In the Bag

Sebastian discovers my recyclables bag.

Sleepyhead

Note to self: Always have a back-up outfit in case of emergency. Or, in this case, Sebastian.

Right at Home

Sebastian claims the couch in the new house.

Cool Cat

Lounging with Sylvia in the old apartment...

A Handsome Boy!

Toy Crazy

Sebastian is OBSESSED with toys! And with playing fetch. A cat who plays fetch? Who knew?!

It started out innocently enough. A toy--a Looney Loop, I think--somehow ended up near my feet, and I got the wild idea to toss it across the room. Before I knew it, Sebastian--and the toy--were back at my feet. Sebastian in fact dropped it on my shoe, looked up at me with those sweet amber eyes, pawed my leg, and well, I absently picked up the toy and threw it again.

It didn't take long to have me trained, let me tell you.

We play fetch while I'm watching TV. Reading in bed. Sitting on the toilet. Working at the computer. Fixing my dinner. And talking on the phone!

Who needs an alarm clock when you have a toy-crazed cat? One morning while I was trying to get some extra shut-eye, Sebastian jumped up on the bed, climbed up on my chest and dropped a pink Looney Loop within inches of my face. Yep, that woke me up. Pawing, cooing, chirping--he wanted to play. NOW! I got the message and got out of bed. (But first, I threw his toy across the room, and he scrambled after it.)

When Sebastian loses his toys (under the sofa, the stove, the closest door), any old thing will do when he's in the mood to play fetch. He's brought me the cap from a tube a toothpaste, a Q-tip, a hair scrunchie, a flash drive, a used tissue (ewww!), the torn-off corner of a newspaper page, a Buf Puf, a pencil, a pen, a highlighter, an emery board, a sheet of stamps... He's tried to bring me my cell phone and the TV remote, but they were alas too heavy to carry in his mouth. Thank goodness. Wouldn't want to find those under the stove!

One day I'll take some video of Sebastian playing fetch. Here's looking at the next YouTube sensation!

The Buddy System

Sebastian and Sylvia are playing!

Three weeks ago I brought that silly young thing into the house, disturbing 7-year-old Sylvia so much that she strained her voice. Now she's enjoying herself--and enjoying him--and I couldn't be happier. They chase. They race. They sniff and lick. They circle each other like sumo wrestlers, fall on the floor in a heap, rabbit kick, bite and then squeal with delight.

What other mischief will these two get into? I can't wait to find out.

A Spoonful of Sugar

Sebastian has parasites. Eeeewwww. So, we've got to get rid of them. No big deal, right?

Well, when I saw the size of the pills--that were already quartered, mind you--all I could think was, Uh oh.

The clinic staff warned me these pills are especially bitter, like aspirin, and that even hiding them in fishy food might not do the trick.

Uh huh.

So, armed with my pill popper and a hefty dose of skepticism, last night I tried wrangling my cat. Wrapping him in a towel, corraling him between my legs, holding him by the scruff, and yeah, showing him who's boss--none of that worked. Sebastian would have none of it. The Crisco-covered pill fell out of the popper and promptly got gunked up with rug fuzz. Twice.

The super fancy can of something-fishy Sheba leftover from Dominick's can't-eat-won't-eat phase didn't do the trick, either. I thought I'd mixed the crushed pill in a heaping tablespoon of the stuff pretty good there, but Sebastian didn't bite. Well, he licked the gooey edges before trotting off unimpressed. Even Dominick's sometime-favorite, the beef-flavored baby food that I also had handy, was a no-go. Sebastian didn't even give that a lick.

Plan B? Greenies Pill Pockets. And God bless America, they worked. Tonight I made a special trip to Petsmart, bought both salmon and chicken flavor, and tried the salmon first. I halved the quarters with a pill cutter, tucked them into the Pill Pockets, squished the edges shut and... placed the first on the kitchen floor in front of Sebastian. Sniff, chew, chew, chew. Swallow! I tried another, and another, and another, and finally got a day's worth of pills inside him.

Tomorrow morning we get to do this again. And tomorrow night. And the next morning. And the next night. And the next... until my little guy's feeling better. That won't be too soon.

