Yellowboy

Smokey was our last cat- a bit neurotic- but a good guy nonetheless. One day he dropped dead.

Literally.

He had just been racing around the apartment, but when I got off the sofa and stepped over him on the way to the bathroom, something seemed wrong. I poked tentatively at him- No response.

Being a bit on the squeamish side, I called on one who isn’t.

Sharon tried cat CPR- but to no avail.

We buried Smokey out back of 329 Harvard St, the apartment building where we were living. I remember the ground was frozen. As is often the case, the end of one story begets the beginning of another.

We weren’t looking for another cat, but one turned up. Sharon spotted a threadbare, scrawny, homeless, adolescent, most-charming tabby hanging around.

She said that if we didn’t adopt him, someone else would. She had heard talk and thought this cat a keeper. A most-keen evaluation, as it turned out.

We made our move.

Taavo called the little guy- Yellowboy (YB), and the name stuck. We figure YB must have been about 6 months old when he moved in with us.

He had probably been on the streets for at least a couple of months.

Check out the gerbil running in the wheel in the photo above.

A relaxed cat lounging on a cage- in which a gerbil is furiously spinning.

That was YB.

Not much bothered him, and he knew what was going on.

YB was one smart cat. After he was gone, we were all sitting around reminiscing and I’m not alone in remembering him jumping up and grabbing the apartment door knob with his paws and trying to turn it.

Paws are not hands per se. Once YB realized as much, he didn’t try anymore.

We lived on the third floor of our apartment building. When YB wanted to go outside, he’d go sit by the door, patiently.

We’d let him out into the hall. Then on his own, he’d find his way down to the back door and wait there for another tenant to open the door going out or coming in. He’d scoot by and head out on the town.

When he’d want back in- the sequence reversed. He’d wait outside until the backdoor was opened, then he’d run up the stairs and scratch at our door and we’d let him back into our apartment.

The thrill of being fed never got old for YB. He never forgot his days going to sleep hungry.

He never took food for granted.

He never whined, never begged, but when the bowl arrived, it made his day.

He could eat and purr at the same time, and often did.

YB liked to eat. He ate at our place and he ate at all the food bowls in the neighborhood.

Our scrawny little cat was soon a hulk.

He had feet the size of a bobcat and a frame to match.

We suspect that he might have had some Maine Coon Cat genes. I don’t think YB ever hit 20 lbs, but he might have been close.

Once YB finished growing and filled out, you could thump on him like a dog.

Although YB had moved in with us, he still had his own catly life on the streets of Cambridge. Typically he’d be out all night.

We often wondered what he did and where he went. No way to know, but a lot of fighting was involved. He invariably had a scratched nose, perforated ear, or some wound or other.

A couple of times he had to be sewn back together. He’d taken on something bigger than he could handle – maybe a dog, maybe a raccoon. After finishing up with the needle and thread our vet would roll his eyes and give YB an affectionate pat or two.

Our vet liked YB. Just about everyone did.

We worried about YB’s high risk lifestyle. Not only were there beasts of the night trying to tear him apart, but far worse, there were the cars and trucks.

YB got around, crossing high-traffic streets on his jaunts.

In spite of our fears, we decided early on, to trust him. YB’d gotten this far. Maybe he’d last.

Maybe he wouldn’t. But that would be up to him- and the fates.

We didn’t try to protect him from his life on the streets of Cambridge.

As it turned out, YB lived to the ripe old age of 20. Cause of death- father time.

In simple cat years YB lived to 140. More sophisticated tables convert to an equivalent 97 human years. Methuselah class either way.

He outlived his first vet and statistically all of his contemporaries. His second vet, also a big fan, told us that the average outdoor cat in Cambridge lives to 12.

YB never scratched furniture, tore up clothes, gnawed on cords, or had any behavioral issues. Maybe it’s because he lived it up outside. Maybe it was just because such stuff wasn’t in his temperament.

In any case I’d say he really liked his life- and it showed.

YB was a big cat with a big purr. He’d purr while eating; Purr while being petted; Purr on the sofa; Or spontaneously purr just because.

YB was a purr master.

Sometimes, particularly in his later years, YB’d come up and hop onto our bed. I’d wake up in the middle of the night to a rumbling purr. No particular reason. Just because.

One day Sharon suggested I take over feeding YB. I was happy to oblige.

This was quite clever of her. Several birds with that one stone.

YB stopped hassling her when hungry; I pulled a bit more weight on the household front; And last but not least, I tuned in more to YB.

I had always considered myself more of a dog person. No more.

Once the new roles were established, and it didn’t take long, the back and forth began.

YB wouldn’t beg for food, but he certainly could make his feelings known. Sometimes in the morning, say 6:00 AM or so, YB would begin his campaign for breakfast.

I’d lie there, awake in bed, just to see what he’d come up with- to get me up.

YB was creative.

Some days he’d jump on me.

Some days, he’d jump up on the table by the bed and walk back and forth in front of our Bang & Olufsen CD etc player, which has a motion detector- that when activated turns on its light and opens its sliding doors- over and over, if he kept at it.

