The Schmoo, son of Safeway, was born in an apartment on 18th and Noe in San Francisco. A tuxedo baby, one of four in the litter, he was the polydactyl (seven toes on each front foot) runt and, at six weeks old, came to live with me in May 1995. We had a one-bedroom apartment, which seemed large enough to include a cat (though the addition of a cat to our household had been a subject of great debate). The Schmoo was small, pointy, and loud (typical kitten), but was also incredibly clumsy because his hard-wired cat-brain didn’t know how to cope with the extra toes. He tripped and got stuck in the carpet a lot. As he walked, he moved his front legs in sweeping sideways arcs to avoid the extra toes.

We slept in a loft bed with a hand-made, round-runged ladder. When the Schmoo was too small to cross the lowest rung (about six inches off the floor), he would cry and cry until I came down to get him. Then he’d cry and cry until I put his ass back on the carpet. One day, he wasn’t in the bed when I awoke. A couple weeks later, he was running up and down that ladder without a problem.

We kept plastic and paper shopping bags for re-use next to a hutch in the kitchen. When he was around nine months old, we started coming home from work to find bags spread all over the apartment. I’d put the bags back, he’d spread them around again. Eventually we had to store them on top of the hutch because he couldn’t get there. I tried to organize our tiny kitchen by adding a counter-top paper-towel holder. Within a day, I began coming home to thoroughly vanquished rolls of paper towels. Shredded paper towels spread around the apartment like so much (so very much) confetti.

I take baths nearly every day. When we lived in SF, the Schmoo would lay on the narrow counter that ran behind the tub. During the bath, he’d come down and drink out of the tub with me still in it. Once we moved to Portland, there wasn’t a great place for him to sit, so we saved one of the moving boxes and threw a towel over it for him to sit on while I bathed. He would lick the water that dripped off my wet fingers, or lean way over the tub to drink from my cupped hands. And after every shower or bath, he insisted on the “wet pet”. I think it helped him get rid of excess fur.

You could tell he was about to puke because he’d look abruptly worried, puke once, jump away, puke again (and then usually do it a third time for good measure). But the worried look: priceless. He could also look really annoyed: that developed when I got him a kitten as a “friend” (note: grandpas and infants are not compatible as friends).

The Schmoo loved to eat strange plastics and latex. When we’d dye our hair, he’d drag the discarded gloves from the trash and eat the fingers off them. The Schmoo also loved closets; especially the big one in the living room, where we kept our costumes, club-wear, and the possessions of a long-term couch guest. Turns out he actually liked the *contents* of that closet: he ate his way through a latex dress, a latex shirt, and a latex skirt before we discovered what all that rustling was in there.

The Schmoo loved plastic bags: some to lick for hours on end, and others for what was simply “the bag trick”. Say what you will about cats and bags; this was a special relationship. In the living room of our SF apartment, you would shake out a plastic, two-handled bag loudly, and allow it to drift to the floor. From wherever he was in the apartment, the Schmoo would come running, dart inside the bag, lay down, adjust himself *just so* and begin. He’d stretch out first one front leg, so that it was taut against the side of the bag and begin to move that section of the bag up and down. Up to hit his face, then down to the floor. Repeatedly. His eyes would be half closed and a dreamy sort of trance would overtake him as he continued to repeat the motion. Occasionally, he’d stop, switch front legs, and adjust his position so that the bag was taut, and he’d continue. Sometimes he’d do this for 30 minutes before wandering away. It was known as the bag “trick” because he’d do it every time. You’d shake and drop the bag, and he’d come running.

He also licked the emulsion off photographs, ate coffee grounds, and pissed on clothing left on the floor. 

Our tiny SF apartment was his domain, and for the first two years of his life, we had no guests, so when guests started appearing, he defended his apartment against the intruders. He trapped people in the bathroom and the kitchen with his hissing, spitting, clawing fury. On his first visit to our house, Jesse (Wussy 1), who loves cats, slept in his helmet and gloves because he was scared of the Schmoo. Most people probably remember this version of him. J (Wussy 23) met both versions of the Schmoo and can attest to the remarkable change.

His name was “Scootercat” until he turned 9 and it didn’t fit any more. That’s when he donned the title, “The Schmoo”, and wore it like a crown for the next 7 years.

When he was 10, a new influence came into his life and he mellowed into a wonderful, loving, demanding, lapcat. Yes, he still pissed on the occasional random thing (including me!), and he vomited pretty regularly, but retrospectively the extra cleaning was a small price to pay for having such a wonderful companion waiting for me when I awoke and when I came home from work every day for 16 years. I miss that guy.

::clink:: Here’s to you, Schmoo. Thanks for sharing your life with me.

Ten miles out of town we approached a black and white kitty who had been hit by a car and was laying in the tiny double-wide-double-yellow-line center-divider of the highway. I went around him, and as we passed, he lifted his head and looked right at me. At us. Oh deities of all faiths, please tell me I didn’t see what I just saw. In the car, a moment of silence, then…. Me: “He’s still alive!” Dave: “He is! Should we go back? What do we do?” I thought for a couple of seconds, pulled the car over to the shoulder. Glanced left then right and pulled a high-speed u-turn back toward the kitty. Dave: “What are we going to do? What can we do?” Me: “Something. Anything. See if he’s still alive. Check around for owners. Call a doctor.”

