This collection of short stories about Arthur, our orange cat, were written over thirty years ago, in Hebrew. They started as handwritten entries in a journal, which were later typed into a computer. I recently found this throve deep in my digital drawer, translated it to English, and edited it for publication. Enjoy it at your own purrril.
Stories
- The Meow Outside
- Arthur’s Innate Abilities and Their Practical Applications in the Home
- Arthur Travels to America
- How We Weaned Arthur from Being a Gormandizer, or How to Get Some Peace At Home
- The Amusement Water Park and Other Games
The Meow Outside
On a sunny spring afternoon, while Roni and I were busy moving into our new apartment, we heard a cat’s meow outside. Roni went to check the source of the sound, and after a few minutes returned carrying a tiny whimpering kitten in her palms. The kitten, she told me, was abandoned by his mother. Some neighborhood kids found it meowing in despair, and tried to care for it by shoving his face into a bowl of milk one of them rushed home to get. The tiny kitten that seemed only a couple of days old, was obviously unable to drink anything but his mother’s milk, a fact which Roni explained to the helpful kids who wondered why their rescue did not show interest in their offering. After convincing the bunch she will take better care of it, Roni let the tiny ball of orange fur curl in her hand and walked back in. “Shall we keep it?” she asked.
Our apartment was a giant mess. It needed a massive facelift to be brought up to a reasonable state of living. We were in the midst of cleaning, scrubbing, painting, and wall-papering. It was not yet a good place to add a kitten to, but despite that, we quickly decided to keep it.
We lined a shoebox with an old towel, placed him in it, and took it to the vet that afternoon. We did not have an appointment.
“Dr. Scheiner is booked up for the day, but I can have you see the other doctor.” We were familiar with the clinic from visits with other family cats. The receptionist looked at us.
“Sure. We’ll see the other doctor.” We did not wait for long.
“This is likely a male,” observed the vet as he examined him. “Most orange tabbies are males.”
He continued to feel his belly with his fingers. “He is probably about a day or two old, he has yet to open his eyes. And is in good shape otherwise.”
We received some instructions on caring for him and a time for a follow-up visit. Meows kept coming from the shoebox all the way home.
We and started feeding the little orange ball a warm mixture of milk and water through a baby bottle. We repeated that routine every four hours. Our kitten was so small that we had to carefully force the nipple between his teeth, wary not to harm him in the process. The feeding scene was repetitively funny. The hungry kitten would empty the bottle in a matter of minutes, while gradually bulking up his belly. By the time the bottle emptied he looked like a small furry yellow balloon. Right as he was done it was time to rush and place him on his designated pee rag. What comes in must come out.
Within a couple of weeks, our kitten had learned to walk and soon began running around the small apartment. He would try to run across the living room, but being new to this feat he would trample over his feet a few times before he completed his crossing. This clumsy performance earned him the name Arthur, after Dudley Moore’s Oscar-nominated portrayal of a stumbling drunk in the namesake movie.
Arthur liked to hang out with us, usually very near our feet. We had to be careful not to accidentally step on him when we moved. In a few weeks, Arthur grew to the point it was impossible to keep him in his shoebox for the night. Now free to roam around the house, we had to pay attention to his special wail, the one that would rush us to fetch him to his designated rag. With his gained strength, Arthur started insisting on getting into bed with us, causing some expected nervousness. But not for long. Soon after that, we introduced him to the litter box, which finally put an end to the rag rushing running, and brought some welcomed peace to our new home.