Hello, Goodbye

A sad day at the vet's office yesterday. I picked up Dominick's records and will be filing them away. He's really gone. For good.

Sebastian is with me only because Dominick isn't. Nick died of congestive heart failure in November, losing a battle he'd fought for seven months. We spent 14 blissful years together. The back page of his records is the Consent to Perform Euthanasia. I see my signature there now, and I can't help but tear up, recalling what it took to put pen to paper.

Sylvia was at the vet yesterday for a mild illness, in the same room, on the same table, being seen by the same doctor who shaved Nick's leg for the last time and who helped me wrap his body in a blanket. When she whisked Sylvia away for some blood work, I stared long and hard at that table, remembering.

A week ago, Sebastian was in the same room, too, lighting the place up with his kitten energy, his sweet disposition and his good health.

Six weeks after losing Nick, I was ready for a new cat. And I found Sebastian. Lucky him. And luckier me!

Fourteen years? I'd be grateful for one.

Bad Cat!

Sebastian has discovered books.

Not a good thing.

He weighs, what, 9 pounds? The bookshelf, well, a heck of a lot more.

In the evenings, he's especially drawn to the bookshelf in my living room. It's about four feet tall and three feet wide, holding four shelves of my hundred-plus cookbooks. Sebastian gnaws on the books' corners, ever so casually. Bad cat! He sticks his paws between the volumes. Bad cat! He gets that gleam in his eye, like he's going to jump on top--oh, Sebastian, no! Bad cat! One evening he actually jumped on--in?--the next-to-the-top shelf, wedging himself into a space that, yes, to his credit, is just big enough for a small cat. You know how some books are too tall to prop on the shelf vertically? A few of mine lie flat on their sides. That's my boy to find just that spot.

I'm scolding Sebastian a lot more often now, but I don't mind. Most of the time, he's just a doll. And smart, too. He's trained me how to play fetch with his new favorite toy, the Looney Loop. He sleeps on my lap. He uses the litterbox! He gets along with Sylvia.

Bad cat? Nah.

Birds, Squirrels and Bugs: Oh My!

Everything is new to Sebastian, and he's just discovered birds. Finally, one of my cats appreciates that the kitty condo is right next to a second-floor window, which is right next to a tree bursting with these wondrous flitty things. Sebastian's little jaw was working hard this morning, chittering at the sight of the half dozen or so songbirds braving the January chill. A scampering squirrel added to his obvious delight.

In time, he'll learn about flies and mosquitoes and various bugs that slip inside in warmer weather. But for now, he's got the next best thing, a Cat Dancer toy. A long coat-hanger-weight wire with twisted brown paper at each end--that's the Cat Dancer. But put it between your fingers just so, and flick your wrists, and you've got an excited cat chasing some unfortunate flying insect. Unfortunate, because my boy is quick--zigging, zagging, leaping, catching, biting--even tearing the toy from my hand to trot off with his pint-sized prize. It's such fun for him, and such a good workout. Got to keep that Baryshnikov body for as long as possible!

Big Silly Kitten

Where does he get his energy?

Ferret-thin and leggy, my boy Sebastian is forever moving: tearing down the hall after a sponge ball; zigzagging around the living room in pursuit of a little red dot (laser pointer toys are genius!); hugging a catnip cigar in a death-grip; running out from under the bed to attack my toe; fist-fighting with sister-cat Sylvia... Whew, this big silly kitten exhausts me!

Thank goodness for cat naps. Sebastian plays hard—and he crashes hard. Plop on the hearth. Eyes closed. Head down. Yes, Sebastian, sleep! Please! I love our interactive play, and how it has bonded us, but let me read my paper unassaulted. Let me finish that mug of hot chocolate. Let me change the TV channel!

The Naming of Cats

Meet Sebastian.

I'd expected to find inspiration for his name in literature--my 7-year-old girl kitty's namesake is poet Sylvia Plath--but nope, in the end, I came back to the moniker I've always loved most: Bastet. Also known as Bast. Hence, Sebastian.

