornaments. She scaled window screens like Spiderman (looking for a way out?). She broke into our bedroom at night and attacked our feet while we slept. Repeatedly. Even when we made sure our door was completely closed. (I still have no idea how she did it.)
She tried to dig a hole to China under our bedroom door. That's when we made the agonizing decision to remove her front claws. I hated to do it, but we weren't financially prepared to support her destructive tendencies in our rented apartment. Had we let her keep shredding the carpet, we would have been forced to shell out at least $250 when we vacated that place!
Of course, once we got her front paws de-clawed, we believed we had no choice but to keep her indoors. However, she became increasingly defiant, seeming to sense our renewed determination.
Finally, after leaving a sleeping but medically-fragile baby in her crib in a vain attempt to "rescue" our prodigal cat in the wee hours of the morning (we needed two of us to "herd" her back to the apartment), we decided that we were going to have to let go. It's rather like being parent to a rebellious teenager. At a certain point, you have to stop protecting them so they will suffer the consequences of their poor choices and hopefully gain some sense.
But not Jazz. She has street smarts, apparently -- not sense. Ever since that night, she has spent the majority of her nights wandering the streets doing who-knows-what. Every morning she paws at the door like a dog, begging for re-entry, her breakfast (dinner?), and a bed. We've moved twice since then, but she has never once failed to return home.
Having won that battle, she apparently has decided that we deserve special thank offerings periodically.
So she has taken up a new hobby. Hunting. Without front claws. It's truly amazing because she is quite successful. And for some crazy reason, she chooses to present her kill to us at the worst possible moments.
For example, one fall morning shortly after Elli returned home from a major surgery, I was expecting a friend from church to drop by. This friend hosted a weekly prayer meeting in her home and her home was always spotlessly clean and tidy. I think she's one of those people for whom this comes naturally. (I am not one of those people. I like a clean and neat house, but I have to work very hard at it, I have yet to find an easy-to-maintain system, and I'd much rather write or run errands or garden or do anything else. But I digress.)
It was a nice day, so I had the sliding door to the back yard open slightly. I suspect that the dog, who had long ago decided if you can't beat 'em join 'em, was somehow convinced to bump the door open for Jazz with his snout.
I heard a strange flurry of activity in the kitchen as I was racing around trying to make the house presentable. It was one of those sounds that, despite it's unknown origin, inexplicably fills your heart with dread. Just as I peered around the corner...
*knock knock knock*
...Horror! There flapped a bird, under the kitchen table, shedding clouds of feathers, struggling to elude Jazz, who batted at the bird periodically, when she got too bored.
Panic gripped me as I stood there, midway between the front door, where my friend stood waiting, and the disaster in my kitchen. "What do I do? What do I do first?"
Despite the awfulness of being caught in that moment, I surprised myself by choosing not to leave my friend standing on the front porch. I let her in, begged her to please disregard the half-dead bird flapping about in my kitchen, grabbed a huge pile of newspapers, scooped up the unfortunate bird with newspaper-scoops, and carried it at arm's length to the farthest reaches of the yard. Jazz was banished outside for the next 24 hours. Not that she cared.
That was a few years ago. Since then she has chased a fully-alive bird into our new house, where I chased it around, praying that it wouldn't defecate, finally caught it between the mini-blinds and a window, and managed to open the window -- without hurting it or getting pecked myself -- to let it out. She has offered up countless moles and voles, chased a mouse up Scott's pant leg, and even killed a (small) rabbit. But fortunately all these she killed and bestowed on us, the great gods of food and warmth, in private.
Then, just a few weeks ago, I was in need of much help again -- we had a storm of doctor's appointments in preparation for Luke's heart surgery. Another friend had agreed to watch some of the kids for me that day while I took Luke to the hospital.
When I answered the door, I noticed an odd expression on her face and Jazz prowling around the bushes like a lion in Africa. I thought my friend was unsure if the cat stalking her feet was ours. But then she glanced down and to her left, casually remarking that my cat had brought me a gift.
In horror, I looked down too and saw the still-warm chipmunk laying there, very much dead. Jazz had managed to kill a chipmunk. A chipmunk! With no front claws!
This time, I only needed two magazines to safely scoop up the unfortunate animal and drop it into our dumpster.
There's no questioning it -- Jazz is a great predator. And clearly has a keen sense of timing. If only I appreciated her skill more.