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Arthur’s Innate Abilities and Their Practical Applications in the Home
Arthur continued to grow and develop. He soon began to prove himself as a mischievous and voracious cat. With his sense of smell and naturally born technical talents, Arthur could find the shortest way to any food or treat in the kitchen. While left alone in the house, Arthur would open the appropriate cabinet door, select a snack, and help himself to a sumptuous serving. We tried a face to face conversations with the rebellious kitten and some subsequent admonishments, but none of it achieve the desired effect. Arthur continued to welcome us at the door wearing an innocent look on his face while dismissing the ruins in the kitchen as irrelevant evidence. We decided on a more proactive approach, and child-proofed the pantry door and trash can compartment. Arthur tried to negotiate the doors the first chance he had. He quickly recognized what stopped them from opening, and turned his attention to the offending mechanism. That turned out to be a greater challenge than he could master, so after several failed attempts he gave up. We managed to restore order to our home, at least for a while.
Early one Saturday morning I woke up to the sound of loud knocks on our front door. Everything around was quiet and we expected no visitors, but I got out of bed to check on it. As soon as I opened the door a visibly scared Arthur quickly slipped into the house. Sleep struck, I could not understand when or how he managed to get out, and given my state I did not dwell on it. I promptly returned to bed and quickly fell back to sleep.
About half an hour later woke again to the same loud sound. I opened the door, and Arthur slipped through it again, his fur a bristle. Déjà vu? Startled out of bed for the second time, I could not go back to sleep, so I took to investigate the mystery: how did Arthur manage to get out of the house. The secret was quickly solved by Arthur’s own demonstration. He jumped on the small table by the kitchen sink, leaped to the window, then took a tall dive to the yard below. Although our apartment was on the ground floor, the height from the window ledge to the ground was over two meters, a true test for any jumper. Arthur found the challenge fun and rewarding, so we had to spend the rest of that warm Shabbat with the windows closed.
The next day I visited the hardware store and brought back some green wire mesh. I used it to fashion a fenced box outside the window. Once installed and tested, I reasoned that in addition to preventing Arthur from leaping out to the yard, this contraption would also prevent the occasional eagle from flying into the kitchen. I quickly coined a name for it: Eagles Blocking Mesh, or EBM for short. The term became a catchphrase for quickly explaining the purpose of the device to wondering friends. Arthur, in the meantime, did not take the installation too personally, and the kitchen window became his favorite resting place.
At nine months Arthur was neutered. His interest in the violent mating rituals that took court between stray cats in the front yard was dramatically reduced. He learned to recognize the home environment, and we allowed him to go outside while we were home. He did not try to approach other cats, and would curiously watch them from a distance, hiding if one of them moved near. The other cats did not try to approach him either, perhaps seeing him as odd. After all, he was a cat living at a home with people instead of outside like normal cats, a fact that no doubt puzzled the other strays.
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Arthur Travels to America
After nearly three years of living in our apartment, we packed our belongings and prepared to start our next stage in life – studying in America. Roni left first to start graduate school, while I stayed behind for a couple of months to complete my college requirements.
I spent my last days before my flight vacating our now mostly empty apartment, packing myself, and running last-minute errands. One of those was to the vet, to have Arthur checked up and prepare his veterinary passport.
“What’s the best way to fly my cat to America?” I asked. I did not find the idea of stowing Arthur in the dark belly of a jumbo jet for a full day appealing at all. And there was a hefty charge for it by the airline.
“Are you taking a carry-on bag with on board, aren’t you?” asked Dr. Scheiner rhetorically.
“Of course.”
“Well then, put the cat in the bag!” he declared. “I’ll give you a shot to give him before you leave for the airport. He’ll be asleep for twenty-four hours after that.”
It sounded easy enough, and a far more appealing option than the above-mentioned one.
Finally, the day came. Our personal belongings were already on their way to our new home, and the few furniture we had found new homes. Evening came. I locked the door to our apartment for the last time and drove to my parents. Arthur jumped around in the car, nervously checking the urban scenery passing by in the windows during the ten-minute drive. Once at my parents’ home, the anxious cat made a dash to the yard, raising the attention of the three cats in the second-floor apartment. After a short chase, I managed to grab him, apologized to the neighbors on my way back up. I washed the long day off me in the shower retired to my childhood room. Falling asleep became futile. Arthur did not think it was safe enough to do – too many changes in one day. He spent the night resting on my chest, seeking protection and comfort. Needless to say, I did not sleep much that night. 3 A.M. rolled by quickly. It was time to get up.
