Fat, Ugly, And Loveable

I enjoy verbally abusing cats. I figure they can either take or they are too stupid to realize that they're being insulted. A few years ago I picked out a kitten from a litter of romping, tumbling, happy kittens. She stood alone in the middle staring at me with he big muddy-yellow eyes. Her distorted large head hung over her skinny body like a balloon. She was an ugly, gross, calico kitten with skeazy fur. I didn't even know that ugly kittens existed until that moment. But our eyes locked and it was kismet. My husband was so disgusted by her that he refused to touch her for the first couple of months that she lived with us. He nicknamed her "Scab."

It soon became apparent that there was something uniquely special about her. She bordered on insane and mentally retarded and I never saw her blink. She just stared intensely, usually from the piano or bookshelf, glaring down at us like a vulture. She liked to screw with me by positioning herself into pounce mode just so she could hear me threaten her life if she jumped on me.

I remember the day that I discovered she was a music lover. I was going through the house, washing laundry and cleaning stuff, and I was singing some loud obnoxious show tune like I always do when I'm alone, probably something really gay like from Cabaret, when all of a sudden I was assaulted by the fat menace. She let out a long, low caterwaul and leaped onto my back, embedding her claws into my flesh as she did. I arched my back in the hopes that she would drop off and screamed like I'd been stabbed. Then I tried to reach her to pull her off, but she only dug in deeper, making happy little chirping sounds and scooting up higher with her back feet. In a moment of sheer insanity, without any other option, I ran screaming and sprinting through the house, convinced that in my madness she would give up and release me from her clutches. This probably all took less than a minute, but my searing hot skin made it difficult to understand concepts such as time. In a last ditch effort, I began to maneuver myself backwards into a wall, so she jumped off, squatted in the floor to lick her own butt, and then squinted at me with her evil eyes like I was the one with mental issues. After that I made sure to watch my back while singing in the house, but I guess the incident must have had some kind of psychological effect on her as well, because after that she was content to just try and force her whole face into the offender's mouth whenever they tried to sing to her, purring all the while. 

I loved when she would sit in front of a mirror looking so high and mighty and proud of her own reflection. Whenever I caught her doing this, I would say, "You're fat. You're ugly. And nobody loves you." Then she would promptly display her angry eyes. Scab could take the verbal abuse and come back unscathed, continuing to adore the cat in the mirror.

I mistakenly discovered that she could play fetch. I had thrown a sparkly craft pom-pom across the room into a basket and she took off after it. A few seconds later she was trotting happily back with it in her mouth and dropping it on my foot. I blinked at her and she stared, unblinkingly, at me. I threw it again with the same results. When my husband came home I had been sitting in the floor for over an hour, laughing like an idiot and utterly amazed at my stupid weird cat. He was unimpressed.

Then there came the introduction of Small Dog, who she despised immediately, and then grew to love in her own way. They became friends, and though Scab played rough, Small Dog seemed to enjoy it. Small Dog would back her butt up into Scab. Scab would hiss and smack at her, then tackle her, then bite her, then lovingly give her a bath. This process repeated itself several times a day.

I had her for six years when I became pregnant with Short Stack. I wanted desperately to keep her, but she was still unpredictable at times and horribly strange. And though she seemed to have a patience for children, we had never had one living with us before. So, I asked my friends to take her so that I would know she was OK and also so that I could see her whenever I wanted. My friend, Silo, decided that he would leave Scab with his mother as she was living alone on a quiet mountainside. Scab could have freedom of going in and out as she pleased and his mother would have a new and interesting companion. I missed her terribly after she left, but I knew it was for the best. I think Small Dog missed her, too.

Scab had an adventurous life on the mountain. There was once an instance with some feral cats who kept trying to climb the porch to eat her food. I guess this didn't sit well with her and her decided course of action was to heap a giant steaming dump on the top step of the porch. But it worked and the cats wouldn't cross it after that. I can't say that I blame them.
She was fat and happy and eventually made friends with some kids down the road who loved playing with her and feeding her treats. And then she disappeared. I like to think that she decided to go live with that family and that she continues to be fat and happy and weird.

I still miss her dearly. She has ruined me for other cats. The other night I had a dream that she woke me from my bed with a sudden wild leap, and then she was gone, her black tail curling around my bedroom door as she exited. I followed her into the living room, calling her name and there she sat, staring at me. I picked her up and stroked her fur as she growled at me (which was a normal Scab way of showing affection). When I woke, I had this deep feeling that she had died. I don't know if our connection is that deep or not. But if so, I hope that she had plenty of joy and love in her life. I know I appreciate how much she brought into mine.