Whatever Lola Wants...

You may recall, from the last post, that I’ve never owned a female cat, mostly because I’d heard horror stories: boy cats were sweet and cuddly and loving; girl cats were psychotic. Lola is my five-pound, all-black female Cornish Rex. And I am convinced that if she had the chance, my tiny girl would go completely feral. By fate (accident?) we ended up with Lola, and now, I have to admit there’s something oddly delicious about her ferocity.

The breeder didn’t even know Lola was in the mother cat’s womb; she was a two-ounce blob that popped out after all the other kittens. Obviously Lola was the runt of her litter, an experience that gave her street smarts. To show her displeasure, she growls deep in her throat, accompanied by very bitchy hissing. When her brother Piper invades her turf, she is not above smacking him in the eyeball (she’s also attempted to do this to the landlord's wife). She catches flies in her mouth, nasty putrid ones that are so big she has to chew with her whole head to get them down. She will fight us tooth and nail on the rare (and horrifying) occasion that we have to give her a pill; even restrained in a towel, clamped in my arms, she will still fight opening her jaw, and when one of us finally does manage to pry it open, she glares at you with a hatred so deep you feel your skin withering off your very bones.

We do not let our cats roam the neighborhood, as much as they desire it. In the spring, when we start to open windows, they both crouch on the sills and howl to get out. When we can't take the yowling/screaming/caterwauling anymore, we let them romp in the backyard, where they eat grass, crawl under the deck to smell gross things, chase butterflies, and barf up that grass (usually later, on the bedspread). All of this outdoor activity is supervised. If you don’t keep an eye on them, they will disappear--this includes the dog, Cassie.

[Tangent: Since our yard is not fenced in, we’ve had many escape attempts. Recently, Cassie went outside to do her business, looked at me over her shoulder, and proceeded to creep through the copse of trees and bushes at the west end of the property. In spite of all my yelling at her to come back, she kept going until she appeared in the Hispanic neighbors’ backyard--one street behind us. The poor folks were having a barbecue and I guess Cassie couldn’t stand the scent of charring meat, so she invited herself. As Kurt ran through the yard to retrieve her, I cringed at the sounds of our poor neighbors' startled yelling. Needless to say we weren’t offered any hamburgers. Another time I turned my head for three seconds, lost Piper, and found him a block away in somebody’s open garage. I retrieved him while barefoot and in a nightgown. The point here is, we never leave the kids outside alone].

Early last Friday, I was feeling pretty generous, so I allowed Lola to come out with me and Cassie. We all moved to the driveway, into a patch of sun. I must stop here and explain that we possess a very long, very narrow driveway. The neighborhood came into being in the 50’s, and I often wonder how the old timers backed their gigantic sedans out of these suckers without scraping along the side of the houses. Anyway, there was Lola , rolling on the warm concrete, letting out clipped cries of delight. Then, all of a sudden, she surged to her feet, put back her ears, and shot off down the driveway like a bat out of hell. Her target: the squirrel at the curb.

I took off after her, my mind filled with visions of Lola darting into oncoming traffic. And worse, the damn squirrel was bigger than her; I could only imagine a bloody altercation with claws and teeth and a visit to the ER vet. Luckily, before she reached the squirrel, Lola’s attention was diverted by a group of starlings hanging out in our neighbor Tom’s front yard. She changed course to dodge into the thick of the birds. When they scattered into their air, squawking in disapproval, Lola stopped and looked all around with her eyes wide, almost as if she were thinking, “How the hell did I get over here?” I scooped her up before she could sprint any farther down the street and shuttled her back inside.

When we lived in an old ramshackle house the next town over, Lola used to bring me presents. I'd never before lived in a house that had a rodent problem, and the male cats of my childhood were apparently too domesticated to hunt for their people. I will never forget that first surprise Lola brought to me--Kurt and I were sitting up in the loft (the warmest place in the 8-roomed house) watching TV, and Lola kept yowling and rubbing against my legs. When I finally looked down, I saw the body of a tiny mouse already in the throes of rigor mortis, its brown fur blending almost perfectly with the mottled shag carpet. I was less than pleased at the time--in fact, I think I climbed up on the chair and screamed until Kurt removed the carcass. Lola repeated this gesture many times while we lived there--sometimes the mice were half her size.

Lola has a soft side. Most of the time, she is a little lover and will melt into me when I'm sitting on the couch. But when she's had enough, or when she's overstimulated, look out. The ears go back, the claws come out, and the hind legs start kicking. I admit I usually panic at these times, yelling to Kurt, "Get her off me! GET HER OFF ME!" She's five pounds but she will rip your face off if she needs to. I have no doubt that if an owl or a hawk swooped down on her to carry her away, she'd take the bird's leg with her on her way back to solid ground.

I never knew I could love a little creature so tremendously. Lola is with me constantly, attached to my hip, or "my herpe," as I fondly call her. She sleeps curled into my right armpit at night, under the blankets, and every once in awhile she'll stretch out a little paw and touch my face. She comes when I call her. She tells us what she wants and needs. She is a force to be reckoned with, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Except for when I'm eating tuna fish.