Minutes before we were to leave, I gave Arthur the tranquilizer shot Dr. Scheiner provided earlier. Everything went as predicted. Arthur threw up, huddled over to my coat – his favorite – and fell asleep. I placed him in a gym bag I lined with a towel, and off we went to the airport.
The skies were still dark when I bid farewell to my family entourage and headed up the escalator to the international departure terminal. I opened the zipper to peek. Arthur slept soundly, filling the entire bottom of the bag. Passport control, and on to the gate.
A chilly autumn sun painted the tarmac yellow when the shuttle bus delivered us to the stairs of the large plane. Passengers slowly made their way up the stairs. A large generator worked loudly nearby. About mid-way up the stairs, I noticed a motion on my side. Arthur’s head peeked out of the bag, assessing his surroundings. I gave him a reassuring pat and zipped the bag closed. The chilly air and the open tarmac noise must have rattled him awake, I thought. He’ll get back to sleep for sure. This shot will last for twenty-four hours.
Soon I was buckled up in my window seat, the soft bag at my feet. The crew made a safety demonstration as the engines roared to life. My attention was on the action on the runway, not realizing developments at my feet. Arthur, still awake, negotiated the breathing gap once more, opened the zipper, and climbed out. The skilled cat added zippers to his list of defeated devices that already included doors, cabinets, and snack packets. I noticed the breakout when he tried to climb on my lap. Still believing this was temporary, I returned Arthur to the bag and zipped it shut, expecting he will go back to sleep. His intentions were different, and a short struggle ensued, he opening the zipper and me closing it. Even though the medication he remained strong and agitated. I then realized that the bumpy take-off must have caused him to throw up some and even urinate on his towel. The inside of the bag no longer remained a comfortable environment for him. He would not go back to sleep, not in this bag. So much for the twenty-four-hour sedative. I let Arthur climb on my lap. He quickly relaxed and curled into a ball. Now I had a new problem on my hands – Arthur smelled like the inside of his bag. I covered him with my coat and turned the air vent over my head to full blow. It quickly dissipated the odor, but the gentleman seated next to me kept giving me stern looks from time to time. We had four hours left for our connection in Paris. I tried to use the time to rest, but passengers and crew members passing through the aisle stopped periodically to admire the sleeping cat.
As is common for most airline passengers, you have to, at some point, visit the facilities. You may try to delay your visit if, for instance, the passenger next to you is asleep and is blocking the way. Or, to bring another example, you have a semi-sedated cat curled up in your lap who doesn’t want you to move. I felt my growing need and made my move. I placed Arthur carefully into the bag and zipped it. Once in the bathroom with the door shut, I let the cat out of the bag and placed him on the floor. The disoriented Arthur sat down, dropped his tail on the floor, and emptied his bladder on the carpet. I hastily threw a handful of paper towels at the floor to stop the spill. After some effort both cat and floor were clean again. Relieved and numb, Arthur waited by the small door to get back to our seat.
We finally landed at the Charles de Gaulle airport. Arthur returned to the bag against his will, and we exited the plane. Arthur did not care for the gym bag anymore, pushed the zipper open, and peeked his head out. Realizing the loud terminal and the abundance of strangers, he quickly decided against taking any chances. He pulled his head back into the bag and remained quietly inside it. Soon it was time for us to board our next flight.
This departure presented no surprises. Arthur threw up a little upon taking off, but this time I was ready to catch him with a napkin. He returned to his cozy spot on my lap and continued to be a point of interest for passengers. Flight attendances stopped by periodically to say hello and pet him. We headed west, high over the blue wilderness, chasing the descending sun. I tried to catch some sleep with Arthur curled up in my laps, keeping them warm. By now the anesthetic effect had dissipated completely, leaving Arthur quite alert. He would raise his head to check on sudden noises but remained calm for the most part. When lunch, and later dinner was served, he let me eat in peace, resting his head under the tray. The evening delivered us to a soft landing in New York City. I cleaned Arthur again, placed him in the bag, and walked off to take our first step on U.S. soil.