As we approached the spot where the kitty was still laying, I slowed, then stopped on the shoulder, the nose of our car nearly parallel to the little injured guy on the highway. I was out the door and tearing into the trunk as fast as I could move. Yanked the new blanket out of it’s bag, tore it open, and tossed the cardboard sheets it had been wrapped around aside, in time to hear Dave yell, “It’s running over here!” And he had – this battered little guy had overcome the fear of being struck again and summoned the strength to move; and he’d run right to us, then collapsed into the gravel right at our feet. Blanket in hand, I cautiously approached; crouched and made myself small; spoke softly and gently touched him. I assured him that we were going to help and that he could trust us. I spread the blanket around behind him, then scooped him up, so that his weight was supported all around, but that he could see out and we could see in. He was surrounded in softness and warmth and love. Then we got to business.

One car and one truck had also stopped. No, the cat didn’t belong to them, and no, they didn’t actually think they could do anything. The car folks left right away, while the Cowboy hat-sporting gentleman from the truck went into the trailer park and asked one of the residents if he knew whose cat it could be. Cowboy hat to cowboy hat, they conferred in Spanish about the situation. The resident’s response, essentially, was “who cares?” The woman traveling in the truck with Cowboy-hat-man (and two dogs) suggested that we could take him to one of the vet hospitals back in CC, but there was no local SPCA or anything that might help for free. Cowboy-hat-man gave us lengthy directions to take the kitty to “county” – which we took to mean “sheriff” and, therefore, “someone to end it.” “OK, thanks” we say as Dave helps get me into the car so we don’t jostle the kitty. We head for town FAST. I’m holding the kitty as gently as possible, stroking his ears, and trying not to dissolve into a pile of tears. Dave’s on my iPhone dialing the nearest veterinarian. Convincing the receptionist that even though it’s not our cat, it desperately needs some help, and could they please please please be the place for us to bring this little guy.

The kitty starts to pant (his nose was clogged with blood, so maybe he couldn’t breathe?), so I turn on the air conditioner, thinking maybe he’s in shock and is getting too warm? I hold a paper to keep the sunlight from hitting him directly. I’m openly crying now. The small drops of his blood on the blanket are just SO red. Hic-hic-hiccup. Soothing noises to the kitty; a few for myself. Actually, aside from the road dirt and the blood from his nose, he looks OK. His eyes are bright and he’s paying attention to things moving and changing. He tentatively licks his nose. He’s got longer hair and cute little tufts coming out of his ears, but he has the same B&W markings as our two cats, safely back at home.

We arrive at the vet’s office. Dave helps me get out and lets us into the office. The receptionist says that every doctor and nurse is out to lunch, but are due back soon, so if we could leave kitty in one of the back kennels, they’d tend to him as soon as possible. I gently placed kitty, still snug in his new blanket, into one of the waiting cages. Asked the receptionist to please get some water for him. Offered some money to “help with the exam costs plus … you know, if…” More crying. Kitty starts to pant again. Receptionist says that’s a natural reaction to pain. She asked for details of where we’d found him and we had only a tiny bit of info. Because we were heading back that way, we assured her that we would call with road names, trailer park names, whatever we could get. I touched the little guy through the cage bars and said goodbye.

Back in the car now, Dave was driving now because I was in hysterics.We got back to the cross roads and I started taking notes to call the vet office back with details. Dave looked in the trunk for something to make signs out of and, behold, there were the two pieces of cardboard around which that blanket had been packaged. Dave wrote two copies of a note, with the details, that the cat was still alive, and could be found at the Vet Hospital, and the phone number and address of the hospital. He attached the note to the bank of mail boxes by the trailer park, and put the other note on the gate of the house across from the trailer park. I called and gave the receptionist all the information we had, and told her that we’d left notes, and hoped for the best. She told me that the vet was examining the kitty right then. I didn’t ask for an update, but I thanked her profusely for taking care of a cat who desperately needed some kindness.

Dave’s still driving, because I can’t stop crying. Bawling for a cat we barely knew, whose life had taken such a horrifying turn, and who we helped find some comfort, maybe a little less fear, and hopefully some care or at least a humane ending. Tears of sadness for the little guy, so scared, but brave enough to run to us for help. Tears of anger over the negligent parents. When you bring a domestic animal into your home, you agree to love them, to feed them, and to take good care of them. Their little lives are in your hands. And some asshole broke his agreement by letting an 8-pound animal outside within 100 feet of a freeway. Jerk.

The red ribbon that had been tied around the blanket we used to comfort the kitty? Pinned to a wall in my living room as a reminder that no matter how heart-wrenching it is to stop, it is the only possible thing to do. We all need kindness, we all need comfort, and sometimes we just need friends to scoop us up in softness and whisper gently to us that things are going to be all right.

A long time ago I was downloading nearly every free application for my iPhone. (I think the original goal – to fill up all nine screens of the phone to try to get Weather and Stocks to fall off the backside – failed.) The experiment left me with a lot of apps still to delete, but one is a keeper: iPet Cats.

It’s an easy enough game. Keep the virtual pet alive. Like tamagotchi for the iPhone. But here’s where I find the fun. If you go to the Search function and search for ANY likely cat name (I usually do “scooter” in honor of The Schmoo’s original name), you’ll find some dead ones. Feed the tombstone and the cat comes back to life. Hungry and sad, but alive. Magic! Keep petting and feeding and eventually the resurrected fake cat has the happy-smiling-sun icon of a happy healthy fake cat.

For every time you pet a cat (other than your own), you get three points. When you feed a cat, you give up one point. Ultimately, bringing back a dead cat results in you having nine additional points and the practice gives you oodles of karma points.

I think my real cats know I’m steppin’ out on them, though, because if I play the game in my living room, I immediately have real cats in my lap. (Yes, I quit playing the game when that happens. The irony of ignoring my real cats for the fake ones is not lost on me.) So, yeah, don’t tell the iPet folks about the loophole because saving fake dead cats is more fun than a Facebook poke.