The Adventure of Rescuing the Treed Cat

Text © Robert Barry Francos

Until our house is ready, we are staying with a lovely woman named Lorna, and her beautiful and big dog, Tiva.

The day after having driven from Brooklyn to central Canada, Lorna gave us a call; it seems there was a cat way up in one of the majestic trees in her amazingly lush backyard garden. We guessed that Tiva may have treed her. Whatever the reason, we could not leave her up the tree, either literally or figuratively.

The tree is way back in the garden, near a work shed which separates the space from the alleyway filled with garages and huge city garbage bins. We walked into the garden and stood beneath the tall tree, one of many in the back. Sure enough, way high up, was the frightened puss. She was perched on a limb, facing the trunk, and her front right paw balanced on another, smaller branch. Even way down on the ground it was pretty obvious that she was scared.

Lorna has a huge aluminum ladder that is either 15 or 20 feet high (I’ll measure it one of these days), so I went to get it. Between the garden, the shed, the tree’s branches and the other trees, it was difficult maneuvering it, and then, with some help, planting it in position against the correct tree. Then I started the climb.

Precariously, I was able to get on the penultimate rung, holding on to the trunk with a tightly clenched arm hold, and with the other hand I could reach up and pet the Sylvester-type black-and-white adult kitty. There was definitely a collar so she was someone’s pet, and she meowed loudly to me, as if to say, “Do something, dammit!” I could see her shivering, and she’d occasionally pant in hyperventilation.

Still hugging the trunk for dear life myself, feeling the bark biting into my arm (proving sometimes the bark = the bite), I could not budge her. There were different methods I tried, such as picking her up by the scruff, but she was latched onto the branch with her claws, and it was also clumsy for me to grab her, as she was still a couple of feet over my head. I tapped my shoulder to tell her it was safe to jump, but she wasn’t having any of that, which was probably wise, since my balance was pretty weak at the moment.

Around this point, she actually turned around, with the support of my palm under her paws, facing away from the trunk and down the branch toward the top of the shed roof, which would have been reachable. Instead, she kept turning until she was exactly in the original position, yelling at me like it was my fault. If I wasn’t scared myself, I would have found it as amusing then as I do now.

My partner, who stayed around to steady the ladder, shouted up, “She wants to come down the branch to the roof! I have an idea!” She had me climb all the way down, and then she ran off to the porch, returning with a lounge chair cushion. It was one of those long ones with the bend in the middle, with the long part for the legs and the short one for the back.

I somehow took it and climbed back up all the way, again using my right arm as my trunk anchor. At first, I held up the cushion for her to jump on, and again, she didn’t take the invite. Considering I was using one had to hold the cushion, it probably would have flipped if she jumped on it, so again her kitty wits were wise. When this did not work, my partner suggested that I flatten out the long cushion on the branch below. She posited that it may give her a false sense of ground. I was not sure it would work, but I have long-time learned if she suggests it, there’s a chance it will.

About a minute after I laid the cushion out, the cat got up, turned around, and started cautiously walking down the branch. As she moved, I stretched the cushion as far as I could without either dropping it or myself. By the time she reached the end of the cushion below her, she was just a few feet above the shed roof. I figured she’d jump onto it, and then to the ground, as it was still about 10 feet up.

But el gato had other plans. When she reached the point past the cushion, she launched herself into the air over the roof and to the point beyond in the alley, where I could not see. Scared the crap out of me for her, as it seems such a height and distance.

Next thing I saw was the cat scurrying across a neighbor’s yard, assumingly towards home, none the worse for her experience. I slowly climbed back down the ladder, had a good adrenaline body shake, and then put back the ladder.

There were two large scratches on my left arm from a branch while I was balancing the cushion, and pockmarks and minor scratches on my right arm from my body-to-trunk hugging. The worst of it though were the spots of tree sap that stuck to my arm hair. Insects and bugs were buzzing from all over, attracted to the sweet stickiness, all the way back to the house. It took a hard scrub to finally get it all off.

The cat was safe though, and that was reward enough for me. Plus, I got this great adventure and story out of it.

For Shelley and Craig

Ming and Memphis, two/too cool cats

Text and photos © Robert Barry Francos

Memphis and MingSitting here in the vetenerian’s office leads me to think of pets. Presently one of our 10-year-old cats has a recurring bladder infection, and this is her third time here.

I never really had a pet before our present cats; my dad did not believe in keeping animals in the house. I do not remember what was my mom’s opinion on the subject; I just knew we did not have pets. Yes, we did have a pair of turtles (named Romeo and Juliet) and a couple of goldfish over the years of my early youth, but they never lasted longer than a week. Usually, I would just play with other people’s cats and dogs, such as my Aunt Elsie’s pooch, Rusty.

