inkysstory

. INKY (1979-1993)

by Linda Fischbach

He came into our office one October morning, a half grown, very friendly small black kitten. After unsuccessfully finding his owners, he came home with us to join our 2 other cats.

An unexpected snowstorm came the next day, so we stayed home with him. Never has one kitten gotten into so much trouble in just one day! We were used to our calm older cats, and this little bundle of energy amazed us.

We lived in that small farmhouse for 4 more years and every night Inky woke us up several times. His loud purr woke us just before he began bothering us. At that time I was using herbal-scented shampoo; at night he chewed on my hair because it smelled like grass. When we moved, we built a house with an adjoining garage; a place to put him at night so we could finally sleep. When he got old, we no longer put him into the garage and again he woke us up every night.

He had an unusual appetite - baked goods and potato chips were his favorites; crabmeat or tuna had little appeal to him. If a loaf of bread, a bag of rolls or potato chips was inadvertently left out, the bag would be ripped open and half-eaten bread or chips would be all over the house. He could open boxes of cookies, bags of chips, and sometimes he could open the cabinets to get to his favorite foods. Butter was safe only in the refrigerator. We built our new house with drawers in the kitchen so food could be safe from him. He was great for our waistlines; generally it wasn't worth it to bring potato chips or crackers into the living room because he begged continuously, and tried to steal the food from our hands (and from our mouths if he could). Baking cookies required constant vigilance; he would lick the grease off the prepared cookie sheets, eat the creamed margarine, eat the cookie dough, and steal the newly baked cookies.

Once I was baking muffins, and he grabbed one and ran. When I called to Bill that he had a muffin, Bill expected that he has taken a bite. He strolled into the living room with the large muffin in his mouth like a prize.

In that farmhouse we let our cats outside occasionally; Inky invariably got into trouble. One evening I looked into the yard to see him "playing" with a skunk. He must have thought the skunk was a cat, and the skunk thought this black cat was a skunk. When I told Bill, I got the look that says, "I don't want to hear this". This time his weird food preferences came to the rescue; I shook a bottle of his favorite alfalfa tablets and he came!

Another afternoon, we were working in the garden and we thought he was playing in the grass. In a short time, we realized that he was on a one-cat campaign to eliminate all the butterflies on the property; the area was littered with butterfly wings. We were dismayed and immediately took him back into the house -- where he threw up all the butterflies he had just eaten.

One cold night, he didn't return, nor was he there when he woke up in the morning. When we returned from work that evening, he was not on the porch, but soon came out of the shed with a swollen foot and a high fever. After 3 days at the vet he was well enough to come home. We soaked his foot in Epsom salts, and took him to the vet twice a week; in the end he lost half of his toes. The resulting cast on his foot he used as a weapon to hit the other cats. After the cast came off he had one claw on that foot which he used to hook and dig everything. We called it "the claw from hell". (All our cats stayed in the house after this experience.)

Our farmhouse had no insulation and was heated mostly by a woodstove. Our bed was in front of the window; Inky slept there in the cold draft, on his back. After many colds and many trips to the vet, we covered him each night with a baby blanket and used supplemental heat during the day when we were at work so he wouldn't be so cold. After that, he was much healthier.

Many times, he snuck out of the house. Invariably, he came back slightly injured. He must have been in fights, or fallen out of trees. We were at the vet all the time. We had wire cages to carry the cats to the vet; Inky was the only one who ever got out of one--and with his foot in a cast when he did!

Four years after we got him, we moved into a new house. By now, one of our old cats had died, and we had another kitten, Smokey. Our new house had two 8-foot sliding glass doors in the living room; he took one look at this large expanse of glass, and hid under the couch for the next 24 hours. Smokey alternated between joyfully exploring her new home and going under the couch to keep her pal company.

He didn't like thunderstorms; often he would hide under the couch or bed long before we were aware of a storm brewing, but he had sensed it. Even his favorite foods could not entice him to come out of his hiding place until long after the storm had gone.

Inky was the first cat to tear through the cloth on the underside of our bedsprings. Lying in bed, we heard "boing, boing, boing" as he walked through the springs. He taught all our new cats this trick. We now have a platform bed.

He was always happy, always purring. He demanded attention, but would not sit on our laps nor allow us to hold him. He sat on the back of the chair and dug our heads with that claw; he sat on the chair arm and dug our arms; he sat next to us on the couch and dug our legs. He stopped digging us only if we pet him. In time he would be put onto the floor; a minute later he would be back, digging again. He would squirm if he was hugged or put onto a lap.

In time, we had 10 cats, all indoors; Inky was now the oldest. He fought and fussed with every cat, and enjoyed being ornery.

We thought he would calm down as he aged, but it never happened; at 14, he did sleep more, but when he was awake he was as much trouble as ever.

Last month, I heard a slight cry; when I went into our bedroom, he was lying dead on the floor. Bill buried him in a small sunny spot in the woods. Now, I can leave my bread and butter out; we can eat crackers in peace; no cat is digging my arms. We sleep through the night with little disturbance from the other cats. We still have 9 loving cats, but the house seems empty. We miss him.