The JFK airport was crowded with evening travelers, all rushing in small rivers toward passport control. His head peeking out of the bag again, Arthur was intrigued by the massive crowd around him. The different streams pooled together into a large room, forming a human lake dammed by a line of passport control booths. The line trickled down slowly between guidance stanchions, with Arthur exchanging curious looks with fellow trekkers. A man behind me struck a conversation and was impressed to hear about the cat who traveled all the way from Israel. Finally, we came to the head of the line and presented our documents to the immigration officer. We found our suitcases in the next room and passed through customs control. Arthur’s veterinary papers were presented, but to my surprise, the officer showed little interest in them. We checked our suitcases for the connecting flight and proceeded to the Eastern Air Lines terminal.
We had two hours before our departure time, but I decided to head to the gate. Tired, after more than twenty-four hours with little sleep, I had no interest in sightseeing around the airport. I presented my ticket to the agent and proceeded to the terminal security check. I placed my bag on the X-ray machine belt and proceeded to walk through the metal detector. A large woman in a blue uniform manned the screen on the other side of the machine. I reached the other end and waited for my bag to come out. The security woman gazed at her monitor, turned to me with a loud southern drawl.
“What’s in your bag?”
“A cat,” I replied.
She looked at the monitor again.
“I don’t see no cat!” her voice louder than before.
At that instance the bag emerged from the machine, sagging flat on the conveyor belt.
“So he’s inside,” I observed.
“Stop everything!” she threw her hands up. “There’s a cat in the machine!”
The conveyor belt stopped. I parted the rubber screen and peered inside. Seated at the other end of the machine was our mischievous cat. After a long and noisy day, he finally found a dark and quiet place to rest in.
“There he is,” I informed the security team. The conveyor belt returned to life. Arthur began walking on it, keeping himself in the middle of the chamber.
“I’ll get him,” I offered.
The belt stopped. Arthur sat down. I reached my hand for him, but he moved to the other side. I crossed back through the metal detector, ignoring the stares from the line of curious passengers, reached quickly through the rubber curtain, and pulled out my cat. I crossed through again and returned Arthur to the bag.
But no good deed goes unpunished. The security team supervisor now demanded that Arthur be placed in “an approved pet carrier,” in order for me to proceed to my destination.
“I have been traveling this way a full day now!” I protested. “All the Way from Tel Aviv, from Israel!”
Nothing helped. The supervisor nodded and pointed in the other direction.
“Go see the luggage office.”
I followed her directions and purchased the largest pet carrier available to take on board, which was just a little larger than Arthur himself. We have one more short flight, I reasoned with myself. Plus, you brought this on yourself, buddy, I said to the cat as I shut it around him. Arthur laid on his belly in the tight space and peeked through the cracks. We presented once more to the grinning security staff, this time successfully passing through to our gate are. A group of retirees returning from a European trip struck a conversation with me. They loved the story about the cat who flew all the way from Tel Aviv to the big U.S. of A.
The evening had set and we boarded our last flight. The Boeing 727 was mostly empty, and I chose a window seat near the front of the coach section. I buckled my cat in the box next to me and looked through the window at the shimmering lights of the big city. In minutes we were airborne. I was so tired.
A familiar voice tried to penetrate my consciousness. It took me a few seconds to wake up enough to realize where I was. A concerned flight attendant leaned over the seat next to me, trying to calm the desperately howling Arthur.
“I’m so sorry,” I apologized. I unbuckled the box and released Arthur from the chamber. He was wet again. There was no line to the bathroom. I cleaned him up, replaced the absorbent mat in his carrier we returned to our seat. Arthur spent the rest of the flight dozing off on my lap. The carrier was left open on the seat by me.
