Kids, These Days!

Fabulous Celebrity SpokesCreatures Paul Newman & John Cleese:
Size 6 Kid in a Size 8 World

Paul Newman and John Cleese went out for adoption, but both were back in record time.

Paul arrived with Barbra Streisand and a few others who’d been held captive by a bunch of teenage boys, and used for target practice [among other things]. He couldn’t have been 6 weeks old. He and Barbra were pure white [after a bath], and the most adventuresome kittens we’d ever had. But they were also the sweetest.

By the time they were ready for adoption, they’d helped us care for many babies, and tame Emma Peel. We worked with a vet who had very wealthy clients, and one was looking for two white kittens. We’d always known they had to go, because they could, and much as we loved them, it wouldn’t be fair to keep them. Not when they could be “only children,” and spoiled rotten by a new mom with much greater resources. And she wanted them yesterday. So we put them in a carrier and drove to the vet’s office. He was busy, and asked that we leave them with his assistant, which we did, after saying our good-byes.

We were crying before the door closed behind us, and we sat in the parking lot, reminding ourselves of all the reasons this was not just the right thing, but the only thing to do. Then we drove home, knowing that walking into a house without them would be a very different and sad experience. They were greeters [and performance artists]…

We hadn’t been home for two minutes when the phone rang, and I almost didn’t answer. I wasn’t in the mood to speak to anyone. But, what if it was an emergency? Life goes on. I answered [and thank God I did]. It was the vet, and he was livid. Screaming at the top of his lungs, cursing a blue streak, and almost incoherent. I only caught snatches.

The blue-free version, in a nutshell, would be: “You didn’t tell me these kittens were wild!” Then something about “leather gloves,” and “I’ll never take your animals again” and then, “I’m putting them down, now!”

OMG, I thought I was going to have a heart-attack. “No! No! Don’t do that! We’ll come and get them, right away. Just please don’t do that. We’ll be right there. I swear! We’re getting in the car, now. Promise! We’ll see you in about 35 minutes.” And, to the Batmobile, we ran…

We shouldn’t have been, but. In all honesty, we could not have been happier at this turn of events. It isn’t as though we’d said “no” to their being adopted. This would give us some more time with them before they went. Allow us to get used to the idea. And, next time, we’d do the adoption, ourselves. By the time John Cleese arrived, however, it was clear they wouldn’t be going anywhere. With us, they’re fine. With anyone else? Well, let’s just say I understand why the vet had mentioned “leather gloves.”

John Cleese came in when he was only a few days old. He actually looks pretty good in this picture. Six weeks, mayhap? Most of his fur has returned. There’s just that small, bare patch on his back. The holes in his ears and toes — and genitals. OUCH! — are finally invisible…

A woman was washing dishes in her kitchen, when she suddenly heard “a baby screaming.” She looked up and out her kitchen window, and saw “a bunch of young boys running” from a vacant lot, next door. She raced outside, followed the screams, and expected to find a human infant in great distress, but found a tiny something else [she couldn't tell exactly what] shoved down into a fire-ant hill, being eaten alive. She grabbed him, ran him into her kitchen, and washed off the ants.

He was a bloody mess, and in a great deal of pain, but she could see that he was “probably a kitten.” She didn’t know what to do, so called a friend, the friend knew about us, they arrived on our doorstep, et voila! It was touch-and-go for several days, but soon it was clear he’d make it. His is another story for another time, but he’s still with us, too.

He went out, once, for about five hours. When brought back, his new family tried to do a stealth-return. I heard a car in the alley, went to look, and saw Cleese in his new carrier, on the porch. His “new dad” was high-tailing it to the car. I ran out with a, “wait! Wait! What happened?!”

He turned around, but kept walking [backwards] toward the car, and I could see his wife sitting in the passenger seat. He held his hands up and said, “sorry, this just isn’t going to work. That cat’s crazy! You can keep the carrier.”

“What did he do?”

“He tore up our house! We wanted to bring him back hours ago, but we couldn’t catch him! Sorry, it’s just not going to work.” He jumped into the car, and they burned rubber.

He’s the cutest thing, and many wanted to adopt him, but he just has this sixth sense about the whole thing. We could get him into the carrier if he had nowhere to go. But, throw a potential new home into the equation and, I swear, that cat can climb walls. Three times more, it was “a done deal.” Followed by no deal at all. Every time, we’d finally catch him, he’d wrap his arms around my neck and start sucking on my ear, and it was, “he obviously doesn’t want to go. I can’t take him. I’d feel guilty.” He and Drew were my biggest babies. Neither will go off the ear, to this day. So, though I really should not have been happy to have yet another permanent resident, I was. He seems like a normal cat — until another human walks into the house. It’s very strange. He’s an otherwise-macho mama’s boy, all the way.

This is one of my favorite pictures from those days, taken in the original Bad Cat Cottage.

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