Mostly I was a dog person. Dogs always seemed to appreciate affection better, but everyone knows the differences that have been covered so many times. I won’t bore you with that, but it should come as no surprise that since I have my cats, I’ve become much more open to both.

While visiting relations that lived a distance away in 1998, we learned about a litter of kittens born under the back stairs of the neighbors where we were staying. Seems the mother disappeared a couple of days after the birth, never to return. Locals adopted two of the kittens, and one or two died. This left another pair.

Our relation would go over and give them milk when she could, but at less than 3 weeks, the owners of the house decided that when the kittens opened their eyes, they were old enough to start eating real food, and give them some cans. The cats walked over the open tins looking for appropriate food. They were starving.

During this visit, I was upstairs when I heard crying from below. Going down to investigate, there was my partner and relations, sobbing over the cats. Our daughter held the two of them in one hand. Though 3 weeks old, they were tiny and thin, and it was pretty obvious that this was probably their last day.

MemphisThen my partner said to me exactly what I knew she was going to say: Think we can take them home and rescue them?

I had no choice but to say yes, but there was no doubt it was the right decision, right then and there.

First thing I did was to go to the mall. I stopped by a big pharmacy where I bought a sterile glass eyedropper. Next was to the pet store to buy some cans of Mother’s Milk. Honestly, I had never heard of it before, but my partner filled me in on what was needed.

We put the cats into a newspaper-lined VCR box, and on the long drive home, my partner kept feeding them from the dropper. At one point, the smaller one, who practically had no face at all, climbed onto her shoulder to sleep in the sun. The bigger one (relatively) was so weak she would walk a couple of steps and have to rest, was soon roaming around the box. We knew that they would probably be okay.

One of my partner’s earliest books was TS Eliot’s Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats , which she had memorized in grade school. She named the bigger cat Tugger (short for Rum Tum Tugger) and the smaller one Mephistopheles.

MingWhen we arrived home, we returned to a full house. There was a couple visiting from Berlin, and a two cousins visiting from out West. And all were cat friendly. Time zones worked out well for us, because the Berliners were six hours ahead, and the cousins were two hours behind, so the kittens had nearly around-the-clock attention for their first week in Brooklyn. Everyone was grateful, and the cats started to fill out. They are both long hair calicos and despite their puniness, they were quite pretty, and affectionate. Of course, they as both females, as nearly all calicos are; seems the gene that causes calico is not present in males.

A couple of days later, I said to my partner, “Y’know, I’m not that fond of the name Mephistopheles. Even beyond that it is the name of the devil, it’s certainly a mouthful. What are we going to call her for short, ‘Memphy’? Yuck.”

Eye of Horus
She thought about it and said, “Well, what about Memphis?” The kitten has a marking around one of her yes that is similar to the Eye of Horus. We had been to the original Memphis in Egypt, and loved the whole mythology, so that worked. Plus, being the homeland of rock and roll here (Cleveland? Bah!), Memphis it was! Isis would be proud.

After a couple of more days, I said, “Y'know, I’m not that fond of the name Tugger, either. It’s so common, like Rover or Spot. Boring!”

My partner thought about this, and said, “Well, she’s had the name for over a week, won’t she find it confusing?”

“I have never seen her respond to it, yet. And better now, that a year later.”

And here is the weird part: she picked up this tiny, month old kitten and said, “Okay, what do you want to be called? The kitty, which had not yet made a sound at all, answered with a “meeew.”

With a smile, my partner smiled, and put the cat down, who started to walk away. “She wants to be called Ming.” When she said the name, the newly christened Ming turned around as if to say, “You called?” Spooky.

MemphisTheir personalities have developed over the years, and though they are womb-sisters, they are quite different in taste and temperament. Memphis is super friendly and likes to meet people at the door, whereas Ming is more reticent at first. Ming has an “elevator butt” when scratched behind the tail, Memphis likes to lick your finger so you can rub the hard to reach part at the top of her head. Memphis likes to drink out of the bathroom tap, and Ming prefers the toilet. Ming likes strings dragged along the floor; Memphis likes to chase toys that are tossed. They chase each other down the hall, and sleep together at nap times, but never during night-sleep.

Now they are 10 years old, and hairy at middle age. Ming is the strong, older sister. With Memphis, she has favored her hind legs since the beginning, but she loves to run in a slightly crooked way. But Memphis has developed a urinary tract infection 3 times now in the last year and a half, and having to give her injections has been one of the hardest things I’ve had to do with them. But she and her sister have taken care of us over the years, and I am willing to do the same.