I immediately phoned the Press Club bartender, who always had the answer to all questions.
He listened and said wisely, “Sounds like an emotional problem. You need a psycatatrist. I can tell you where to find one.”
It sounded like a hoax, especially since the address he gave me was on the edge of the red-light district. And I was even more suspicious when I phoned for an appointment and was told to come alone without the cat . . . but I was desperate! I reported for the consultation.
It was a tawdry house, but there were cats on every windowsill, and that was promising. I was welcomed by a kindly woman in a faded housedress accompanied by at least a dozen cats who seemed quite well adjusted. She ushered me into the parlor and gave me a cup of tea with the inevitable cat hair floating in it. No matter.
What I learned, after stating the problem, was this: Siamese, when troubled, become wool eaters. My ties and bathrobe were undoubtedly wool. Koko was lonely because he was accustomed to having someone at home all day. He needed a nice little Siamese female for a companion. Neutering would make no difference. They would be quite sweet to each other. . . . I found this concept extremely interesting.
Now all I had to do was find a little female Siamese. . . .
Panic time! Here I was—a lifelong cat illiterate—involved in matchmaking between temperamental Siamese! I phoned the Press Club bartender for advice once more.
“Call the catteries listed in the Yellow Pages,” he said with authority. “Check the classified ads in the paper. Call the pet hospitals!”
I did. My efforts turned up only one available candidate, and the asking price was more than my weekly paycheck at the Fluxion. I was just getting back on my feet financially. I needed to make a down payment on a used car.
Meanwhile I was afraid to leave Koko alone in the borrowed apartment; he might start eating the rugs! Once, as a test, I shut him up in the bathroom, and he howled so continuously and with such volume that there were five complaints to the manager.
Someone suggested selling Koko; it would solve the whole problem.
I considered that unthinkable. Already I felt a kinship with him that was hard to explain.
I’ll never forget the frantic search for a companion who would stop Koko from eating wool!
She was a poor little rich cat when I first met her. Didn’t even know her name. And she was the butt of arguments between husband and wife. He hated cats. She sat in a wheelchair all day, stroking the kitten on her lap. The little thing was a Siamese, she said, but so young that her brown points had not appeared. There was only a brown splotch on her nose. Her name was Freya, the woman said.
The man, a jade collector, said her name was Yu, an Asian word for jade. I thought it was a ridiculous name for a cat. How would you call her? You’d have to say, “Hey, Yu!”
I had gone there with a photographer to get a story on a fine old house that had been updated by a fine young designer. The Taits were supposed to be a fine old family, but there were signs that the family fortune had been squandered by the jade collector. Altogether, it was not a pleasant experience, but the photos were excellent, and it made a good story.
Twenty-four hours after it came out, there was a scandalous development: burglary, sudden death, missing person, rumors of fraud, even murder.
By this time, Koko had upchucked the memorable green fur ball, and I was searching for a female Siamese. I phoned the Tait house and learned that the poor little creature had been thrown out. Thrown out! Gulp.
How she was rescued is another story. The facts are that I brought her home in a taxi; Koko was with me. We had a cardboard carton with air holes punched in the sides. I talked to her. Told her that her name was Yum Yum. She was quiet except when we turned a corner or passed a truck or stopped for a red light or exceeded fifty miles per hour. Then she would make a sudden ear-splitting screech that made it difficult for the taxi driver to keep his vehicle on the road.
At the Villa Verandah, when we went up to the fifteenth floor in the elevator, the ascent did something to her littler interior; her piercing shriek made women faint and strong men wince.
All that is over now. Yum Yum is happy. Koko has stopped eating wool.
We’ve been together several years now and the little girl has grown into a charming young lady—with some playful idiosyncrasies, like untying shoelaces, stealing small shiny objects, and losing her toys. It’s obvious that I’m smitten with the poor little rich cat. So are the readers of my column in The Moose County Something.
She still utters a shriek when it’s least expected. But who could resist her winsome ways?
When I’m reading, she climbs up on the back of my chair and breathes hotly into my ear and then bites it ever so gently.
When I’m reading aloud, she puts her ear against my chest and purrs. She identifies the resonance, my vet explained, with her mother’s breathing when she was in her womb. I don’t tell that to everyone.
Early in life my education in pet culture was sadly neglected. A dog said “woof” and a cat said “meow”; that was all I knew or cared to know. Not until middle age did I come face-to-face with the breed of feline called Siamese.
Koko has a yowl at a decibel level sufficient to knock you over, and Yum Yum has a soprano shriek like a knife in the eardrum. Not all the time, of course. Under ordinary circumstances their conversation can be quite civilized.
Koko has moments of irritability when he chatters “ik ik ik” as a royal put-down. (He knows—even if no one else does—that he is descended from the royal cats of ancient Siam.)
Yum Yum’s vocabulary was limited to a timid “mm-m-m” when she first came to live with us; her role as lap cat for an invalid had dictated a certain sickroom reserve. Eventually she learned “yow” from Koko—a fine all-purpose syllable that lends itself to a variety of meanings. The knife-like “EEEK” is her own idea. Thus far, no fatalities have been attributed to it.
Yum Yum has one original expression that is demanding and yet sweetly definite at the same time. According to women friends, its onset coincided with the feminist movement. Yum Yum says, “N-N-NOW.”
From the very beginning I knew Koko was a remarkable cat. But his gifts continue to amaze me—and mystify me! Then I read somewhere that cats have forty-eight whiskers, including those feelers above the eyes that I call eyebrows. When I convinced that little devil to let me count his whiskers, I came up with a total of sixty! My journalist’s skepticism demanded a recount. . . . Sixty!