Bastet was the Egyptian cat goddess of the sun and moon, a venerated figure in that culture's mythology. I'm not sure where I first learned about Bastet, but about 15 years ago I bought a painting on parchment of her that I've hung in my every home since. Somewhere along the way, too, I ordered a glass-encased Bastet figurine from the Franklin Mint that's long since broken. And I scour eBay from time to time looking for Bastet-themed jewelry and statuary. My affection for her is deep, you could say, and my fascination, endless.

For my 16th birthday my mom and aunt took me to see "Cats" on Broadway--the show was based on T.S. Eliot's set of whimsical poems called "Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats." "The Naming of Cats" might be his most famous poem of the bunch. My aunt, as big a cat lover as I am and sharing my love of all things literary, took her four cats' names from Eliot: Jellylorum, Shimbleshanks, Coricopat and Bustopher O. Jones. And you know what? The names fit.

Here's hoping that Sebastian's does, too.

Age is Just a Number

"Thank you for adopting an older cat."

An "older" cat? Apparently 4 months old--still big enough to clutch in one hand--is too old for a lot of potential adopters. It's heartbreaking to think of all the sweet, loving, awesome pets in shelters who might never find a home because they're too old, too big, too... something.

Best Friends Animal Society says that 5 million animals are killed in shelters each year because they can't find homes. Five million! That's the population of metro Atlanta! And if estimates are correct, it's twice the number of people expected to attend Barack Obama's inauguration on Tuesday. Take a good look at all those people, then double that crowd in your head. Yes, really. That's how many cats and dogs and bunnies and other adoptable animals lose their lives in shelters annually because there are too many animals and not enough homes.

Many of us don't know that we have lots of options for finding a pet, from rescues and fosters, to shelters and even our neighbors. And using the online resource Petfinder makes it super easy to find just what color, breed and age of pet you're looking for. I knew I wanted an orange male tabby, and so I plugged that information in, and voila, dozens of animals currently in the care of shelters and rescues in my area were listed along with photos and brief bios. To read more about the early days of Petfinder and how it's helped thousands of pets find forever homes, check out the January/February issue of Best Friends magazine.

I found the perfect cat for me at my local shelter. And I like to think I'm perfect for him.

Too Much Information

He's home! And boy, does everything look, sound and feel... interesting!

Sniff the bed skirt. Swipe at a toy. Hey, is that a bird? (Um, do I know what a bird is?) Nibble my kibble. Step in the litterbox. Step out of the litterbox. Let the nice lady scratch my chin. Hey, is that a bird? What's that funny round thing with the flashing lights? Why am I so drawn to it? Is that a bug? Wait, what's a bug?

So much to process! And I LOVE watching him do it.

Now, little guy, if you could only tell me your name...

Orange Crush

I saw him there in the cage, a sweet young kitty the color of clementines. OK, so I didn't yet know he was sweet, but when I picked him up, cuddled him up to my shoulder--and he didn't squirm away--I thought, he could be it. He could be it. He. Could. Be. It! 

At 9 months old, he'd spent his whole life in the shelter, minus the month he was straying around the supermarket in early kittenhood. His cage card didn't tell me much, really, but I honed in on his intake date. Wait, did that really say April 27? My birthday?

I clutched him closer to me, trying to get a good look at his face as every little thing caught his eye from his human perch: the terrier twins being walked through the shelter; the 20-something trio stopping to admire his ebony cage-mates; the adoption counselors juggling the phones, the paperwork and the steady stream of people coming in on a bitterly cold Wednesday afternoon. I smelled his excitement, and I shared it:  Life! Beyond the cage! Imagine!

I didn't want to put him back. Surely the signals this little guy had sent me... he'd be sending to someone else! Oh my goodness, look at all those people walking near the cat cages. Opening the doors. Reaching in. I couldn't bear it. I had to act!

"I'd like to put in an app on Rusty," I casually told the lady behind the desk. And did she smile! After eight long months in the shelter, maybe... he'd gotten a home?

I turned in the adoption application and set up a time to pick him up: on Friday, two days later, at 3:30. The shelter is closed on Thursdays, so I'd have to wait. Two days. Man. Two days! Two days to do nothing but think about him, picture him in my house, dream about what expressions I'd find on that silly sweet face over the next 15 to 20 years.