Schmoo-less

The Schmoo: April 1995–May 2011: a collection of short stories and remembrances. A celebration of the cat who, once they made him, they broke the mold and beat the mold-maker.

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.