Tales from my Past
By Myra Vanderpool Gormley (c) 2013
A-Hissing and A-Tickling
She
was just a ball of fur when I first saw her on that October night — the night Mother sent me
out on my first “trick or treating” adventure
all alone and on the wrong date.
The
nice lady at the antique store located just a couple of blocks from where we
lived was caught off guard and without any treats for a kid who arrived on the
wrong evening. However, she graciously offered to save me the kitten of my
choice — if it was OK with my mom.
Mother,
as I was to learn many times, was a soft touch when it came to animals, so she
agreed to let me have a kitten — if I would learn to take
care of it.
Of
course, I would. I was eight years old and would do everything. I stopped at
the antique store every day after school to check on the kittens — torn by which one to
select. They are all so cute. One day the antique store lady told me I could
pick out my kitten and take it home. They had their eyes open and were weaned.
Decision
time! Oh, how I agonized over which one to pick. Finally, one of the kittens
stole my heart. She was feisty and impish — arching her back, jumping about,
hissing playfully and pouncing on her siblings.
I
named her “Curly” though the reason escapes me. She was just a nondescript multi-colored
kitten who might have had some calico ancestry.
Curly
made herself right at home at our house. Her homemade litter box (a cut-down
cardboard box with dirt from the backyard) was placed in the bathroom and she
soon learned that when anyone went to that room, she could go too. In fact, soon
no one was allowed in there without Curly. She asserted her rights from the
beginning. Going to her box and watching was a favorite game. Her ability to mimic
the humans’ facial expressions while utilizing the facilities in private moments
became legendary family tales. One day we heard my Aunt Thelma laughing so hard
at Curly’s bathroom antics that Mother thought her sister was going to pass out
and sent me to check on her —Aunt Thelma, not Curly.
Curly was allowed to sleep in my room and she
soon took over our twin bed and learned that my feet were ticklish .We would
play the tickle game under the covers until I would give up exhausted from giggling
or mother yelled at us.
Mother
was about eight months’ pregnant when Curly arrived and the cat discovered that
mother could not reach her if she perched underneath the easy chair up in its
springs and swatted away the broom. Mother was pregnant with my twin brothers,
but we didn’t know it was twins back in 1948. Everyone kept saying what a big
baby it was going to be. It became increasingly difficult for her to bend over,
let alone chase a rambunctious kitten.
Curly
seem to realize that and took advantage of having full run of the house — especially at night.
Once
upon a time, Mother and her brother had gone to the Texas coast to visit other
family members and she brought back a collection of beautiful seashells. She
displayed them on the second shelf of the tiered coffee table. Curly considered
the shells her personal toys — as well as the floor-length
lace curtains on either side of the fireplace.
Scrape.
Scrape…. The sound was unmistakable. It was Curly, standing on her back feet, playing
with the shells on the coffee table.
Many
nights, Mother, who was having difficulty sleeping in the last trimester
anyway, and was becoming increasingly large, would venture forth before the
crack of dawn to yell at Curly or try to swat her away from the shells to get
her to stop that *&^%$ noise.
Curly
would arch her back, hiss, and run for the lace curtains — take a swing on the left
one, then the right one and when Mother came forth with the broom, Curly would
head for the hallway and my bedroom.
The
hallway — with its lovely oak hardwood floors waxed to a
glowing finish —sported a couple of throw rugs. This was Curly’s private slide
area. That cat could take a flying leap from the living room, hit the first
throw rug and slide into the second one and then into the linen closet at the
end of the hallway. She’d unroll herself from the rug, bouncing stiff-legged into
my room and be under the covers in slightly under nine seconds.
The
birth of my twin brothers just after Christmas that year changed many things
for my family. I caught the mumps and Curly and I were shipped off to my grandparents’
farm. Sometime later in January or February, my folks and the little twins
moved to the farm, too.
By
that time, Curly had discovered the joy of being a barn cat. She had made new
friends and no longer cared to sleep with me.
Through
the years though, I have wondered if Curly’s descendants might roam the Muskogee,
Oklahoma environs — arching their backs, hissing, pouncing and making
little girls giggle as they tickle their feet.
What a great story, Myra! I smiled a lot when I read it, and even chuckled a time or two. I am a cat lover with my own middle-aged tabby, and last fall, my older teenage son convinced me to allow him to get a kitten. It was far better than a puppy, in my opinion, so I relented. The grandkitty has brought lots of smiles and chuckles into our lives with her antics, which are very much like Curly's.
ReplyDeleteLove this story! Did you ever tell Momster about it?
ReplyDeleteBlue
What a great story, De. It makes me wish I'd grown up in Oklahoma around my family especially my cousins.
ReplyDeleteHow cute! I love kitty antics--except when my Tigger is bouncing off my face in the middle of the night!
ReplyDelete