	. INKY (1979-1993) by Linda Fischbach He came into our office one October morning, a half grown, very friendly small black kitten. After unsuccessfully finding his owners, he came home with us to join our 2 other cats. An unexpected snowstorm came the next day, so we stayed home with him. Never has one kitten gotten into so much trouble in just one day! We were used to our calm older cats, and this little bundle of energy amazed us. We lived in that small farmhouse for 4 more years and every night Inky woke us up several times. His loud purr woke us just before he began bothering us. At that time I was using herbal-scented shampoo; at night he chewed on my hair because it smelled like grass. When we moved, we built a house with an adjoining garage; a place to put him at night so we could finally sleep. When he got old, we no longer put him into the garage and again he woke us up every night. He had an unusual appetite - baked goods and potato chips were his favorites; crabmeat or tuna had little appeal to him. If a loaf of bread, a bag of rolls or potato chips was inadvertently left out, the bag would be ripped open and half-eaten bread or chips would be all over the house. He could open boxes of cookies, bags of chips, and sometimes he could open the cabinets to get to his favorite foods. Butter was safe only in the refrigerator. We built our new house with drawers in the kitchen so food could be safe from him. He was great for our waistlines; generally it wasn't worth it to bring potato chips or crackers into the living room because he begged continuously, and tried to steal the food from our hands (and from our mouths if he could). Baking cookies required constant vigilance; he would lick the grease off the prepared cookie sheets, eat the creamed margarine, eat the cookie dough, and steal the newly baked cookies. Once I was baking muffins, and he grabbed one and ran. When I called to Bill that he had a muffin, Bill expected that he has taken a bite. He strolled into the living room with the large muffin in his mouth like a prize. In that farmhouse we let our cats outside occasionally; Inky invariably got into trouble. One evening I looked into the yard to see him "playing" with a skunk. He must have thought the skunk was a cat, and the skunk thought this black cat was a skunk. When I told Bill, I got the look that says, "I don't want to hear this". This time his weird food preferences came to the rescue; I shook a bottle of his favorite alfalfa tablets and he came! Another afternoon, we were working in the garden and we thought he was playing in the grass. In a short time, we realized that he was on a one-cat campaign to eliminate all the butterflies on the property; the area was littered with butterfly wings. We were dismayed and immediately took him back into the house -- where he threw up all the butterflies he had just eaten. One cold night, he didn't return, nor was he there when he woke up in the morning. When we returned from work that evening, he was not on the porch, but soon came out of the shed with a swollen foot and a high fever. After 3 days at the vet he was well enough to come home. We soaked his foot in Epsom salts, and took him to the vet twice a week; in the end he lost half of his toes. The resulting cast on his foot he used as a weapon to hit the other cats. After the cast came off he had one claw on that foot which he used to hook and dig everything. We called it "the claw from hell". (All our cats stayed in the house after this experience.) Our farmhouse had no insulation and was heated mostly by a woodstove. Our bed was in front of the window; Inky slept there in the cold draft, on his back. After many colds and many trips to the vet, we covered him each night with a baby blanket and used supplemental heat during the day when we were at work so he wouldn't be so cold. After that, he was much healthier. Many times, he snuck out of the house. Invariably, he came back slightly injured. He must have been in fights, or fallen out of trees. We were at the vet all the time. We had wire cages to carry the cats to the vet; Inky was the only one who ever got out of one--and with his foot in a cast when he did! Four years after we got him, we moved into a new house. By now, one of our old cats had died, and we had another kitten, Smokey. Our new house had two 8-foot sliding glass doors in the living room; he took one look at this large expanse of glass, and hid under the couch for the next 24 hours. Smokey alternated between joyfully exploring her new home and going under the couch to keep her pal company. He didn't like thunderstorms; often he would hide under the couch or bed long before we were aware of a storm brewing, but he had sensed it. Even his favorite foods could not entice him to come out of his hiding place until long after the storm had gone. Inky was the first cat to tear through the cloth on the underside of our bedsprings. Lying in bed, we heard "boing, boing, boing" as he walked through the springs. He taught all our new cats this trick. We now have a platform bed. He was always happy, always purring. He demanded attention, but would not sit on our laps nor allow us to hold him. He sat on the back of the chair and dug our heads with that claw; he sat on the chair arm and dug our arms; he sat next to us on the couch and dug our legs. He stopped digging us only if we pet him. In time he would be put onto the floor; a minute later he would be back, digging again. He would squirm if he was hugged or put onto a lap. In time, we had 10 cats, all indoors; Inky was now the oldest. He fought and fussed with every cat, and enjoyed being ornery. We thought he would calm down as he aged, but it never happened; at 14, he did sleep more, but when he was awake he was as much trouble as ever. Last month, I heard a slight cry; when I went into our bedroom, he was lying dead on the floor. Bill buried him in a small sunny spot in the woods. Now, I can leave my bread and butter out; we can eat crackers in peace; no cat is digging my arms. We sleep through the night with little disturbance from the other cats. We still have 9 loving cats, but the house seems empty. We miss him.