Some days, he’d simply reach out and pull over the waste basket- big noise.  When nothing else worked, he’d topple the piles of Sharon’s books. I think this the most cunning.

This was a game within a game, and the most dangerous. He could hit the cat ejector button, if he wasn’t careful.

If Sharon was mildly aggravated, I’d get the hint and get up. On the other hand, if YB overdid it, Sharon would take matters into her own hands- YB’d find himself tossed out the back door with intent.

Ah, that fine line.

One of our running household jokes was YB learning English, and how many words he knew. I contend he had quite the vocabulary.

One thing for sure, he knew when we were talking about him. Say “cat”, “kitty”, or “YB” in innocent conversation and he’d stop whatever he was up to, turn, and look.

Spell the word out, same reaction.

I don’t think he ever figured out f-e-l-i-n-e, but then again, he could have been toying with me.

YB speaking was another running joke.

When we adopted him, he was virtually silent. Nothing in the vocalization department.

This didn’t last long. You could see him trying to work the deal out. Something was going on and he wanted in.

YB would try various sounds, but kind of like trying to turn door knobs with paws, he figured out pretty quickly that he would have to take another approach.

I contend that he never gave up on the English language. Sharon would roll her eyes when I’d point out specific words. As the years rolled by, YB became more and more vocal. He had things to say.

One night in a dream YB showed up and we talked, nothing particularly significant was said, but the conversation was in English.

Case closed.

YB had a sense of turf. In his day, a big chunk of our neighborhood was his.

Our neighbor, Clint, said that one day he walked into his guest room and found YB sleeping contentedly on his bed.

Clint was a bit perplexed, but not YB.

One day Sharon and I were sitting on our front steps, and YB was out with us, when two women walking big dogs, strolled by.

Cumulatively YB was probably outweighed by the three canines by over 300 lbs. Logic dictated that YB should have been running in the opposite direction.

Not YB. He slowly got up and slowly confidently walked straight at them.

High noon at Dana Place.

Sharon and I were stunned, the women were stunned, and last, but not least, the dogs were stunned.

What exactly was happening?

YB closed to 5 feet and then charged the bulldog who was closest. YB feinted one way and then scratched the bulldog across the face as he sprinted by on the other side.

It was over in an instant.

The dog was OK. Everyone laughed- kind of. We apologized.

A curious scene.

YB wasn’t aggressive per se. He could be remarkably gracious- even to other cats. When Sharon’s Mom, Rosita, was still traveling, she didn’t want to leave her cat at home in Florida. So she brought Mai Ling with her to Cambridge.

By this time we had moved to Dana Place, so there was more room than our apartment, but not that much more. Confrontations were inevitable. No way around it, the cats would have to make their peace with each other.

YB turned out to be the true gentleman.

Another cat, living in his home- no big deal. YB shrugged it off. He kept things in perspective.

Nary a hiss.

On the other hand, there were times when YB would throw his weight around.

As YB aged, he backed off the territory thing. His world was shrinking and he could live with that. But there were limits.

At 2 Dana Place our backyard is small- say 16’ wide and 26’ deep- and fenced solid- 5’ high.

This is a private space.

Clearly YB regarded it so.

YB would come down to the office and hang out. Our office is garden level and the sliding doors open directly onto our backyard.

YB liked to sleep under a light right next to the sliding door.

One warm summer day in YB’s latter years, he was sleeping contentedly, when the competition paid a visit. This cat boldly jumped down into our backyard.

If that weren’t enough, he started strutting back and forth in front of YB, only 3 feet away. This was one cocky cat. YB woke up- as clearly was the plan.

The intruder seemed to have it all figured out. As it turned out he didn’t.

Glass- what glass?

Our sliding glass door, which is usually closed- on this warm sunny day- happened to be open. YB locked eyes with the intruder, as the realization dawned on the other guy that the glass he had been counting on- wasn’t there.

Big miscalculation. Big problem.

This was not lost on either. In a heartbeat, YB hit the intruder sideways in mid-air, as he tried to run. The intruder didn’t make it to the fence. Not even close.

Not on the second try, nor the third. Fur was flying and it wasn’t yellow.

Eventually the other cat managed to climb the fence,and escape, but the price had been paid.

Suffice it to say that this other cat never returned to our backyard.

Score one for the near elderly.

YB particularly enjoyed certain things: food; drinking from a running faucet, cardboard boxes, watching birds out the window, sleeping under a lamp, hanging out with his people, and on occasion- his toys.

We kept a box of YB’s toys under the stairs in the living room. When he felt like playing, he would walk over, pull out his box and look his toys over.

When one caught his fancy, YB would reach in and hook it with a flick of his paw- and then in one motion throw it up and away.

And the play would begin.

For a big-boned cat, YB was remarkably light on his feet.

The photo to the left was taken when YB was 15 years old.

My business partner’s wife, Francine, would send YB Xmas presents. This catnip filled delight was one of YB’s favorites.

YB played with his toys right up the last weeks of his life.

YB never played with his toys for long- maybe a minute. Maybe two. When it was over, it was over. But you could always tell he was very, very satisfied.

A message there for us all.

Pay attention. Savor the moment, and then move on.

Adiós Yellowboy.

It was a privilege.