2-7-11 Fisher

When we have people over, they always meet Katy first, who can't let anyone into her house without checking them out. Then they speak kindly to Evan who is typically watching hesitantly from the top of the stairs. If we hang out upstairs in the loft, inevitably Faith comes in and finds a friendly lap to lay in (and leave black and white hairs all over).

But the fourth animal of our menagerie is a little like a Bigfoot sighting.

That would be Fisher, who is our oldest, and craziest, pet.

In the summer of '99 we brought home two kittens, male (so said the shelter card) straight from the vet after being neutered (so we thought.)

We decided to call them Fisher (because of his goldfish color) and Hunter (because he was primarily a tiger cat).

Hunter was really Frankenkitty. Do you see the orange tabby parts of his face? If you notice, the back leg tucked under him is also orange tabby from the joint down, and part of his chest went orange in odd places.

Hunter was definitely the um, alpha-male. He and Fisher wrestled constantly and Fisher always came out the loser. Even thought they were from the same litter, they could not stand one another.

So in an attempt to save poor, picked-upon little Fisher, we found another home for Hunter, and hoped to give Fisher a quiet space to be a lap-loving kitty without the threat of being attacked every time he relaxed.

But, alas, it was too late. The picture above is about as relaxed as this poor cat ever looks. Those few months permanently addled his brains.

He seems to suffer primarily from a bi-polar disorder, although I wouldn't rule out schizophrenia. If he happens to let you sit beside him, he might let you pet him. He might even start to purr. And then, at some point not too far into the love-fest, he will turn on you, claws out, as though you are torturing him with hot pokers.

That would explain the look on Bob's face. He's just waiting for "the turn."

Ian usually didn't care too much about Fisher's whereabouts, but every now and then, he would turn and stare at Fisher as though trying to read his mind.

Mostly, though, Fisher lives under my bed when people are around, and on top of it in the quiet hours of the day.

Occasionally if it's just us at home, he would venture all the way out to the couch. But this was camera worthy, because it's so rare.

And some pictures make him seems almost. . . normal.

Around 2006, we were delivered the shocking news that our 7 year old cat was, in fact, female.

Sammi is always trying to make friends with him/her. I keep have to remind her, don't be fooled! That look on his face below is his other personality, which is ruthless. He hides under tables and strikes out at anyone who will walk way, dog or human leg.

And, let's be honest, Katy does nothing to help the situation.

So for 12 years now, the first 8 under the mistaken gender assumption that he was actually a he (which you'll note I've never been able to shift away from), he's been the shadow of the house, sitting around glaring, or hiding, and probably glaring while he is hiding.

He has refused for 5 years now to let Faith ever come near him. At times, she'll creep towards him, but this is about as close as she's ever gotten.

I have to think, somewhere in that mentally-ill kitty brain, he appreciates that we haven't put him out in the cold despite countless scratches and insane patches where he slams himself into furniture for no discernible reason.

Or, maybe that's just he wants me to think while he continues to plot our imminent demise. . .

The Dog's Diary

8:00 am - Dog food! My favorite thing!
9:30 am - A car ride! My favorite thing!
9:40 am - A walk in the park! My favorite thing!
10:30 am - Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!
12:00 pm - Milk bones! My favorite thing!
1:00 pm - Played in the yard! My favorite thing!
3:00 pm - Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!
5:00 pm - Dinner! My favorite thing!
7:00 pm - Got to play ball! My favorite thing!
8:00 pm - Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing!
11:00 pm - Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!

The Cat's Diary:

My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength. The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet. Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates my capabilities. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a "good little hunter" I am. Bastards!

There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of "allergies." I must learn what this means, and how to use it to my advantage. Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow, but at the top of the stairs.

I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches. The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released, and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded. The bird must be an informant. I observe him communicate with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe. For now ...