At nine o’clock in the evening, more than twenty-four hours after we began our journey, we finally landed in Atlanta, Georgia. Hartsfield airport is a giant and impressive web of busy operations. Arthur returned to the carrier and kept quiet as we walked through the long terminal, down into the multi-lingual autonomous subway train, and up the tallest escalator, I have ever been on to the arrivals terminal. There, a few steps later, we met and hugged Roni, and were elated, for we knew that finally, this adventure was over.
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How We Weaned Arthur from Being a Gormandizer, or How to Get Some Peace At Home
The alarm clock went off at seven-thirty in the morning. Roni turned to her other side and muttered: “Wake me at eight”. Arthur heard the alarm, and jumped on the bed, waiting for me to put both feet on the floor. As soon as I did so he broke into a loud cheer as I drag myself behind him to the kitchen with half-open eyes. He quieted down only after I placed a plate of food on the floor in front of him.
This breakfast routine repeated itself every morning, including weekends. The dinner ceremony would be even more adventurous. A full hour before his mealtime, Arthur would begin attempts to herding us toward the kitchen. We kept our stand as stern parents to our young cat and would keep dinner time the same. His persistence and loudness were that of a cat who has not eaten in months. The only way to avoid this purr pressure was to leave the house.
We finally decided to find a way out of these annoying ceremonies. We chose to follow the “If you can’t beat them – join them” mantra, and our plane required a number of steps. As Arthur finished his breakfast one morning we served him another bowl full of dry cat food. Up to that point, he would only get that type of food as supplemental or a treat. Arthur became instantly confused. He must have thought he died and gone to heaven (i.e. moved into the refrigerator), and dove into the food in an attempt to consume the entire bowl at once. Once he finished about half of it he stopped. I quickly refilled the bowl and stepped back to watch. Arthur’s expression could now have been described as moved from confused to horrified. He must have thought I had completely lost my mind. What was I doing? There was no way now he could never finish the bowl as he was used to. After considering it for a moment, he turned and left the kitchen, no doubt feeling sorry for my onset lunacy and disappointed about all that food he left unconsumed.
It took a few more days of repeating this feeding exercise for Arthur to realize that important point. If he did not eat too much of the dry food, he would have more room for his preferred wet food, cottage cheese for breakfast, and canned meat for dinner. He continually reduced the amount of dry food he ate each day until it reached a pure supplemental level. He did not gain weight in the process but did become calmer toward the topic of food. He never again acted as neurotically about food as he did before, and driving us crazy the way he did. From then on it was a simple joy to wake up in the morning without the cat alarm in the house.
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The Amusement Water Park and Other Games
Arthur never cared for cat toys. He preferred to amuse himself with bottle caps and miscellaneous household junk. But most of the time he preferred to play with me, especially the one game which was a combination of Tag and Hide and Seek.
We played the game this way: one of us, usually Arthur, would run and hide somewhere in the house, and the other one would go looking for him. When the seeker approaches the hideout, the hider would jump out to scare the seeker. Right then the rolls would reverse and the game continues. Arthur saw me as just another cat and found all the common cat movements in my body language. I would lower my shoulders and shake them as I hunting, jump sideways toward him with my arms stretched forward as showing aggressiveness, and so on.
Toilet flushing was another favorite game for Arthur. As soon as he heard the water sound he would rush to the bathroom to catch the swirling scene. He loved it so much we would sometimes run a second flush just for him. In time, Arthur began taking a more active role in this game. He would call me over and lead me to the bathroom. There he would get to the good spot on the edge of the bathtub, and wait for the show to begin. As water flushed, he would stand on the edge of the toilet, focused and excited. He then would lean into the vortex and hit it with his paw, splashing water all over the place. We thought of this game as an odd choice for him, as cats are known for their general disdain for water. Arthur was an exception. He did not like to get wet, except in the context of the vortex game.